Chapter One

“If we must endure this circus,” Lucien Draycott, the Duke of Blackmere, muttered, adjusting the edge of his mask, “you will at least admit it was your idea, not mine.”

His cousin, Lord Tristan Harcourt, gave a low laugh, the kind that always made people turn as if expecting mischief. “My idea was for you to behave like a man who wishes to rejoin society. Your scowling is entirely your own embellishment.”

Lucien rolled his shoulders beneath his black coat, wishing for the comfort of the sea wind instead of the perfumed crush of the Duchess of Loxfield’s townhouse. The masquerade was precisely the sort of spectacle he loathed. There was too much noise, too much artifice and far too many people pretending they weren’t the same schemers who had whispered the name Draycott with contempt eight years ago.

“I should have stayed in Northumberland,” he said. “At least there, when someone dislikes you, they do not hide it behind feathers and lace.”

“Yes, but in Northumberland you cannot secure a political alliance,” Tristan replied, plucking two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. He offered one to Lucien. “Nor can you court potential investors for whatever peculiar ventures you’ve taken to pursuing.”

Lucien accepted the glass, if only to occupy his hand. “They are not peculiar. They are practical. And unlike card tables and good intentions, they yield profit.”

“Practical,” Tristan repeated with a knowing tilt of his head. “Which is why you are here, in a gilded ballroom, surrounded by the very people you insist you do not need.”

Lucien didn’t answer. He drank instead.

The room glittered with candlelight, masks, and the Duchess’s notorious flair for excess. Laughter spilled from every corner, bright and hollow. Ladies in silks drifted like restless moths, while gentlemen preened like peacocks in borrowed mystery. A string quartet played much too cheerfully for Lucien’s liking.

His eyes sailed across the room, not looking for anyone in particular. He was only gauging who watched him. And they did watch. Curiosity tugged at every pair of eyes that slid over him, some with veiled disdain, and others with fascination. The fall of the Draycotts was still a favourite tale among London gossips, especially since most of the Draycotts had pretended innocence when it had happened.

Tristan nudged him lightly. “You see? No one is spitting on the carpet or fainting at the sight of you. I’d call that progress.”

“I am in a mask,” Lucien reminded him.

“True. But the sharp jawline is unmistakable. And the posture. You stand like a man waiting for battle.”

Lucien’s mouth curved, though not quite into a smile. “Old habits.”

He had spent years on battlefields, real ones with gunpowder and blood, not these shallow duels of wit and scandal. Yet somehow, the ballroom felt more dangerous. Every whisper could be a loaded weapon. Every polite bow had the form of a veiled insult. And every smile was potentially a trap.

“Ah,” Tristan murmured, following Lucien’s gaze across the room. “I see the crows have begun to circle.”

A cluster of ladies in jewelled masks had turned toward them, their fans fluttering like anxious wings. Lucien felt their curiosity prickling his skin.

“They think you’re mysterious,” Tristan teased. “They adore a man with a tragic past.”

“I am not mysterious. I am avoiding conversation.”

“Which only makes you more mysterious.”

Lucien sighed. “Remind me why I agreed to this.”

“To restore your reputation. To show London the Duke of Blackmere has returned respectable, unbroken, and quite impossible to ignore.” Tristan shot him a sharp glance. “And because you cannot rebuild your finances from the cliffs of Northumberland alone, however dramatic the scenery.”

Lucien tightened his grip on the glass. Tristan wasn’t wrong. Blackmere Hall was crumbling under the weight of neglect, and his fortune, better yet, what had remained of it, was thin enough to tear. His father’s disgrace had rotted everything from the inside out.

The memory rose unbidden: a silent room, a letter on the desk, a body he had been too late to save.

He set his glass down with controlled precision.

Tristan’s teasing faded. “Lucien.”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly.

“You are lying. And poorly, if I may add.”

Lucien fixed his mask. Masks were useful things, not because they hid a face, but because they freed a man from having to show anything at all.

He was about to answer when a ripple moved through the ballroom, like a shift in air before a storm. Conversations softened. Fans stilled. Heads turned toward the grand staircase. Lucien did as well, though he wasn’t sure why.

A woman descended, wearing a mask as pale as moonlight. Her gown was of a soft shade of sage that caught the flickering glow of the candles. She did not preen or pose. Instead, she moved with quiet steadiness, as if keeping her own counsel in a room full of noise. Her chestnut hair was swept back with simple elegance, revealing the elegant line of her neck.

