Chapter Seven

Alexander lingered within the shadows of the high balcony of Lady Carnforth’s luxurious and opulent town house ballroom, watching as the crowd milled about. A few well-connected and familiar members from the press mingled within the crowd, chatting with the prime minister, the Duke of Bancroft, and the vivacious hostess. At times, their hungry gazes settled on him, their eager attention assessing his half mask and the ebony cane gripped in his hand.

Fashionable London was positively addicted to gossiping and the newspapers that fed their habits, and tomorrow all would read and speculate about the Duke of Thornton’s visit to London in ever greater detail.

An odd sort of amusement arrowed through him. Even odder, a sense of nostalgia filled his heart. There had been a time he’d loved being about town, the frivolities of the season a thing to look forward to with keen want. How strange to think he might have missed it while he’d been healing in Scotland.

The fashionably dressed society surged around him, the scent of various perfumes, the facile chatters and loud laughter assaulting his senses. Many faltered, avid stares lingering on him where he reposed against a Corinthian column. Their curiosity about the man behind the mask was palpable, but no one had the audacity to approach.

His title floated in the air in hushed whispers, and more than once he wondered what in damnation he was truly doing. He’d never fancied himself a man ruled by impulse or passion. Not even when he had been a part of the social scene years ago, the sobriquet of “mad, bad, and dangerous” haunting his name, had he acted rashly. Everything had always been methodically planned and executed, and it had been that strategist in him that had admired Miss Danvers’s ingenuity.

Yet since his discovery of the delightful minx, impulse was his name. The ungovernable cravings she roused in him demanded study and exploration, and he was recklessly surrendering to all urges.

Was his life truly so empty that his sole occupation was now the unraveling of Kitty Danvers?

It seemed to be, for he could not convince himself with logical arguments to crush her ruse and walk away. She was an imposter and certainly deserved to be unmasked, but that cold thought had melted, and only the burning curiosity to understand her complexities and peel back this peculiar creature’s layers remained.

“Viscountess Marlow, Miss Kitty Danvers, and Miss Anna Danvers.”

His attention was entirely arrested by the butler’s announcement. Then she appeared atop the opposite landing and completely stole his breath.

How and why, perhaps he would never understand. The reporters who covered these events so tomorrow’s scandal and fashion sheets could report all the on-dits snapped their gazes from her up to the high balcony where he lingered within its shadows. Once again, Miss Danvers would be the centerpiece of their articles, and surely they would paint him as the besotted fool who had stood frozen and stared at her arresting presence.

Alexander was uncertain how to feel about the adoration the ton claimed he owned for her. He was not the kind of man given to softer sentiments. Not that he did not believe in the higher power of love. He did. In the past there simply had never been any lady in his life to inspire feelings beyond mild affections and fleeting lust. Even his fiancée of the time had been about power and connection, the brightest diamond of society paired with the coveted rising star of politics and the heir to a dukedom.

The paper hadn’t dared then to mention the words “love match.” Yet now the cartoons painted him slavishly in love and spoke about his adoration of the delightful Kitty in mocking tones. Another sin to punish Miss Danvers for, surely—he should not be remiss in that.

Miss Danvers wore a brilliant dark green gown, a provokingly stunning jewel in the midst of pastel and warm colors of the other gowns. He allowed his gaze to unabashedly travel over her. Through the elegant drape of her dress, he could see the lines of her hips, round and lush, the slender curve of her waist, the beguiling weight of her breasts. A few young bucks, and even one or two more stately gentlemen, sent her quick, covetous stares.

Miss Danvers seemed unaware of her own desirability, for she did not blush or preen, merely assessed the atmosphere as she made her way down the stairs. She was petite, sleek, lushly curved, and the raw sensuality of how she moved held him momentarily spellbound. His fiancée was remarkably pretty, with an inviting mouth which was unmistakably provocative. Alexander could only marvel at the dim-witted idiocy of the men of the ton for not marrying such a delight.

Another young lady descended behind her, and she was garbed in a pale pink gown that also clung to her willowy frame. The two women spoke briefly, then made their way through the crowd toward the sidelines. The whispers floating about revealed her to be Miss Danvers’s sister.

