“She is a Davidson.”
“The Southbria Davidsons?”
“She is a sister to that sharper, Charles Davidson.”
“Killed his father with shame.”
“Shameful.”
Her eyes swept the hall. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her fists clenched at her side. Christine’s temper was a fizzing, lit fuse racing towards a powder keg. Then, she found him. Not Lord Bingley. Someone else. Someone who caught her searching eye and held it as though she were iron and he a magnet.
It was a man with long dark hair, his face angular and hard, as though hewn from marble. Hard but beautiful. Perfect. He stood apart from the others, contained within his own bubble, which few seemed willing to come near. And he was watching her. Hisgaze was steady, dangerous, like a wolf waiting at the edge of the firelight.
Her breath caught. She looked away, then back again, unable to stop herself. She was a moth drawn to his flame. Those eyes made her feel naked. Christine felt her pulse at her throat. She was deliciously exposed to those penetrating eyes. The notion that she walked naked before him, with only his intense eyes able to see, made her heart beat faster.
She felt heat in her cheeks, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted. A hand touched her arm, and Christine jumped. She squeaked before clapping a hand across her mouth. Someone sniggered.
“Best not,” whispered her dear friend, Blanche Waldron, at her side.
Blanche guided her to stand with her back to the stranger. “You do not want the Wolf Duke’s attention, I assure you. He is…dangerous.”
“The Wolf Duke?” Christine repeated.
“Duskwood. Some call him the Wolf Duke for the ferocity with which he guards his den, some for his… predatory ways. Do not meet his eye unless you wish to find yourself ruined.” Blanche studied her shrewdly.
“You make him sound like the devil,” Christine said, “one man cannot be all that bad.”
She felt like Orpheus, forbidden to look around but desperate to.
“You have not been among the ton since your debut—which I intend to take issue with, by the way, but more of that anon. You have not been around, so you do not know. Do not play with fire. That man will burn you.”
Christine saw the seriousness in Blanche’s face and nodded, swallowing.
Perhaps he is the devil. Well, I am not some silly girl whose head can be turned by a pair of smoky eyes. Or broad shoulders. Or a handsome face. Or that imposing height. Or…
She stopped herself, trying to put the Duke of Duskwood from her mind. She had greater concerns.
Blanche suddenly hugged her, ignoring etiquette in her exuberance at their being reunited. “Christine, I have not seen you in person since your debut! Why is that? Where have you been? Letters are a poor substitute for one’s best friend.”
Christine faltered. “I have been…in the country,” she said.
Forgive me, my dear friend, but I cannot bear for you to know the truth.
Blanche’s smile and arched eyebrow suggested disbelief, but she only squeezed Christine’s hand.
“We’ll speak in private. For now, think no more of it. You are here now, and we have much to catch up on.”
Christine’s chest loosened with gratitude.
“You’re kind, Blanche. Tell me, have you seen Lord Bingley?”
Blanche hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “Why yes, but…”
“I simply must see him, Blanche. It is vitally important,” Christine said, urgently. “You see, I have recently discovered that the end of our engagement was…well, it was a misunderstanding. A miscommunication.”
Christine was so keen to discover Lord Bingley’s whereabouts and speak to him that she did not realize how many people were now listening. Blanche glanced around and made a hushing gesture, but Christine continued.
“Once I have spoken to him, I will be all yours, only…have you seen him?”
