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Hibbert gave a dry chuckle as he followed behind his employer, ignoring Wells's censuring glare. “I don't expect the guests to be any more pleased than Wells is.”
“Probably not. They'll probably be outraged. But they won't be surprised.”
“And our hosts?”
Chadwick paused again, this time mere yards away from the stairway alcove. “Damen's known me for years. He won't even flinch. As for Anastasia, she might just applaud. And Breanna...” A poignant pause as Chadwick contemplated the woman he'd been squiring about all evening. “Breanna will be as gracious as she always is—no matter how taken aback she might be. And behind that proper veneer, she'll be smiling.”
Maybe, the assassin acknowledged silently from his hiding place. But she won't be smiling for long.
12
Breanna climbed the stairs, feeling equal measures of exhaustion and exhilaration
The remaining hours of the ball had passed by in a haze. Through most of that time, she'd longed for nothing but the solace of her room. She needed to ponder exactly what had happened between her and Royce tonight and, more importantly, exactly what it meant
She might be inexperienced, but she wasn't naive. Nor was she stupid. What she and Royce had shared had, by absolute standards, amounted to no more than a very heated kiss, something Royce might indulge in with countless women. But she didn't indulge in it with countless men. She'd never even yearned for that intimate a contact, never imagined herself capable of it.
Not until tonight.
So while Royce might have already dismissed the encounter, summed it up as the result of one slightly tipsy woman falling prey to his charms, she couldn't be so blase.
She'd realized from the start that she was drawn to him, that he affected her in a way no man ever had. That in itself had been an intriguing discovery. But out there tonight, clasped in his arms, she hadn't even known herself. She'd been alive, uninhibited, hungry for more. What's more, now that reason had resumed, she still couldn't seem to summon one iota of remorse or shame.
Confusion, on the other hand— that she was feeling in abundance.
Understanding Royce's feelings, his motives, was imperative.
But more imperative was understanding her own.
She gazed longingly down the hall at Damen and Stacie's room, wishing Stacie was still awake to talk, that her curiosity had won out over her fatigue. Normally, it would have. But pregnancy was taking its toll and, after a long night of merrymaking, she'd been exhausted. Despite her protests, Damen had taken her up to bed several hours ago.
Even through drooping eyelids, she'd cast one questioning look after another at Breanna, obviously dying to interrogate her about what had happened.
That Stacie knew something had happened wasn't an issue. Awareness had been written all over her face—at least enough so that Breanna could see it.
What was Stacie thinking? How would she interpret Royce's behavior, and his reaction to Breanna's? How would she explain Breanna's uncharacteristic actions? What advice would she offer?
Breanna would have to wait to find out.
Glancing at the clock on the mantel in the hall, she sighed. It was almost 4 a.m . The last of the guests had retired over an hour ago, followed shortly thereafter by Wells. She'd feigned going to bed just so he would do the same. The poor man was spent and, knowing him, he intended to be at his post by eight o'clock in the morning—just in case he was needed. Royce and Hibbert had gone up at about the same time, deep in discussion over the letter they'd received earlier.
It was just as well. Breanna wasn't sure how to act around Royce after that ardent embrace they'd shared, and she was almost relieved when his attention was diverted by news of Lord Ryder's daughter.
She had to smile, recalling the ton's reaction when Royce had strolled into the ballroom, Hibbert at his side. Dozens of flies could have found homes in the gaping mouths throughout the room. Even Lady Dutton had stopped gossiping for a full minute, a rarity indeed. Breanna had caught Stacie's eye, seen the twinkle there. A nd, beside her, Damen, his lips quirking as if to say: that's Royce for you.
As for Royce, he was clearly aware of the stir he was causing. It was obvious from the arrogance of his stance. Equally clear from that stance was the fact that he didn't give a damn who his actions offended.
Good for you, Breanna had found herself thinking. She could only hope that Hibbert's boldness would rub off on Wells. If anyone deserved to be treated like an equal, to demand such equality, it was Wells, who was more a father figure than a butler.
In any case, Royce had paused only to find her with his gaze, ensure she was all right. Then, he and Hibbert had launched into a discussion of Lord Ryder and locating his daughter. Between that conversation and the various colleagues who waylaid Royce for other reasons—having not seen him since his return from India— and the five or six women who inserted themselves in his path, insisting on saying hello, Royce was monopolized for the rest of the ball.
On the other hand, there were at least a half-dozen times when Breanna had felt his compelling stare find her, penetrate her with its intensity...
By three o'clock the house had fallen quiet, hushed but for the remaining footmen who were scurrying about, cleaning up and readying the manor for the new day.
Left alone, Breanna had wandered down the hall to the sitting room, curling up on the settee and savoring the darkness, just thinking over the turbulent events of the past fortnight All that had happened, all that was still happening—the threatening package, Stacie's pregnancy, the murders plaguing Bow Street and paralyzing the ton, and now Royce Chadwick in all his complexity—was enough to make her head spin.
Having resolved nothing, she'd gone up to bed.
