They moved as one, a silent, potent current threading through the tide of dancers. Around them, silks shimmered, laughter rang, and whispers stirred like wind through leaves. Yet none of it touched her. Not really.
His hand tightened on her waist, guiding her into the rhythm with a force just shy of possessive. The waltz ceased to be a polite ritual and became something darker, deeper.
A conversation without words. A reckoning.
Elspeth could feel his anger thrumming beneath the surface, barely leashed. But she also felt more: attention, focus, heat. For the first time all evening, she had all of him, and the sensation stole the breath from her lungs.
Their steps quickened, and still he held her. As if he would not let go.
Chapter Eight
“We need to speak,” he stated, his voice low, devoid of the earlier pleasantness. “Now.”
Elspeth and Hugo had ascended the sweeping staircase to Arrowfell House in silence. The only sounds had come from the distant carriages on cobblestone streets and late-night passersby.
They’d gone through the ornate front door and entered the foyer, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the intricate paintings on the walls.
Now, Hugo turned to her, and she lifted her chin. He sensed defiance in her movements. The subtlety of it made his blood boil.
“Indeed? I thought we were quite clear on the dance floor about where I stand, Yer Grace.”
“You will not flirt with Sarford again,” Hugo said, his voice low and tightly controlled. “Is that clear?”
She laughed—sharp, defiant. It scraped against his skin like flint.
“And why ever nae, Yer Grace? Were ye nae the one who insisted I find a suitor? Am I nae to employ every charm at me disposal?” She stepped closer, her green eyes ablaze. “Or do yer rules only apply when they suit ye?”
His jaw tightened. “Aaron is off-limits.”
She blinked. “And why, pray tell, is the Marquess of Sarford so uniquely forbidden?” Her voice was pitched just to provoke. “Is he too grand for a Scottish widow with eccentric Highland ways? Or do ye think so low of me, I should be grateful for whatever scraps Society tosses me way?”
Hugo took a breath, slow and deliberate.
“He is my friend,” he said evenly. “He is not looking for a wife. You’d be wasting your time.”
“Wastin’ me time?” she scoffed, tossing her hair. “He is the only man who’s shown me a scrap of courtesy since I arrived in this city.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Hugo stepped forward without meaning to.
“That’s because you make it impossible,” he said. “You push and prod and provoke.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Better that than clinging to every smiling liar who promises the moon.”
Hugo’s heart pounded. “Yet here you are, flirting with a man you barely know, who will never offer you anything real.”
“And what would ye offer me, Hugo?” she demanded. “Judgment? Leashes? Ye think ye can play savior and jailer both?”
No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had everlookedat him like that—like they saw past his title, his authority, right down to the storm beneath.
His fists were clenched now. “You are twisting everything.”
“No,” she said, stepping into his space. “I am finallyseeingclearly. And ye cannae bear it.”
He stared down at her, his breathing ragged. “You drive me mad.”
“I intend to,” she said, her voice low and trembling with rage. “But at leastI amhonest about it.”