They were lovely ladies. It was a pity the men of the ton decided to judge their worth based only on their family’s purse strings and connections.

Lady Carnforth approached him in a swirl of golden ruffles and glittering diamonds. “My dear boy, how wonderful to see you; it has been years!” she gasped dramatically. “Though I do hope it is you under that mask, Alexander. How I missed you. Quite dreadfully.”

He leaned in and dutifully kissed the cheek she lifted to him. “It is I, Cousin Miranda. I missed you as well.” Alexander was mildly surprised to feel the truth of his response. He had missed Miranda’s eccentric, flamboyant manners and opinions.

Alexander straightened as Kitty’s gaze unerringly found him atop the balcony. She went remarkably still before lifting her chin in acknowledgment. There went that unusual warmth pouring through his heart again.

Perhaps he needed to see one of his doctors.

The curious brown eyes of his cousin settled on Miss Danvers, then swept the crowd below. Miranda cast him a curious sidelong glance. No doubt she anticipated his reaction to the ton’s inquisitiveness. Many matrons of society and several debutantes blatantly ogled him. He could feel society’s rabid stares and ceaseless speculations like poisonous ants crawling over his neck and back.

“Our society can be a tad bit ridiculous,” she said with a sniff. “I’ve ordered the most lavish food for refreshment, decorated the room in an Egyptian theme. They are all the rage, you know. And invited everyone who has some secret attachment or scandal swirling around their name. But they are too busy watching you and Miss Danvers. You’ve quite upstaged me, dear boy.”

“It was not deliberate, I assure you.”

“Hmm, I gathered after your order to send her an invitation, you would actually attend. Why was it so important for Miss Danvers to be here tonight?”

“It simply was.”

She harrumphed, no doubt irritated he would not divulge anything noteworthy for her to gossip about.

“She is a trifle…loud, my boy; I’m surprised at your choice,” Lady Carnforth said, sidling closer to him. “I confess I knew nothing about Miss Danvers or her family until a few weeks ago. I was shocked the girl already had four seasons. Truly some people ought to know when to give up, though I must declare she should be ecstatic at snagging you.”

His cousin had missed the mark entirely. “You are loud and flamboyant, Cousin Miranda. Miss Danvers is something altogether different. A rare hothouse flower in the midst of hardened diamonds.”

Another sniff. “You sound as if you admire her. Clearly the newspapers were right about your adoration!”

He made no answer, content to watch Miss Danvers’s interactions within society. Stares of stern disapproval and envy followed her stroll across the expanse of the ballroom. It was in the bold way she stepped, the daring green of her exquisite gown, the proud angle of her head. He sensed she hadn’t worn such colors before her transformation to Kitty Danvers. What had she been like before? The same? Different? A timid mouse or the tigress before him now?

He truly liked the exuberant way she sashayed to the edge of the ballroom. There was a haughty lift to her chin, and it was bravado, as if she dared anyone to remark on her presence. It was a defense, and he wondered if she had a difficult upbringing to be this prickly…to be this different.

And it seemed an injustice to use such an inane word to describe the woman below.

She wasn’t the sensible, proper sort of lady he’d been told lovingly by his mother years ago would make him the perfect duchess. Odd that had been her recommendation, for his mother hadn’t been the well-behaved sort.

Miss Danvers was the opposite of anyone who’d ever held his attention. She appeared to be a woman who could be as brilliant as a flame and as fickle as the wind.

Would my mother have liked you, Katherine Danvers? Would you have appalled her…or would you have fascinated her, as you’ve seemingly bewitched me?

Alexander caught himself studying the way her hands moved, the turn of her head, and the sweet, oftentimes earnest expression on her face as she spoke with her sister. “My fiancée is fine as she is, Cousin Miranda,” he replied to her silent glare.

“My dear boy—”

“And I will not take kindly to anyone who implies otherwise,” he murmured coolly. “She is to be treated with all cordiality and respect.”

A waltz was announced. Both Miss Danverses were asked to dance, and with wide smiles they allowed themselves to be escorted onto the dance floor. The orchestra swelled around him, the most powerful and eloquent notes filtering through the air, music he had missed more than he realized, and not once did Alexander remove his regard from the dancing figure of Kitty Danvers.

