She looked as though she were dressed in liquid gold. He’d known the dressmaker would serve her well, but this was magnificent. The bodice was cut low, revealing a stunning expanse of skin—enough to make men around the room take notice. Which Devil supposed was the point, but he found he didn’t care for men around the room taking notice. “That line is too low.”
“You’re mad,” Whit said. “Even Ewan won’t be able to look away from it.”
Devil couldn’t look away from it, either. That was the problem. The sleeves were fitted to her shoulders, a perfect cap, leaving long, lovely arms too soon hidden away beneath gloves in golden silk that made him think thoroughly nefarious things.
Things like how a man might like to peel them off her.
Things like whether they were long enough to use to tie her wrists to the bedposts. Whether they were strong enough to hold her while he wrung pleasure from her again and again until they were both lost to sin.
And all that before Devil remembered what had been delivered with the frock and gloves. His heart pounded with twin threads of knowledge and curiosity, the thrumming made worse as Felicity was set upon by a collection of black-clad men—several of whom Devil recognized as young scoundrels who should not be allowed in a ballroom, let alone near a woman looking as much like perfection as she was.
A particularly impertinent one fingered the ivory-handled fan dangling from her wrist—hang on. The fan? Or was he touching her wrist?
Devil growled low in his throat, and Whit looked to him. “You’re right. There’s nothing at all wrong with this plan.”
Devil scowled. “Enough.” Felicity eased away from the touch, removing the fan from her wrist and passing it to the man in question. “Who is that?”
“How would I know?” Whit made it a point to stay as far from the aristocracy as possible.
“I intend to break his hand if he touches her again. She clearly doesn’t like it.”
The man inside was writing on her fan, then passing it to the next man in their circle, then the next, then the next. “What are they doing?”
“Some ridiculous aristocratic ritual, no doubt.” Whit yawned, loudly. “The girl is fine now.”
She didn’t look fine. She looked—surprised. She looked young and perfect and uncertain and surprised, as though she hadn’t expected the dress to change anything. As though she’d really believed that most men had brains in their heads enough to see a woman for her true value without a garment that cost a fortune. Or a cake of powder. Or a pinch of rouge. If they’d been able to do that as a gender, then Felicity Faircloth would not be on the shelf. She’d have been happily married long ago, to a proper man with a proper past and not a hint of revenge to be seen.
But men weren’t and so she wasn’t, and she was surprised and perhaps a bit unsettled, and Devil found he wanted to go to her, to remind her that she was there for a reason—to bask in the glow of this attention and find herself the place in society to which she so desperately wished to be restored.
To embrace the promise of a future with a man who might one day love her as she deserved.
“Ewan is here.”
A promise that would never be delivered.
Devil swallowed back guilt and, with difficulty, tore his attention from Felicity, finding the duke in the crowd. He watched as Ewan searched the throngs of revelers. Though he inclined his head in acknowledgment as an older woman with an enormous turban spoke to him, his search did not stop.
Ewan was looking for Felicity.
“Let’s go,” Whit said. “I fucking hate Mayfair.”
Devil shook his head. “Not until he sees her.”
And then the duke found his surprise bride, in her gown shot through with gold thread, and Devil watched as his brother—the handsomest man Felicity Faircloth had ever seen—did a double take, his gaze narrowing on her.
“There,” Whit said. “The message was received. The gold frock was inspired.”
It had been calculated to summon Ewan’s attention, and his memories. To remind Ewan of a promise made, long ago. One that he had never made good on. One that he would never make good on.
The gold dress would send a message—all without Felicity Faircloth knowing—that Devil had been there first. That he was ahead of his brother in this game. That he would win.
Marwick watched her for a long moment, and all Devil wanted to do was steal her away.
He was saved from the instinct by a different man, the one who had touched her wrist earlier. He indicated the orchestra and extended his hand. An invitation to dance. Felicity put her hand in his and he led her onto the dance floor, away from Ewan.
Away from Devil.
Whit grunted. “I’m leaving.”
“Go, then,” he said. “I’m staying.”
“With her?”
Yes. “With them.”
After a long silence, Whit said, quietly, “Good chase, then,” and left Devil in the darkness, watching her as she was passed from partner to partner, spinning across the ballroom again and again. He watched as she smiled up at one escort after another, silently cataloguing each one’s missteps—a hand too low on her waist. A too lingering glance at her bosom. A whisper too close to her ear.
As he watched the performance, Devil began to ache with it, with the keen distaste for the men who were able to touch her, to hold her, to dance with her. And he quietly imagined punishing them the way he’d punished Reggie the night before. Banishing them from her presence. For a moment, he imagined what would happen if he could do that—if he could banish one after another after another, until the only man left was him.
A man unworthy of her, as he fully intended to use her to ruin another before leaving her in ruin herself.
But there had been a time, decades earlier, when it might have been Devil inside that room, dressed in finery, watching his betrothed, clad in finely spun gold, happily pulling her into his arms and dancing her through the room.
There had been a time when he might have been the duke. When he might have been able to give Felicity Faircloth the life of which she dreamed.
And for a fleeting moment, he wondered what he might have done to open that door if he’d known she was on the other side.
Anything.
Blessedly, the dancing stopped, and she was alone at the edge of the ballroom, behind a potted fern, stepping through a door left open to the night beyond.
The night, where he reigned.
Chapter Eleven
Felicity had spent much of her twenty-seven years at the center of the ton. She’d been born with immense privilege, the daughter of a rich marquess, sister of an even richer earl, cousin to dukes and viscounts.
She’d been smiled upon by society, and, when she came out, it was to be immediately welcomed by the most powerful children of the aristocracy. Women invited her to the gossip of ladies’ salons, men scraped and bowed and battled their way to refreshment tables to fetch glasses of champagne.
She’d never been belle of the ball, but she’d been belle of the ball adjacent, which meant dancing every dance and flirting with gentlemen and summoning the vaguest of pity for those who stood at the edge of the ballroom.
And she’d never quite noticed what it was to be at the center of the ballroom, because she’d always been there.
That is, until she was banished from it. Then, like an opium eater, all she’d wanted was to return.