Page 5 of The Devil's Deceit
She takes one and pops it into her mouth, eyes closing behind her mask as she chews. Slowly. Luxuriously. I stare at her, following the line of her throat as she swallows. Something about the unselfconscious way she savors it makes my brain short circuit.
“Delicious,” she murmurs, opening her eyes again.
“I was thinking the same thing.” I offer my hand. “Christian De Vil. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“We might have,” she says, the corner of her mouth tugging into a smile that’s polished but not plastic. “These masks hide a lot.”
“Not as much as you think. I’d remember someone like you.”
She ducks her head, lashes lowering like a theater curtain. Coy. Intentional. Controlled. I like it.
“Lady Grace Ambrose.”
“Well, Lady Grace, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Don’t let the title fool you. My ancestors spent everything on gambling and brothels. I inherited the name and none of the country estates.”
I keep hold of her hand for a second longer than necessary, then let her go. The warmth from her palm clings to mine, and her delicious scent envelops me in a cloud of vanilla and citrus notes.
“I’m not interested in money. I have money. What Idon’t have is a beautiful woman on my arm.” I stick out my elbow. “Do me the honor of showing you around.”
She tilts her head like she’s assessing whether I’m dangerous, ridiculous, or both. “Lead the way, Mr. De Vil. I assume the dungeon tour comes last.”
I chuckle at her witty response. “How did you guess?”
She slides her hand into the crook of my arm, and we move through the crowd, emerging into the hallway. Several guests are scattered around, some on their phones, others enjoying a few moments of quiet, chatting in smaller groups. I nod at one or two people I know, but I don’t stop to introduce Grace.
As we move away from the ballroom, I point out some of the more formal rooms, and a few of my ancestors’ portraits, but I’m not watching the paintings. I’m watching her. The way she pauses before answering a question, as though she’s carefully weighing every word. How she walks like she’s not used to being looked at, but is fully aware that I am. That I can’t take my eyes off her.
I head for the gardens at the back of the house, craving some alone time with this stranger who’s captured my attention in a way few have. I’m surrounded by the elite every day, those born with silver spoons in their mouths. I find many of them vacuous and shallow. Grace may lack wealth, but she has style, the kind you’re born with rather than purchase.
“Is this your first time visiting Oakleigh?” I already know the answer. If she’d been to one of the many balls we’ve thrown, I’d have noticed her before now.
“Yes. I recently moved to the area and was fortunate enough to receive an invite to tonight’s ball.”
“Where did you move from?”
“Cumbria.”
“What made you move to Surrey?”
She hesitates again, then her eyes glaze over. “My mother passed away. I’d looked after her for a long time. After she died, I didn’t see the point in staying up north.” Her pain is written in the clench to her jaw, the stiffness in her spine, the slight bow to her shoulders. “Many years ago, when I was a child, we lived in Surrey, although I don’t remember much of it. I wanted to… rediscover my roots, I guess.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is devastating. No other family?”
She shakes her head. “Just me.”
“That must be lonely.”
She shrugs. “Maybe, though I’ve found you can be lonely in a roomful of people. Loneliness doesn’t come from how many friends or family members you have, but rather from within. From the kind of person you are.”
I blink several times. She’s deep, thoughtful, and rare as a fucking flawless diamond. “That’s astute for someone so young.”
She giggles, and I want to record the sound and listen to it while I fall asleep. “You talk as though you’ve got twenty years on me. You can’t be much older than I am.”
“How old are you?”
Her lips quirk up, and I get the feeling she’s teasing me. “Old enough.”