Something in Lucien’s pulse tightened. It was an entirely involuntary reaction, unwelcome but unmistakable.

Tristan let out a low whistle. “Well, well… if society wished to lure you back, they’ve chosen a fine emissary.”

Whatever it was about that woman, it refused to let go of him. Then, when she turned fully, he met her gaze through the narrow slits of her mask. He felt as if a sharp, unwelcome rush of heat had struck him with the force of a blow. Want. The kind he had disciplined himself to ignore for years.

Tristan said something beside him. It was some wry comment, no doubt, but the words slid past Lucien unheard. The ballroom’s noise dimmed to a muffled hum, as though someone had closed a door between him and the rest of the world.

He moved. But there was no intent or strategy in his act. He simply followed an instinct he had no patience for.

He crossed the floor before he could think better of it, parting the crowd as though drawn by a thread he could not sever. She watched him approach, but she revealed nothing. Her chin was lifted with the slightest trace of defiance… or caution. Perhaps both.

When he reached her, he bowed. It was a measured, perfectly executed gesture born of old training rather than courtesy. He extended his gloved hand.

For one heartbeat, she did nothing. Then, with quiet grace, she placed her hand in his. Her touch was light, but he felt it everywhere.

“May I have the honour?” Lucien asked.

Her lips curved not into a smile, but into something far more unsettling: a soft, assessing line that suggested she knew precisely how much composure it cost him to ask.

“You may,” she said.

The music shifted into a sweeping waltz. He drew her onto the floor, feeling their steps in perfect alignment as if they had practised it a hundred times. He had danced with beautiful women before. Some had tried to capture him with charm, others with flattery or boldness. But this felt like stepping into a silence he had spent years avoiding.

She met his gaze fully now, no longer hiding her scrutiny. Her eyes were hazel-green. He imagined they were just like her mind: sharp, clear, watchful. And in them a challenge, not an invitation.

They did not speak. It was almost as if there was a premeditated agreement not to make a single sound. Everything felt like a suspended breath. It wrapped around them more tightly than the music did.

Her pulse trembled through the silk at her wrist. It made itself known in a quickened beat that betrayed nothing else in her poised expression. She moved with a grace too natural to be rehearsed, yet every step felt as if it had been designed to test his control. The scent of jasmine clung to her, soft and elusive, teasing the edges of his composure.

She tilted her head just enough for candlelight to catch on the curve of her cheek. He could see the glimpse of a faint smile. It was the kind of smile that could undo a man who thought himself immune.

He meant to ask her name. He meant to demand it.

But when the final note dissolved into the hall, she stepped back from his hold. It was not done abruptly, but rather gracefully, like a phantom slipping into mist. His fingers closed on nothing but air, and he felt the painful emptiness where her hand was a moment ago. Her skirts whispered once against his boots, and then she was gone, swallowed by a sea of masks and feathers before he could even draw breath enough to call after her.

Lucien stood there, with his hand half-lifted and his pulse hammering like he had stepped into cold water. The ballroom moved around him, loud and indifferent, while he remained rooted, stunned by an absence he had no right to feel.

He had been left before. He had been lied to and betrayed, but he had never been discarded so swiftly by someone who did not even know his name. And as the last trace of jasmine faded from the air, Lucien realised he was no longer simply curious.

He was hunting.

Chapter Two

Lady Evangeline Harrow left the ballroom the moment the music ended. She didn’t wait for the crowd to swallow her; she fled it, weaving through jewelled masks and drifting perfumes until she reached a pair of open doors.

Cool night air awaited her.

She stepped onto the balcony, drawing in a breath that did little to steady her. Her thoughts were scattered in a way she found both mortifying and impossible to mend. She had come prepared for whispers, for veiled hostility, for the sharp edges of London society.

What she had not come prepared for was him.

The nameless stranger from the dance had unsettled her with a single touch. Attraction was something she managed the way she managed accounts: efficiently and without indulgence. Yet one turn of that waltz had made her heart behave like something untamed.

Foolish.

She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to the cold stone railing, trying to will back her composure. Behind her, the faintest shift of air brushed her neck. She didn’t turn immediately. Pride would not allow it. But she felt him. As if the space itself tightened to make room for him.

