“Lord Middleby, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
After a hasty greeting, he walked out of the ballroom, a solitary, furious figure against the glittering backdrop of the party.
The dewy air outside was a shock to his overheated skin, but it did nothing to soothe the inferno within him.
The need to find Elspeth was a physical ache, a demand that eclipsed all concern for propriety or reputation. He had to find her, and he would not rest until he did.
Hugo burst through the front door of Arrowfell House, his face a mask of furious purpose.
The front door slammed shut with a bang that echoed through the grand foyer, drawing the immediate, wide-eyed attention of a footman and a passing maid.
He did not slow his pace, his long coat billowing behind him as he stormed down the hall.
His voice, a low rumble of thunder, brought every servant to a sudden halt.
“Where is she?” he demanded, fixing a young footman with a piercing look. “Lady Inverhall. Where is she?”
The footman swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he clutched his tray. “Y-Yes, Your Grace. She… she’s in the drawing room. I-I can show you the way, if you wish, Your Grace.”
Hugo did not wait for more, already striding past him. He shoved the heavy oak door open without knocking.
Elspeth was in the drawing room, just as he had been told. She stood by the tall window, an ethereal figure framed against the inky darkness of the night. The city’s distant lights were a pale constellation below, but she was a star herself.
Her emerald-green gown shimmered, a brilliant contrast against the ethereal paleness of her skin. Her hair, a cascade of brown, was lit from behind by a single lamp, each strand a fiery coil.
“Lady Inverhall,” he began, his voice a low, dangerous growl that stilled the air. “I shall brook no departure from any assembly—or from my sight—without my knowledge. Do you understand me?”
She did not turn around, her stillness a frustrating defiance.
A tense silence hung between them, suffocating in its weight.
“I am aware you were set upon by those wretched creatures they call ladies,” he continued, his voice rising as his control began to crack. “But that is no excuse. And I hear you were seen with Middleby! You must always…”
Come to me first.
The words caught in his throat. He stopped mid-sentence, the anger freezing in his veins.
Her silence was not defiance. It was something else entirely. Her shoulders were shaking, a subtle tremor that he had not noticed at first. And then, he heard it—a soft, choked sob.
She was crying.
He took a hesitant step forward, his boot making a small, soft thud on the rug. Her shoulders shook again, a more violent tremor this time, and a raw, muffled sob escaped her. The sound was so fragile that it tore through his fury like a blade through silk.
God in Heaven, what have I done?I came here to—to what? To punish her? To lord my authority over her?
The fierce purpose that had driven him out of the ball, the righteous indignation he had clung to, felt pathetic and hollow now. It had been nothing more than a shield for his own terror. The idea of her disobedience had so consumed him, the public scandal, and the threat to his control that he had not considered the simplest, most human reason for her actions.
She is hurting.
His shoulders sagged, his fists unclenched, the tension seeping out of his body. He was not a master, and she was not a wayward child in need of discipline.
All he could see was the fragile, trembling woman by the window, her silhouette a picture of such profound misery. The beautiful emerald of her gown, the exquisite curve of her neck—all of it was lost to him, replaced by the heartbreaking sight of her shaking shoulders.
He had come here to control her, to scold her for running away, and in his blind fury, he had proven exactly why she had needed to escape in the first place.
Chapter Twenty-Two
