The silence that followed was agonizing, thick with suffocating dread. For five excruciating minutes, as the footmen began to serve the first course of roasted quail and turtle soup, neither Genevieve nor the Duke spoke. Genevieve stared at her porcelain plate, her breathing shallow. She could feel the heat radiating from him.

He smelled of rain, leather, and something sharp, like bergamot. “Engage him in conversation.” Arabella’s threat echoed in her mind. Genevieve gripped her napkin beneath the table until her knuckles turned white. She turned her head slightly.

“The string quartet is playing quite beautifully tonight, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice trembling terribly.

The Duke of Prescott slowly turned his head. Up close, his eyes were not black, but a deep, turbulent navy blue. The scar on his jaw gave his face a permanent dangerous edge. He stared at her without blinking, as if she were a remarkably foolish insect that had just landed on his plate.

“Do you have a death wish, madam, or are you simply deaf to reason?”

His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Genevieve’s chest. It was not a shout. It was a deadly quiet rumble.

“Neither, Your Grace,” Genevieve whispered, fighting the urge to look away. “I merely required a seat.”

“There are fifty other chairs in this room,” he retorted coldly. “Yet you choose the one beside the man society believes eats children for breakfast. Why?”

Genevieve’s breath hitched. She looked across the room and saw Arabella holding a fan to her face, eyes shining with malice. The Duke followed Genevieve’s gaze. His sharp eyes locked onto Arabella, then flicked back to Genevieve’s pale, trembling face.

He noted her outdated, mended gown, her lack of expensive jewelry, and the sheer terror masking her features. Arthur Pendleton was a man who had commanded armies. He read battlefields, and he could certainly read a Mayfair ballroom. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

“I see,” the Duke murmured softly, leaning in just a fraction of an inch. “You are the victim of a wager. A dare.”

Genevieve felt a hot tear prick the corner of her eye, but she blinked it away fiercely. “Please, Your Grace. If I do not remain here for two courses, my family will be ruined. I swear to you, I will not speak another word.”

She swallowed. “I will be as silent as a ghost. Just, please, do not send me away.”

Arthur stared at her. For years, he had allowed the rumors to fester because they kept greedy, shallow society at bay. He despised the ton and their petty games. He saw the genuine desperation in Genevieve’s emerald eyes.

This was not a girl seeking attention. This was a girl fighting for her life. Suddenly, the Duke reached out. Genevieve flinched, but he bypassed her entirely and picked up the silver carafe of wine.

He poured a generous measure into her empty crystal goblet. “Drink,” he commanded softly. “You look as though you are about to faint. And if you collapse on my boots, I will be blamed for poisoning you.”

Genevieve took a shaky sip. The warmth of the wine steadied her. Arthur shifted his large frame so that he was angled entirely toward her, effectively blocking the rest of the table from her view. His eyes sharpened with purpose.

“If we are to win this little game of theirs, Miss Caulfield—”

“Genevieve Caulfield,” she whispered.

“If we are to win, Miss Caulfield, silence will not do,” Arthur continued. “That pack of hyenas wants to see you cower. They want a spectacle.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his lips, a sight so rare that the Dowager Duchess of Roth dropped her fork at the head table. Genevieve stared at him, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“I am turning the tide of the battle,” the Duke replied, leaning in so close that the warmth of his breath brushed her cheek. It was an incredibly intimate posture, completely scandalous for a public dinner. “Smile, Miss Caulfield. Laugh as if I have just told you the most amusing secret in London.”

He lowered his voice further. “Give them a spectacle they will never forget.”

Genevieve looked into those turbulent blue eyes and realized, with a shock that rattled her to her core, that the Beast of Mayfair was not mad at all. He was brilliant. And right now, he was on her side.

Tentatively, Genevieve let out a soft, nervous laugh. The Duke’s smile widened, transforming his hardened face into something startlingly handsome. “Better,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Now lean closer, Genevieve. Let me tell you exactly what I know about the esteemed Lady Arabella Fitzroy’s family finances.”