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Breanna studied her reflection in the looking glass, smoothing the satin trim adorning the bodice of her lilac silk ball gown, and checking for the third time to make sure her hair was in place.
It was.
Reflexively, her fingers brushed her cheeks and nape to make sure no strands had broken free of their upswept coronet atop her head. Finding no traitorous locks, she appraised the strand of pearls her lady's maid had woven through her tresses.
Her earrings and necklace were simple, gold with a dusting of amethysts in the center, left to her by her mother. She hoped the effect was enough, but she felt ridiculous doused in the amount of jewelry worn by most of her friends. So the earrings and necklace would have to do.
Her gaze shifted critically, starting at the crown of her head and descending to the tips of her slippered feet, only to retrace its path, hovering at her face and throat. Pale, unadorned, but adequate.
Why am I so preoccupied with my appearance tonight? she thought in disgust, twisting about and walking away from the looking glass. It wasn't as if she'd never attended a ball before. And this evening for the first time, she didn't have her father to contend with.
Instead she had his hired killer.
Flinching, she walked about her bedchamber, running a fingertip over her porcelain figures and trying to calm her nerves.
Nothing was going to happen. Lord Royce had all but assured her of it. The assassin was not going to stroll into a ballroom and open fire.
Then why did she feel so ill at ease? So vulnerable?
She glanced about the bedchamber as she had a dozen times since Jamie Knox had been murdered. She'd felt uneasy since that day, as if her domain had somehow been invaded. She couldn't shake the feeling that the killer had been here—at her home. She knew it was irrational, but she could actually feel his presence. He was watching her, waiting, coiled to strike.
But he hadn't been here. Not inside. Not in her house, and certainly not in her room.
She'd checked and rechecked, giving in to her inexplicable need to ensure her chambers hadn't been violated.
Everything was intact.
She'd inspected every personal item on her dressing table, every porcelain figure in her collection. Most especially her two favorites: the porcelain horse she'd had since childhood, and the porcelain statue of two little girls playing together among a field of flowers. That was her most cherished figure, because in it was wedged the precious silver coin her grandfather had given her.
Nothing had been touched; not the figures, not the coin—nothing.
And yet...
Breanna steeled herself, her gloved hands balling into fists as she drew slow, steadying breaths. This was ridiculous. She was letting her imagination run wild. And with no basis. There were guards posted all over the estate, manning each and every door. Further, the people gathered downstairs were her family and friends. And she was their hostess.
She had to gain control of herself. She'd survived on internal strength all her life. Now was no time to lose it.
Besides, Royce Chadwick would be there.
That thought crystallized out of nowhere, and Breanna was startled at how much comfort it brought her. Despite the limited amount of time he'd spent here, Lord Royce had come to represent strength, confidence and—no matter how risky his tactics—security.
It was more than the knowledge that he was good at his job. It was an instinctive awareness that somehow he would protect her. Protect her and at the same time make her part of that excitement he exuded—an excitement she never knew existed and wanted nothing more than to...
Breanna squelched that thought in the making, stunned at the direction her own reflections had taken. What in heaven's name was she thinking? Lord Royce was a professional, hired by Damen to do a job. He wasn't here to... to...
To what?
With a bemused shake of her head, Breanna turned her attention to her gloves, smoothing them more snugly up to her elbows. She was beginning to think too much like Stacie, she chastised herself. It was Stacie who possessed the romantic nature, not she.
Then again, it was Stacie who'd grown up seeing romantic love firsthand, having parents who adored each other— truly adored each other—with the kind of intensity she now shared with Damen.
Just thinking about Stacie and Damen— and the babe they'd now conceived—made Breanna's heart swell. If ever there was evidence of happily-ever-after, of two people who deserved joy and fulfillment, it was they.
If only they could keep the evils of the world at bay...
No, Breanna refuted silently. She was not going to revert back to that subject yet again. She was going to behave as tonight commanded she should—like a proper lady and hostess. It was time to stop procrastinating and get to that party. Purposefully she straightened her shoulders. Then, without so much as another glance at her reflection, she marched out of her bedchamber and down the stairs to the ballroom.
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