It was in his arms she should be; the inane thought ran through his mind on a loop.

“You are staring at your fiancée, quite shamelessly I might add.” Cousin Miranda sniffed.

“That I am.”

And he would not apologize for it or pretend gentlemanly contrition. He had the urge to be the one dancing with her, holding her close, perhaps directing her away through one of the terrace doors to steal a kiss.

Odd, that. This was the second time in as little as a day he’d thought about kissing her. For the first time in years, Alexander felt as if he did not know himself.

What am I to really do with you, Miss Danvers?

…

Kitty stood on the fringes of Lady Carnforth’s ballroom away from the fashionable crowd, content with rejecting her third offer to dance. One waltz had been enough. Chandeliers sparkled with hundreds of candles shedding rich light on handsome men and gorgeously gowned women, strolling about in silks and satins as they laughed and twirled around the expanse of the ballroom.

The fashionable elites were in their element, and Kitty had never felt more out of place.

She was in attendance only because the duke had used his influence, and it was this morning an invitation had been delivered to Portman Square with a personal note apologizing for the oversight from Lady Carnforth herself. Her mother and Anna had been beside themselves with glee, and the house had been filled with peals of laughter and excited chattering. Hours later, dressed in their best ball gowns, with hair styled into the artful chignons with tendrils kissing their shoulders, Kitty and Anna had made their way to the ball with their mother.

She had lost her mother in the crowd, but Anna she could see, her radiant smile seeming to light the entire ballroom, wearing her admiration of the baron openly for all the world to observe and speculate. If she were not careful, the rumors could turn sly, considering he’d not yet declared himself in any promising fashion. Even though Kitty admitted the baron as he stared at her sister appeared equally besotted—if not more.

With a heavy sigh, she snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman.

“The newssheets tomorrow will speak of your droll boredom and marvel that you could be aloof at such a remarkable event, which boasts a twenty-piece orchestra and the king himself, who is yet to arrive.”

Kitty whirled around, grinning. “Dear Ophelia, how glad I am to see you.”

Her friend was exquisitely gowned in a dark yellow ball gown, her wild beauty appearing more delicate and ethereal than ever. She had been the only friend out of their set likely to be invited to Lady Carnforth’s illustrious ball.

“I’m incredibly pleased to see you as well, Kitty. I dare say my night will not be so tedious anymore, for I have your delightful company,” Ophelia said with a pleased grin.

Kitty laughed. “I, too, am glad for your company.”

“You do appear out of sorts. Is all well with Thornton?”

At the mention of the duke, her stomach flipped alarmingly, and she did everything in her power to not glance toward the shadowed balcony. Quickly she recounted to Ophelia all that had happened.

Ophelia shot her an astonished glance. “I should mention within the next few days to our friends that you’ll be visiting your aunt in Derbyshire for a couple of weeks, but you’ll not be visiting Aunt Effie but with the duke in Scotland?”

A flush worked over Kitty’s face. “Yes,” she said, meeting her friend’s eyes unflinchingly. “I want everyone to think that is where I am. I’ll confess all once I’ve returned and there are no rumors, of course.”

“Oh dear,” Ophelia said. “That is quite scandalous indeed. Are you by chance developing feelings for him?”

“Of course not!” But the denial sounded hollow to her ears. “I’ve only just met the man, and he is decidedly peculiar and unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I like his oddities and I truly think we could be friends. It is unusual, is it not, that none of us is friends with someone of the opposite sex? It promises to be quite interesting.”

“Yet, my dear Katherine, you seem perturbed.”

She lowered her head conspiratorially, and Ophelia obligingly dipped hers in turn. “He has demanded I visit him without the benefit of a chaperone. I’m to travel alone to Scotland with the duke.”

“How terribly exciting!” Ophelia gasped, her eyes twinkling.

“It is outrageous, that’s what it is,” Kitty cried, unable to still the flutters in her stomach. “However disagreeable the thought of being with the duke in such an unusual situation may be, I am determined to bear it.”

“Perhaps it is an opportunity.”

She glared at her friend. “Have you gone daft? The only opportunity is one for ruin!” And she had to do it or risk the dratted man calling off the engagement publicly. Kitty did not want to believe his promise to do so a bluff and regret it later.

