"The most desired man in England, and he slips through our fingers." Anna looked toward the hall. She thought of a man in a dark coat sitting in the shadows, hiding from the mothers.
Her stomach performed a slow, heavy roll. "I'm sure," Anna said, her voice unusually quiet, "he will be at the next one." It took three days for the Duke of Westford to make another appearance, and society nearly tore itself apart in the waiting. The Danbury Ball was the premier event of the month.
The ballroom was dripping in crystal chandeliers, the walls lined with white roses that must have cost a small fortune. But nobody was looking at the flowers. Every eye in the room was fixed on the grand staircase.
Anna stood in her customary place by the perimeter, feeling a headache building behind her temples. Tonight, she wore a dull navy gown. Arabella was a vision in white silk and pearls, looking like an angel descended from the heavens. Her mother had positioned them strategically near the base of the stairs, a perfectly curated display of Hawthorne beauty. "Shoulders back, Arabella," Lady Hawthorne whispered fiercely. "Smile, but not too wide.
You are a lady, not a barmaid.
Cecilia, stop tapping your foot." Anna folded her hands in front of her. She had spent the last three days telling herself that the man in the library was not the Duke. It was a statistical improbability, a coincidence. And even if it was him, a 5-minute conversation in the dark meant nothing. Dukes did not marry ordinary women in green dresses who insulted the social season.
They married Arabellas. "He is coming." Cecilia squeaked. The room fell into a sudden terrifying hush.
The string quartet at the far end of the room faltered, playing a few sour notes before dropping into silence. Arthur Pendleton, the Duke of Westford, stood at the top of the stairs. Anna's breath hitched.
It was him. In the full glare of the chandeliers, he looked even more intimidating. He was dressed impeccably in black and silver. The severity of his clothes emphasizing the sharp unforgiving lines of his face. He possessed an aura of absolute authority.
He did not look bored tonight. He looked focused. He began to descend the stairs. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the synchronized rustle of 200 women adjusting their postures. He reached the floor.
The crowd naturally parted for him, like water giving way to a ship's hull. He did not look left or right. He did not pause to greet his host. He was walking with a steady measured pace directly toward the corner of the room, directly toward the Hawthornes. "He is coming here," Lady Hawthorne breathed, her voice shaking with a terrifying ecstasy.
Arabella stepped forward, looked down, then look up slowly. "Anna, get out of the way." Anna did exactly as she was told.
She took two large steps backward, sinking into the shadows of a massive marble pillar. She lowered her eyes to the polished floorboards, practicing her invisibility. This was the moment, the apex of her mother's career. The Duke was coming to claim the prize. Arabella stepped forward, her chin tipped down, a perfect demure smile playing on her lips.
She looked breathtaking. The heavy measured footsteps stopped. There was a pause. Two seconds. Three.
Anna waited to hear the deep rumble of his voice addressing her sister. She waited to see him offer his hand to Arabella. She kept her eyes glued to the floor. "Excuse me." The voice was rough, low, and cut through the silent room like a knife.
"My Lord Duke." Lady Hawthorne's voice trembled, syrupy and triumphant. "May I present my eldest daughter, Miss Arabella." "You're standing in my way, madam." A collective gasp echoed through the room.
Anna's head snapped up. Arthur was standing directly in front of Lady Hawthorne and Arabella. He was not looking at Arabella's perfect white silk dress. He was not looking at her spun gold hair. He was looking over their shoulders, straight into the shadows, straight at Anna.
Lady Hawthorne blinked, stunned into temporary muteness. She shuffled clumsily to the side, nearly tripping over Cecilia's hem. Arabella stood frozen, her demure smile cracking into a look of absolute bewilderment. Arthur took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. He stopped right in front of Anna.
Up close, the silver threads in his waistcoat caught the light. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with an intensity that made her knees feel dangerously weak. The entire ballroom was holding its breath. The silence was deafening. Anna couldn't speak.
Her mind went entirely blank. She stood in her dull navy dress, pressed against the cold marble pillar, staring up at the most powerful man in the room. He bowed. Not the slight cynical bow he had given her in the library, a deep, formal, flawless bow. He straightened and held out his hand.
His white glove was stark against his dark coat. "Miss Hawthorne," he said. His voice carried, intentionally loud enough for every single person in a fifty-foot radius to hear.
"Your Grace." Anna managed to croak out, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't take his hand.
She couldn't move. "I... I believe you are mistaken. My sister, Arabella."
"I am perfectly aware of who your sister is," Arthur interrupted, his tone even but firm. He did not drop his hand. He stepped an inch closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "I spent two hours enduring men talking about her perfection at my club yesterday. I have no interest in perfection." Anna stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly.