Chapter 2: The Devil's Dance Begins
The opulent ballroom of the Duke of Montrose’s residence was a cage of gilded expectations. Emily stood near a potted fern, the weight of her silk gown feeling like lead, the polite chatter around her a meaningless drone. She was counting the minutes until she could plausibly feign a headache.
Then she saw him.
Her pulse stuttered, then hammered against the confines of her corset. Across the sea of gleaming shoulders and styled hair, near a archway leading to the card room, stood the man from the alley. The dim, gaslit shadows of Seven Dials had not lied. He was brutally handsome, his dark hair tousled but somehow purposeful, his stormy gray eyes scanning the crowd with a predator’s detached efficiency. He wore a tailored black coat that fit his broad shoulders impeccably, but he wore it like a disguise. He stood perfectly still, a rock in a stream of pastel satin and twirling coattails, looking as out of place as a wolf at a dog show.
Rage, hot and immediate, flooded her. The audacity. The memory of his mouth, the slap, the terrifying thrill of it all, condensed into a single, sharp point of purpose. She gathered her skirts, her eyes fixed on him, ready to cut through the crowd and demand answers.
“Amelia.”
Her father’s voice sliced through the air, a whip-crack of ownership. Lord Percival Walcott materialized at her side, his silver mane impeccable, his blue eyes as warm as chips of ice. His hand closed around her elbow, a gentlemanly vise.
“You are being rude,” he murmured, his lips a thin line. “Baron Thistlewood has been waiting. You promised him the next dance.”
As if summoned by the mention of his title, the Baron appeared. He was a large man, his complexion the mottled red of port wine, his smile revealing several gaps in his yellowed teeth. His hand, damp and heavy, engulfed hers before she could pull away.
“My delightful prize,” he boomed, his breath smelling of cheroot and stale beef.
She was swept onto the floor for a waltz, trapped in the Baron’s suffocating grasp. Over his bulky shoulder, she kept her eyes locked on the archway. She saw the wolfish man accept a glass of champagne from a passing footman, his gaze lifting. For a fleeting second, it connected with hers across the whirl of color and light. There was no shock, no apology. Just a flicker of acknowledgment, as if he’d expected to see her there. Then he turned and vanished into the throng.
Her blood boiled with a thwarted fury so intense she feared it might crack her porcelain smile. The Baron’s prattle about his new hunting lodge in Sussex washed over her, meaningless. She counted the steps, her body moving on the well-trained automatism of a dancing doll while her mind raced through the possibilities. A doctor? A gentleman thief? What was a man like that doing at the Duke of Montrose’s ball?
The moment the final chord sounded, she curtseyed. “A refreshing glass of punch, my lord, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice sweet as cyanide, and slipped away before he could hook her arm again.
She moved without seeming to move, a ghost in silk, gliding past clusters of guests, her eyes tracking the path he’d taken. The card room was thick with smoke and the slap of pasteboard. He wasn’t there. A mirrored hallway held only preening couples. A tremor of frustration began to mix with her anger. Had he left?
Then she saw a shadow detach itself from a velvet curtain near a service door. A flash of a black coat tail. He was heading for the back of the house, toward the private quarters.
Without hesitation, she followed. The music faded, replaced by the echo of her own slippers on marble, then the muffled quiet of a carpeted corridor. It was darker here, lined with closed doors. At the far end, a figure turned a corner. She hurried, her heart a frantic drum.
She rounded the corner into a narrow passage meant for servants. Lit by a single sconce, it held doors to linen closets and storage. It was empty. Had she lost him?
A hand shot out from a recessed doorway, clamping over her mouth, stifling her gasp. An arm like an iron bar wrapped around her waist, and she was yanked backward off her feet, into total darkness. The door clicked shut behind them.