“Or to become his duchess in truth,” Ophelia murmured.

“Do hold your tongue!” Kitty cried, not wanting the foolish hope to lodge in her heart.

“I daresay this is the chance to beguile the duke with your natural charm.”

Kitty suppressed her groan, then faltered into complete stillness when the duke suddenly pushed from the shadows. Whispers erupted and churned in the air. And the ton ogled him shamelessly as he moved through the throng, yet the duke bore such attentions as though they hardly concerned him.

He seemed immune to it all as he descended the wide staircase. His body moved with easy grace, and a surge of surprised concern went through her as she noted the absence of a cane. His face, however…once again a mask covered the scarred half side, though this time its color was black with striking filigree of gold and blue. The effect was stunning and provocative.

The duke carried himself with such a commanding air of self-confidence, one would hardly remark on his mask or the slight limp in his gait if he were observed closely. And Kitty felt the regard of their society was entirely upon him.

“Do you know why he is here?” Ophelia asked, shifting protectively closer to her.

“No,” Kitty said, unable to wrest her eyes from him. “But it was the duke who arranged for Lady Carnforth to bestow an invitation to me.”

Ophelia bumped into her shoulder quite indelicately. “Oh, Kitty, please do look away; you are being fast and scandalous!”

Heat rising in her face, Kitty tried her best to comply. Several prominent lords and even the prime minister, and the minister for foreign affairs, made their way over to him. She discreetly watched as he conversed with apparent ease, showing no reaction to the avid staring at his mask. At times his lips curved in amusement, other times he laughed, and she fancied she heard mocking disdain in his tone. Either way, the lords and ladies currently gathered in his circle seemed enraptured with whatever he said, yet there was an air of isolation around him, as if he were detached from it all.

The half side of his expression not hidden by that beautiful mask was one of worldly cynicism, his mien one of exquisite boredom and apathy. So why had he come?

Unexpectedly, his head swiveled, and their gazes collided. She tilted her head in greeting, a peculiar warmth flooding her lower belly. Without further acknowledgment of his compatriots, he made his way over to her. Kitty wanted to fidget as the dozens of eyes suddenly were upon them.

“Lift your chin; be arrogant and beautiful. Remember you are Kitty Danvers,” Ophelia whispered beside her before discreetly melting away.

Kitty sank into a curtsy when the duke stopped before her. His responding bow charmed her, the tender warmth in his eyes seduced her, and she glanced away, peering above his shoulder lest she make a fool of herself.

Remember I am simply a toy, a pawn in a game where he is the only player and the rule maker.

He held out one of his arms. “If you would honor me with a dance, Miss Danvers. I have it on good authority another waltz is to be announced.”

Rather bewildered, she gave him her hand, curtsying slightly. They made their way onto the floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. His hand slid slowly about her waist, drawing her close. With a slight shift of his palm, he guided them into the waltz.

Dear God, we fit.

That was the inane thought blaring through her mind as he rested his hand atop her shoulders, and she lightly touched his as they twirled into the beat of the elegant dance.

“I thank you, Miss Danvers. I haven’t had this pleasure in years.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Your Grace.”

Another fleeting smile touched his lips. Several questions tumbled through her thoughts, but she held them back lest she offend him. Kitty couldn’t help wondering how he could command her movement with such effortless grace when only a few days ago, he’d arrived at another ball in a wheeled chair.

“What do you like to do?”

Kitty frowned. “Why?”

“I am trying to ascertain the kind of woman you are, Miss Danvers. I watched you earlier, and I do not feel as if balls are that exciting for you.”

She stared at him with a mixture of dread and fascination. In all the seasons she’d had, and the few gentlemen who’d danced with her or paid a call upon her, none had ever asked her what she liked to do.

How very odd she hadn’t realized before. “Your Grace, I—”

He stumbled, his fingers tightening on her shoulder and hip to the point of likely bruising her. She swallowed the cry of discomfort and met his eyes. They were shadowed with pain and fierce pride. And Kitty knew in that moment she should not question the lapse in his movements or dare suggest they stop.

