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He groaned inwardly. As if he could say no or ignore her. When she looked up at him with those sea-green eyes, all framed with dark lashes, it was a minor miracle he did not drop to his knees and ask her to take his very soul—or anything else she wanted.
“What is it?” he managed to grate out.
“I need you to go to a ball. Tomorrow.”
“No.” His reply was automatic.
Just the word ball filled him with a weight so uncomfortable there might well have been a thousand rocks placed upon his chest. He pictured the music, the dancing, the glow of chandeliers and the stuffy air suffused with perfume and pomade. A shudder wracked his shoulders.
“Certainly not,” he said when her eyes and her lips formed a pout. “I do not do balls willingly.”
“You went to my sister’s ball.”
“Because I had little choice with that one. One could hardly turn down a ball hosted by the Duke of Daventry. But if I have not heard of this ball and the Season is over, it must be an exceedingly unimportant one.”
“It is important,” she said firmly. “Extremely important. I think Julian’s killer might be in attendance and I need you to question him.”
Valentine eased out a slow breath. The tiny amount of fight in him flew out of the entrance to the temple and vanished, carried away on the breeze like a feather. He’d known from the start he was fighting a losing battle, and by God, he wished he’d put up a better fight than this.
Any fight had gone likely from the moment he’d realized she wasn’t a mirage. He could not deny Chastity, and neither could he ignore a chance to find out what had happened to his nephew.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall come. But I’m not damned well shaving.”
She grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything different.”
