Page 85 of A Murder in Mayfair
I gave her a withering look. “Are you quite finished?”
“Almost.” She leaned in again, her tone turning light, almost offhand. “Tell me. Where is Cosmos this evening?”
“Claire,” I said warningly, “you promised.”
“I did, didn’t I?” she mused. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve taken up a new interest.”
“Other than gossip, you mean?”
“Yes. Plants. Oh, and flowers too. I’ve joined the Royal Society for Botanical Inquiry.”
I turned my head slowly toward her. “That’s the association Cosmos belongs to.”
“Is it really?” she asked, eyes alight with unholy amusement.
Before I could form a suitably scathing response to Claire’s botanical ambitions, a familiar voice—low, velvet-edged, unmistakably his—cut through the din of the ballroom like a blade sliding through silk.
“Lady Rosalynd.”
It was absurd, really, how quickly the world seemed to hush. Not in volume, perhaps, but in clarity. As though every note of the orchestra, every rustle of silk, every murmured aside faded into nothing beneath the weight of his voice.
Unable to prevent myself, I turned toward him.
He stood, tall and composed in formal black, a white waistcoat lending sharp contrast to his dark presence. The Duke of Steele. The man who had haunted my dreams, disturbed my composure, and—at this very moment—looked at me as though nothing and no one else in the room existed.
He bowed, perfectly correct as the occasion called for it. “Would you do me the honor of this next dance?”
Claire didn’t bother to hide her grin.
As he extended his hand, I hesitated for only a breath. And then I placed mine in his without a word, acutely aware of the warmth of his palm against my glove and the subtle strength behind his restraint. We moved together onto the floor just as the orchestra swelled into the first notes of a waltz.
He guided me into motion with practiced ease—no hesitation, no misstep, as though we’d been dancing together our entire lives. The scent of vetiver, cut with a whisper ofbergamot, clung faintly to him, threaded with something darker—leather, perhaps—and the coolness of night air.
“You’re quiet,” he said, after a moment.
“I’m thinking,” I replied, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. “It’s what I do when I’m not being accused of trysts or plotting scandals .”
He let out a quiet breath of something that might have been amusement. Then, after a beat, he said, “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
My gaze engaged with his. “Is that flattery or reconnaissance?”
“Observation.”
He turned us in a slow, deliberate sweep across the polished floor, and for a moment the world blurred—crystal chandeliers spinning, silk skirts brushing past, candlelight catching on sequins and diamonds. But all I could feel was the press of his hand at my back and the weight of that single word hanging in the space between us.
“Thank you,” I said at last, more breath than voice.
He nodded once, his expression unreadable. “It’s not a compliment, Rosalynd. It’s a fact.”
For a time, we moved in silence. The music swelled around us, a graceful veil between the present and all that had come before. I was aware only of the warmth of his hand at my back, the rhythm of his breath, and the way he seemed to steady the world by simply being near.
Then his voice, low and even, cut through the hush. “How is your cousin?”
“She’s well,” I said, lifting my gaze to meet his. “She’s still at Rosehaven House—for now. The doctor insists she stay close to comfort, not chaos. Only trusted friends are allowed to visit her. She’s content to wait out the birth in peace.”
A beat passed. Then, more softly, he asked, “And after the child is born?”
“If it’s a boy, she’ll claim all that’s due her son—title, estate, the protections that come with both. If it’s a girl . . .” I hesitated. “She’ll retire to the dower house. Quietly. The funds we uncovered through the investigation will be enough for her to live well.”