He twirled her with lithe grace, his tight grip never relenting, his lips flat, his words silenced, the command of his pain absolute. And she flowed with him, ignoring the tight clasp that he seemed unaware of, and danced with him in silence.

The last notes of the waltz died away. He released her, bowed, and then straightened. His gaze was inscrutable, and her heart trembled. Then, without speaking, the duke turned and walked away. He disappeared quickly into the crowd. Several curious whispers buzzed through the air, and she strained to watch him above their heads until she saw him no more.

She hesitated for only a few seconds before making her way through the throng. Something was wrong, and she could not ignore it in good conscience.

Glancing discreetly about, she slipped through the open terrace door. Several ladies and gentlemen were about, but they seemed more to mind their own business than to assess hers. Kitty remained on the terrace for a few seconds before accepting that he had continued. She hurried down the small steps that led along a cobbled garden path. There a few people lingered in darkened alcoves, and giggles and husky murmurs reached her ears.

She kept going, glancing about to see if she could find the duke. Kitty almost missed the stone bench near the entrance of the conservatory, hidden by shadows and overgrown plants. There the duke sat in a shocking display of disarray. His jacket and cravat had been discarded, and his fingers dug into the harsh stone bench. Surely he would rip the nails of his fingers to shreds. There was a sheen of sweat about his brow; the corded neck of his throat was stiff with tension. Yet he was absolutely still, his breathing deep and even.

Then a rough, tortured sound rode the air. Kitty pressed a hand across her heart, her eyes closing briefly at his pained groan. Her throat went tight, then a soft, stupid smile curved her lips.

He had willingly endured this pain…to dance with her. Why?

He shifted, and the shadows obscured his features wholly, yet she knew the moment he saw her. Kitty’s body suddenly felt weightless; her heart trembled, and her awareness of the duke heightened with shocking intensity.

Though he did not speak, the demand for an explanation was palpable. In the dark shadows of the gardens, he stared at her, no gentlemanly consideration of her sensibilities as his eyes skimmed over each swell and dip of her body. Something unknown crawled through her body, heating her from the inside.

Kitty glanced back at the pathway, feeling discomfited at their isolation. She returned her regard to him, and he was still considering her in that piercing manner. She became increasingly uneasy under his silent scrutiny, and it forced her into speech.

“You escaped as if the devil were at your heels, Your Grace.” She pushed tendrils of hair behind her ears. “I…I wanted to inquire if you are well.”

Damn her curiosity. She had been conscious, almost from the start of their acquaintance, of a compelling attraction between them. It wasn’t wise to be with him alone, in such an isolated area of the garden. Kitty wondered whether it was the rebellious streak in her, so frequently deplored even by her mother, that had drawn her irresistibly to the duke.

Silence lingered. The stillness of the night enfolded them.

“Come sit with me, Miss Danvers.” With a dip of his head, he motioned her to the iron chair in front of his, under the warm splash of light from the nearby gas lamp. Where he would be able to observe every nuance of her face and demeanor while he remained shadowed.

A thrill of frightened anticipation touched her spine, and an oddly primitive warning sounded in her thoughts—run, run, run as fast as you can.

He was an exotic creature she felt ill equipped to understand. A fire that burned cold, one she could admit she was undoubtedly, dangerously attracted to. Still she made her way over and lowered herself into the iron chair. Shadows closed around them, the scent of jasmine and lilies redolent in the air.

“May I assist you in any way, Your Grace?”

He turned his head, regarding her with faint amusement. “Is that an invitation to sin, Miss Danvers?”

“Of course not,” she murmured with a small smile. “I can tell that you are in terrible pain.”

His face closed, as if guarding a secret or maybe his pride. “Leave me!”

The cold command cracked through the air. How mercurial. Instead of obeying, she stood, made her way to his stone bench, and lowered herself beside him. He was too broad shouldered, his legs too long, to share the space comfortably.

Her thighs pressed against the hand clenched on the edge of the stone bench, and a flush worked through her body, but she would not run away like a silly, hysterical miss. This unfathomable agony he endured was because he’d wanted to dance with her. Possibly to help cement her position within the ton, perhaps because he wanted to feel what it was like to take a twirl across the room after so many years secluded away.