“I hope,” he said at last, “that you’re not hiding from me.”

His voice, just like his touch, cut straight through her composure.

She opened her eyes, keeping her back to him. “If I were hiding,” she said, “you would not have found me.”

“I’m not sure about that,” he replied. “I have a talent for pursuing what interests me.”

She snorted softly. “How fortunate for you. And unfortunate for whatever you’re pursuing.”

He paused. “Should I take that to mean I’m unwelcome?”

“You followed me,” she countered, turning at last, “so I suppose I should ask you that.”

He leaned against the doorframe, his mask still in place. He was what the romantic novels would call a Byronic hero, dark and rakish. Too rakish, even. Perhaps also too handsome. And certainly far too self-assured for a man who had just chased a stranger onto a balcony.

“Very well,” he said. “Are you unwelcome?”

Evangeline matched his poise. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you mean to continue prowling after women who leave dance floors without offering their names.”

His mouth curved. “Only the ones who vanish like smoke the moment I release them.”

“I didn’t vanish. I left.”

“Abruptly.”

“Efficiently.”

He stepped closer. That was on purpose. “And without giving me a chance to ask your name.”

“Well,” she said lightly, “perhaps I didn’t want you to ask.”

Why was his presence making her shiver? She kept trying to convince herself it was the cold, but she knew better.

“Why not?”

“Because mystery troubles men like you.”

“And men like me are…?”

“That,” she said, tilting her head, “is part of the mystery.”

He laughed, a low and surprised sound, as though she’d knocked him slightly off balance. She felt a ridiculous flutter of triumph.

“You’re bold,” he said.

“And you are far too used to women swooning at your feet.”

“Are you accusing me of arrogance?”

“Merely observing it.”

He took another step toward her. She refused to retreat, though her pulse warned her she should.

“If you won’t give me your name,” he said softly, “may I at least know why you ran?”

“I didn’t run.”

“No?” His eyes glinted. “Then why do you look like you’re ready to do it again?”

Her breath caught. He had seen too much. She was sure of it.

She covered it with a smile. “Maybe I simply enjoy keeping you off balance.”

“That you’ve managed.”

Their gazes held, and her heart hammered. She had never felt more alive.

Finally, she glanced at the door. They were risking a lot by being out here alone. She ought to go back inside and forget about this mysterious stranger who made her blood turn hot. But she couldn’t.

He noticed her gaze. “Planning on leaving already?”

“I ought to,” she said. Her pulse betrayed her, thudding against her ribs. “But you’re standing in the way.”

His mouth curved. “Then perhaps you ought to tell me to move.”

She hated the warmth that rushed to her cheeks. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have to.”

“Ah,” he murmured, moving even closer, “but then you’d be running again.”

She stiffened just slightly, but his eyes caught it. They missed nothing.

“Do I look like a frightened woman to you?” she asked.

“No.” His gaze dipped to her lips before returning to her eyes. “You look like a woman deciding whether I’m worth risking her composure.”

Her breath hitched, but her pride replied. “And what conclusion should I reach?”

“To stay,” he said simply.

The words landed far too close. Evangeline stepped back, or tried to, but the railing met her spine. She hadn’t realised how near she’d drifted to the edge of the balcony, how near he had drifted to her. He followed her retreat with the quiet certainty of a man who rarely needed permission.

Moonlight slid across his features now, across the hard lines of his cheekbones and the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. Up close, she could see a dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose, barely visible unless one stood exactly where she stood, which was too close.

Her breath trembled.

His mask covered half his face, but his eyes were startling. She’d thought them grey in the ballroom. Here, in the night’s glow, she saw there were threads of gold in them, like sunlight trapped in storm clouds. They watched her with unnerving clarity.

He was too close. And at the same time, he was nowhere near close enough.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly.

“You’re very…” She stopped herself, mortified. “Very… near.”

He dipped his head, bringing his face inches from hers. “Do you want me to move?”

Her throat tightened. Heat curled low in her abdomen, dangerous and unfamiliar. “I… didn’t say that.”

“No,” he agreed in a voice that was now nearly a whisper. “You didn’t.”

She felt the warmth that was him seeping past her bodice and gloves and every sensible thought she’d ever possessed. Her pulse was fluttering wildly again. She hoped he couldn’t feel it.

The wind caught a strand of her hair and brushed it across his cheek. She froze. He didn’t.

