Page 7 of To Ruin a Gentleman (The Scarlet Chronicle 1)

But she feared there was more to her attraction than just a fresh male face...and figure.

She was drawn back to the ball when her first dance partner, the Duc de Limousin, claimed his dance. He was graceful, if not clever, which meant she did not have to worry about her toes but did have to work hard at making conversation. As he led her through the forms of the minuet, she could not help but watch Daventry lead the Duchesse de Limousin in the same steps. He was not graceful nor did his attire draw the eye. In fact, in his black and silver silk coat, silver waistcoat, and black breeches, he looked positively funereal. With his broad shoulders and imposing height, he seemed to take up much more of the large ballroom than he ought. By right, she should have been the center of attention, but it was clear most of the onlookers watched him. Angelette could hardly fault them when she did it too. She couldn’t stop herself from studying the way his hand touched the duchess’s and remembering the way he’d held her hand, pressed his lips to her glove. She could imagine him peeling that glove off and pressing a kiss to her palm, her wrist, sliding his tongue up her inner arm...

“Are you feeling quite well?” the duc asked. “Your cheeks are flushed.”

She dragged her gaze from the viscount. “I can’t think why.” Her voice was breathless. “I suppose it’s because I haven’t danced in so long.”

“You must miss your late husband terribly,” he said, his painted lips turning down in sympathy.

“I do.” Perhaps that was the problem. She had loved Georges when she wed him and continued to love him for the two years they had been married. He was a good man, kind and pleasant. In the eighteen months since he’d died of a fever, she had missed his companionship. Perhaps if they’d had a child together, she might not have been so lonely, but though they’d tried, she had failed to conceive.

Now, looking at Daventry, she accepted another reason she missed her husband. She would go to bed alone tonight. For the first time since Georges had died, her body ached for the touch of a man. She wanted to be held, to be kissed, to be caressed in the dark. She couldn’t say why Daventry should arouse these emotions in her. She did not like the man...and yet her gaze strayed again to his hands and she imagined them once again on her bare skin.

A crash sounded and she glanced toward the doors to the ballroom. The servants were supposed to be bringing in refreshments for later. They had undoubtedly dropped something. She hoped her guests would be forgiving, as it was her first ball out of mourning. Just as she began to give some excuse to the duc, she heard shouting and another crash.

The musicians ceased playing and her guests began to murmur.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I shall see what the matter is. Please, continue dancing—”

The door to the ballroom burst open and a barefoot man dressed in a dirty white shirt and trousers stumbled inside. For a moment he appeared stunned at what he saw, but when the nearest footman challenged him, he raised the shovel he carried and struck.

Angelette screamed. The duc shoved her behind him, but she could still see the rise and fall of the shovel.

Several of the male guests started toward the peasant, but when more peasants rushed in after him, brandishing shovels and picks, her guests skidded to a stop. Shouts of “What is this about?” and “Get out!” and “Put down your weapons” resounded. Angelette knew she should do something. This was her château. She had to stop this. She pushed away from the duc, coming forward, only to have her arm seized violently and her entire body wrenched away.

She stumbled back, colliding with Daventry. “Come with me,” he said, pulling her whether she wanted to go or not.

“But you are taking me in the wrong direction.”

He was dragging her toward the French doors that opened into the garden. “I’m trying to help you escape.”

“But I have to see—”

A woman screamed and Angelette looked back to see more peasants had entered.

“You can thank me for saving your life later. Now, run!” He pulled her, and she was forced to follow him, whether she wanted to go or not. Another scream pierced the room, and Angelette stopped resisting. Lifting her skirts, she ran beside Daventry. Together they flung open the doors and ran onto the terrace. Light spilled from the ballroom onto the paving stones, but beyond was darkness.

“Which way to the stable?” Daventry asked.

“That way.” She pointed.

“We’ll ride to the palace and request assistance.”

“Yes.” The king’s guards would come and take the attackers into custody. She might not like Daventry, but she could acknowledge he was no fool. She followed him into the shadows, down the steps, and along the path toward the stable. Behind her came the shouts of men, the clang of metal on metal, and the screams of women. She shivered, though the summer evening was warm.

“You couldn’t do anything to help,” Daventry said as though reading her thoughts. “If you were still there, you would be dead too.”

Bile rose in her throat as she realized everything Daventry had tried to warn her about was true. The pieces fell into place; the missing servants, the sick footmen, the rumors. Then she thought of her friends lying dead or injured in her ballroom. She should not have abandoned them. This was her home. She had invited her friends, and she felt responsible for their safety. They needed to summon the palace guards as quickly as possible.

Daventry had released her hand, but now as they neared the edge of the house, he grasped her wrist. “Stay close.”

“You think there are more of them outside?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

Angelette’s heart beat fast as they moved into the open area between the house and the stable. It was still early evening and the moon had not yet risen high enough in the sky to give any light. She knew her way well enough, but the slippers she wore were not made for walking on the gravel path. Sharp stones stabbed the soles of her feet and she moved carefully, wincing every few steps.

“That’s it,” she said when the stable came into view. Light flickered in one of the windows, making the stable look welcoming. She had a spare pair of riding boots inside, and she could change into those before starting for Versailles. Normally, she would have balked at the prospect of arriving at the palace in old riding boots and a ball gown, but fashion didn’t seem to matter any longer. She rushed ahead of Daventry, eager to reach the light and the safety of the stable.

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