His reasons seemed as if they would forever be incomprehensible to her, and Kitty only knew she would feel wretched if she walked away and left him alone with his pain.

They sat silently for a long time, or was it mere moments? His fingers flexed, and she glanced down. His knuckles strained from the death grip he had on the bench. A low groan slipped from him before it was ruthlessly contained.

He released the bench to clasp his thigh, where he dug in his fingers and kneaded. It did not seem to help; the low curses spilling from under his breath attested to that. She snuck a sideward glance at him. The pale splash of light clearly showed the grooves of pain bracketing his mouth.

Her heart ached, unable to imagine what he felt. His control was admirable and spoke of how much he suffered in silence. The moment seemed private, and she felt the worst sort of intruder, yet her mind would not allow her to shuffle away silently.

Nervousness coursed through Kitty, but she took a deep, steadying breath. I can do this.

She reached out, slowly, in the same manner she’d used to approach a wild dog once in the country when she’d offered it some scraps from the kitchen. The duke’s gaze fell on her outstretched hand. She felt the searing heat of his regard, could sense the disbelief winding through him. Yet Kitty ignored all of that and gently rested her hand on his lower thigh.

A blush engulfed her entire body at her terrible impropriety. She felt burned and struggled not to snatch her hand away. The muscles beneath her palm bunched and knotted, impervious to the dig of his fingers to release the tension from the cramps.

Kitty lifted her gaze to his, hating that she was blushing so fiercely. She shifted closer, slanting her body so she could better grip his thigh, careful to not let her fingers touch his. She could feel his muscles flex a little beneath her fingertips, and the sensation made her redden. The duke faltered into remarkable stillness, his hand slipping from his thigh, and even his breath had hitched, though he had yet to exhale.

The silence felt thick, charged.

She pressed deep with her fingers, massaging the twisted muscles. No sound passed his lips; in truth, Kitty believed he still held his breath. It was clear the sheer intimacy of her touch, the presumption of her action, rendered him speechless.

“You are the most brazen, shameless, impudent…” The low words exploded from him on a sharp exhale.

Her movements faltered, and she snapped her head up to peer at him. They sat together for a moment, frozen, staring at each other. His head dipped forward, his features spilling into sharp relief. The mask had been removed, his lips were flattened in a harsh line, and his eyes were chilled. Distressingly, their faces were so close that with just the slightest shift from either, their lips would meet. Her stomach clenched tight at the awareness, and a peculiar longing swelled inside her.

“How do you dare?”

The biting words sliced through the stillness of the night. An alarming distance cloaked his demeanor. Something unknown trembled inside her. But she managed to shrug and say, “Are you not in pain? Perhaps my touch will help. When my papa was alive, we had horses. Many times, I assisted with rubbing them down and massaging their flanks. I daresay this is similar and may provide some relief.”

“Your continued impudence staggers me.” His voice sounded strange, unusually rough.

Kitty flushed in acute embarrassment. She was unable to explain that she cared. That somehow it hurt to think of another in pain and ignore their need when she could possibly help. And I am silly. Why should I care about him?

She was, after all, only a curiosity to him. A cure for his boredom, a passing interest of which he would soon tire. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

He drew back into the shadows but did not proffer a reply. The muscles jumped beneath her fingertips, twisting into hard cramps. She felt his entire body stiffen against the pain, and Kitty simply shifted, placing both hands on his thighs, and started to massage.

Seconds, then minutes passed, until the tension eased from his body and the muscles beneath her touch became more pliant. He made no effort to break the odd tension, and she truly had no words. The duke placed his hand atop hers, halting her massage.

Kitty glanced up at his hidden mien.

“Thank you, Miss Danvers. The pain has eased considerably.” Now his tone was soft, questioning, with another indefinable undertone.

She slowly pulled her hands from beneath his, hating how her heart jerked. “You are welcome, Your Grace. I’m relieved my impudence helped.”

His lips curved in a semblance of a smile.

Then more silence. And she wondered if there would ever be a time she would be comfortable within his presence. They were simply worlds apart in their connections and personalities. With a silent sigh, she shifted her attention to the fountain in the distance, not liking that he could see every facet of her expression when his was still so carefully hidden. “Why did you dance with me?”

