Arthur stopped. He turned around, closing the distance between them in three long strides. He didn't touch her, but his sheer physical presence pinned her in place.
"You are not going as a lady of the court," Arthur said, his voice a low, rough rumble. "You are going as my guest, and you will wear a mask. No one will look at your hands, Clara, because they will be too busy looking at the woman who holds the Duke of Ashbourne's complete, undivided attention."
Before Clara could argue, the door opened. Mrs. Gable stood on the threshold, her face a mask of sour disapproval.
"Your Grace?" the housekeeper asked.
Arthur didn't take his eyes off Clara. "Send to Bond Street. I want Madame Delacroix here in an hour with every bolt of dark silk she possesses. And Mrs. Gable... tell her to bring a mask."
Harrington House was a cathedral of vanity. Thousands of gas lamps blazed in crystal chandeliers, throwing a blinding golden light over a sea of masked aristocrats. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of expensive perfumes, roasted meats, and the desperate sweat of people trying to outmaneuver one another.
Clara stood in the grand foyer, her lungs fighting for air beneath the rigid, unyielding structure of a corseted bodice. She wore midnight blue silk. It was a severe, breathtaking gown, devoid of the lace and ruffles favored by the debutantes; the fabric moved like liquid shadow when she walked. A black velvet half-mask concealed the upper half of her face, leaving only her lips and jaw visible. Long, black silk gloves covered her calloused hands, stretching past her elbows.
She felt entirely exposed. She was a fraud, standing in a room full of predators.
Arthur stood beside her. He wore a black evening coat, cut with military precision, stark and devoid of the ostentatious embroidery worn by the other lords. A simple, featureless black mask covered his eyes. The scar on his brow was hidden, but his posture screamed of violence tightly leashed.
He offered her his arm. "Breathe," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the swelling music of the string quartet.
Clara slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. The solid, immovable muscle beneath the broadcloth anchored her.
"If we are caught, I will claim I blackmailed you into bringing me," she whispered.
Arthur let out a low, rough chuckle. "If we are caught, I will burn Harrington House to the ground. Keep your head up."