Page 87 of A Murder in Mayfair
I turned away from the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until I found Claire exactly where I’d left her—standing, still smug, and sipping her champagne with all the elegance of a cat watching a bird try to escape a cage.
She didn’t even wait for me to say anything. “He asked you for a moment of privacy, didn’t he?”
I slid next to her. “Are you a lip reader now?”
“I didn’t have to be,” she said, setting her glass down on a passing waiter’s tray with a delicate clink. “I read his face. And yours. You turned him down.”
I looked away. “I have obligations, Claire.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just picked up another champagne flute, tilted it toward the chandelier, and let the bubbles catch the light. Then, softly but without apology: “You’re a fool.”
I didn’t disagree. Not because she was cruel. But because she was right.
Across the ballroom, Chrissie danced in a swirl of pale silk, her face alight—radiant with promise. I watched her twirl and laugh and shine, and I reminded myself—again—why I had chosen duty over desire.
But just before I looked away, I saw him.
Steele stood at the edge of the crowd, half in shadow, his eyes fixed on mine. He didn’t smile. He didn’t beckon. He simply watched with the quiet sorrow of a man who had been denied what I could not bear to give.
And then, as the orchestra swelled into another waltz, he disappeared into the glittering throng.
Epilogue
A MONTH LATER
It was a rare thing—a warm, golden day in mid-spring when London felt more like a promise than a burden.
Taking advantage of the fine weather, the children and I strolled to Grosvenor Square for a few hours of play. They dashed about with shrieks of delight while I lingered on a bench beneath a budding plane tree, a novel resting open on my lap, forgotten.
The square was alive with laughter and conversation, carriages gliding past the railings and nannies gossiping beneath parasols. It was all so familiar. So wonderfully, achingly ordinary.
But, as I looked up, something shifted.
Across the square, near the west gate, stood a figure I knew instantly. Tall, dark, self-contained. The cut of his coat, the set of his shoulders. Steele. And he was not alone.
A young lady in a deep green walking suit stood beside him, speaking with animation. Her curls caught the light as she tilted her head and smiled up at him. I recognized her. Lady Scarlet.Lord Throckmorton’s daughter. A beauty, undeniably. And a noted heiress besides.
Steele inclined his head as she spoke, his expression unreadable from this distance.
I told myself it didn’t matter. But my heart clenched all the same.
Not out of jealousy. I had no claim on him, after all. But out of the quiet, bitter realization that something had changed within me. Something I could no longer deny. But whatever had grown between us had ended at the Duchess of Comingford’s ball. And I had no one to blame but myself.
I turned back to my book, where I spent several minutes not taking in any words. But then, a cry alerted me to a change.
“Duke!” Petunia’s voice rang out across the square, clear and insistent. “We’re playing Skittles and I just knocked overseven!Would you like to join us?”
I looked up in surprise to find Steele crossing the lawn toward us, the sunlight catching the faintest gleam at his temple. He bowed with mock solemnity at Petunia’s invitation.
“Seven, you say?” he replied gravely. “A formidable score. I doubt I can match it.”
She beamed. “You may try! I’ll even let you go next.”
Steele crouched beside the wooden pins, inspecting the setup with the seriousness of a man reviewing battlefield plans. “High stakes,” he murmured, his gaze flicking sideways toward me. “Lady Rosalynd.”
For one suspended moment, everything else—Lady Scarlet, the spring air, even my aching heart—fell away.
He smiled, faint but unmistakable. “May I?”