Another seemingly contemplative silence, then he said, “I wanted to.”

She tipped her head to the night sky, gazing up at its vast beauty. “Was it worth it?”

“Look at me.”

Everything inside her tensed, but Kitty turned to him. “Come into the light.”

Another dip of his head, and their lips were once again improperly close and the cast of his face revealed. He reached up and smoothed her hair away from her brow. A terrible weak-kneed feeling assailed Kitty. She swallowed her gasp of surprise and simply stared at him. Suddenly it seemed important to say something, but her tongue would not obey.

Oh, why had she followed him?

“It was worth it,” he finally murmured. “Thank you for the honor.”

A soft gasp escaped her. The dratted man could be charming when he wanted. Her emotions were running amok, and she could not understand any of them. It was imperative for her to flee this darkened piece of their world, but she wanted to stay, to know more about him if he would allow it. Wasn’t that how friendship was formed? Through honest conversation?

“Why did you stay away…from society?”

He glanced at her, visibly struck.

Would he answer? She felt adrift in this strange, fraught tension.

“A faint sensation would rush to my head whenever I thought about stepping about in society. The walls seemed to close in, making it difficult to breathe. For months, the memory of falling in the House of Lords haunted me. The pity and derision on the faces of men I’d called friends. Men whom I’d drank with and even raced with. The idea of facing them made my heart pound, the cravat around my neck feel like a noose, every scar feels like a failure, though I know how ridiculous the notion was.”

Kitty was still, unafraid to move lest his low murmur halt. He spoke without shame or embarrassment, only a rueful reflection.

“By the time I realized I truly did not care for society’s opinion, I was no longer intrigued by the frivolities of the ton. There was no need for me to seek a duchess. There was no need for me to speak in the House of Lords when my letters have proven to be just as powerful. And my sister needed me; that became my source…of everything.”

Until now lingered unspoken in the air. But there was an inescapable implied awareness of it.

Until now.

Her lips curved. “Thank you for sharing with me, Your Grace.”

He stared at her. “You have a beautiful smile, Miss Danvers.”

A breath caught in her chest at the husky timbre of his voice. “I…thank you.”

“Are Kitty and Katherine the same, I wonder? Have you always been this bold and determined?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then why has society missed you all these years? It is impossible to hide fire.”

Her throat worked on a swallow. “To be your fiancée and entice the ton, I chose to stop hiding. As young ladies, we are taught to suppress our sincere hearts lest we offend.”

“Ahh.”

His soft exhalation of satisfaction had an odd ripple of delight coursing through her.

“So you do not regret riding astride…twice, daring to attend Lady Appleby’s ball without a corset, and rescuing a cat in a tree for a little lady?”

Shock parted her lips. “So you’ve read all the scandal sheets.”

He reached for her, skimming the back of his fingers over the soft swell of her cheek, lingering at the curve of her jaw, his thumb smoothing against her lips.

A startled laugh escaped before she choked back the sound. Her heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. “Your Grace?”

For the briefest moment, he, too, looked startled. As if he’d not planned to touch her. As if he’d been compelled to lay his hand against her skin. Her entire body warmed.

She turned her face into his palm and brushed her lips briefly over his wrist. Oh dear. No, no, no. They froze, and mortification burned through her. She had acted without thought, driven by a need she hardly understood.

Their eyes met. Again, that shock of want and need long denied welled inside her heart. For no apparent reason, she suddenly recalled the brief press of his lips against hers when they’d first met. He’d tasted like coffee, whiskey, and desire.

Birds took flight in her stomach and a slow, languorous ache rolled through Kitty, scaring her with its intensity.

Not wanting to face the consequences of her impulsive actions, she lurched to her feet and hurried away, conscious of his gaze burning a hole in her back. At the edge of the iron gate, he spoke.

“Miss Danvers?”

She froze. One…two…three…four…five… That was a useless exercise. Her heart pounded more instead of lessening. “Your Grace?” she said in a shaky, breathless voice.

He waited…and waited. Kitty stepped forward.

“We leave for Scotland in a few days,” he murmured, yet his voice reached her, arresting her movements.

It was an extraordinary sensation. This mix of fear and anticipation.

“Very well, Your Grace. We leave for Scotland.”