His gaze flicked downward. “That fragrance,” he said. “Jasmine?”

Her lips parted. “Yes.”

“It suits you.”

Something inside her tightened at the softness of his tone. He didn’t sound like a stranger then. He also didn’t sound like a man speaking in flirtations and half-truths; more like someone who had accidentally revealed something real.

She swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Her voice faltered. “Because you’re a stranger.”

“I was,” he said. “But we’re past that now, aren’t we?”

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t think.

The heat in her body was too sharp, too consuming. Every detail of him seared itself into her mind: the freckle near his temple, the faint scar at his jawline, the gold flecks in his eyes, the warmth of his breath mixing with the cool air. He was a stranger, yet she felt as though she had stepped into a space carved only for the two of them.

He lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek, then he paused, giving her the chance to retreat.

She didn’t.

He touched her first, just a brush of his fingertips along her jaw, light enough to be denied, but deliberate enough that she couldn’t mistake the intention. The softness of his glove contrasted with the heat radiating from his skin beneath it, and the sensation stole her breath.

She didn’t pull away, although she knew that she should have.

He leaned in slowly, as if giving her every chance to stop him, but her body betrayed her mind, leaning infinitesimally closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat urging him nearer.

When his lips finally touched hers, the world went still.

It was not a hesitant kiss, nor was it practised or polished. It landed with the force of something neither of them had meant to allow, but couldn’t stop now. The first press of his lips stole the breath from her lungs. The second coaxed it back in a soft, startled exhale that he swallowed as though he had been waiting for it.

His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of champagne and winter air. One of his hands slipped to the back of her neck, anchoring her gently but unmistakably. The warmth of his palm seared through her hair, through her composure, through every barrier she’d built.

Her own hands, those traitorous things, rose to his chest, feeling the hard, steady line of muscle beneath the fine fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded against her fingertips, matching the swift ache in her own.

The kiss deepened for a single, dangerous moment. His lips brushed hers twice, three times, as if he wanted to memorise the shape of her mouth. The faint scrape of stubble grazed her skin, sending a shiver spiralling down her spine. Her pulse fluttered wildly at her throat. Heat flushed through her in a rush, pooling low in her belly, a sensation so unexpected her knees weakened.

It was over too soon.

He drew back a fraction, still close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her lips.

“Show me who you are,” he said softly.

Her heart thundered, but she shook her head. “No. A gentleman should reveal himself first.”

“You doubt I’m a gentleman?”

“I am certain you’re not,” she said, fighting a smile. “Which is why you must prove me wrong.”

He exhaled in a low sound that might have been amusement, but also frustration. “And what will you do if I refuse?”

“Avoid being caught kissing a masked stranger.”

A flush of awareness passed through his eyes.

“Very well,” he murmured.

He hesitated only a moment. Then he reached for the edges of his mask. Time seemed to slow, as his fingers lifted the dark fabric away, revealing sharp, sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw, the freckle she’d noticed and the faint scar near his ear.

He was strikingly handsome. In fact, he was more than striking, and for a heartbeat, she simply stared.

Then recognition crashed into her.

The Duke of Blackmere.

She knew that face. Everyone knew it. This was the disgraced duke, the fallen heir. This was also the man her father had spoken of with cold disdain and fear, the same man whose family had been ruined because of Lord Harrow’s dealings. Her dealings, in part, by silence.

Her father’s sworn enemy.

Her gasp ripped the quiet apart. She stumbled back so quickly she struck the railing. His eyes widened in confusion.

“Wait—” he began.

But her shock had shattered something inside her. She spun and fled. She didn’t care that it was ungraceful, that her skirts wrapped frantically around her ankles or that her mask nearly slipped from her fingers. She didn’t care that guests turned as she passed, that the ballroom swirled with colours and questions.

She only cared about distance from him, from that kiss, from the truth she could not bear to accept.

She left the masquerade long before midnight, slipping into her carriage with trembling hands. The moment the door shut, she pressed her fingers to her lips, horrified by the heat still lingering there.

“Forget him,” she whispered into the dark.

But long after the carriage carried her away from London’s glittering lights, Evangeline Harrow’s pulse would not steady. And no matter how fiercely she tried, she could not stop thinking about the man she should hate, the man she had just kissed…

The Duke of Blackmere.