Chapter Ten
Isabel shifted and slid her hands along her skirt nervously. The ball spun around her, a familiar dizzy mix of loud music, chattering voices and twirling skirts. In theory, it was very much like a dozen other balls she had attended over the years.
In truth, it felt different—because this was a ball thrown by a viscount and his wife. The room was filled with earls and dukes, second sons and those who had inherited all they had and more.
She felt very out of place.
“What did you think of Callis?” her uncle asked as he handed over a drink.
She sipped it gingerly before she said, “The viscount and his wife were very friendly.”
That was true, at least. The viscount was a handsome man and his wife was beautiful and sweet. They were clearly in love, something that surprised Isabel, for she knew many Society marriages were arranged and loveless.
Not that she could talk.
Uncle Fenton hurrumphed. “She didn’t used to be so high and mighty,” he said.
Isabel let her gaze slip to the viscountess again. “No?”
“It’s unseemly to talk about,” her uncle said with a shake of his head. “I should not have brought it up. But since there is a bit of scandal to the couple, I thought it wouldn’t be a bad start for you in Society.”
Isabel pressed her lips together hard at the veiled insult. “Thank you, uncle.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mean because of any scandal associated with you,” he explained. “Unless there is more to your sneaking out than I yet know. But because everyone is judging her, perhaps you would feel their judgment less.”
Isabel sighed. She supposed, in his own way, he was being kind. Trying to make it easier. It wasn’t though.
They stood together in silence for a moment as she stared out over the crowd. She felt so on the outside of this world. Pressed against the glass but unable to truly enter. She had rather hoped Sarah might come tonight, but her mother’s illness had prevented it.
So Isabel was truly alone even in the crowded room.
“Isabel!”
She turned at Uncle Fenton’s call and found that he was no longer alone. A gentleman stood next to him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, not unhandsome. But he was likely a contemporary of her uncle, older than Isabel by at least twenty-five years.
Her heart sank.
“May I present Mrs. Isabel Hayes,” her uncle said. “Isabel, this is Sir Daniel Goodacre.”
“Sir Daniel,” she said, extending her hand.
He caught it and lifted it to his lips. As he brushed them over her gloved knuckles, she tried to keep her smile on her face. He was staring at her breasts. Of course he was.
“Mrs. Hayes,” he drawled. “You are a vision.”
Uncle Fenton smiled at the man. “Sir Daniel is an old friend,” he said.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Isabel said as she extracted her hand from his grip.
She fought the urge to shake it out. Shake off his touch. God’s teeth, she was traveling down the same road her father had put her on. Her uncle might marry her higher, but it was practically to the same man.
“I wondered if your dance card was full this evening, Mrs. Hayes,” Sir Daniel asked with a side glance for her uncle.
She swallowed. “Indeed, it is not, for we only just arrived.”
“Then might I be so bold as to ask you to dance the next with me?” he said, motioning to the dancefloor where couples were just departing after the lilting end of the previous song.
Isabel inclined her head. This was the worst part of these events. While a woman might be asked to dance, it was only in theory that the answer could be no. In truth, she had more power at the Donville Masquerade than here in a public and presentable forum.
“Certainly,” she said through clenched teeth. “It would be an honor.”
He extended an arm and she took it. When she glanced back, she found a satisfied smile on her uncle’s face. He almost looked as though everything had been determined. Her future taken care of so he could go back to ruthlessly grieving the past.
And her heart sank as the tones of a country jig began and she was forced to dance lightly while her entire being felt so desperately heavy.
Matthew stood along the wall as the ball went on around him, but he was not truly attending to it. His mind was turning to another room, another dancefloor, one that would shock the people in this room if they encountered it.
He was thinking of his stranger. His swan.
“Matthew!”
He turned and shook away those wicked thoughts as he watched his mother approach him. The duchess looked lovely in her finery, but he saw concern flash across her face before she leaned up to kiss his cheek.
“Mama,” he said as he took her hand tucked it into the crook of his arm. “I’m so glad to find you. Would you like to take a turn on the dancefloor?”
She laughed as if the idea were absurd. “I will leave you to all the eligible ladies, I think. You know I do not dance.”
“You should,” he said, giving her a side glance. “You were always very good at it.”
“With your father as partner,” she said with a sad smile. “I doubt I’d be much good with someone else.”
“Says the woman who is determined I find myself a new dance partner,” he said as they looked out over the crowd together.
She squeezed his arm gently. “I push too hard, do I?”
He looked down at her, at that kind face he so adored. The one that had seen him through such grief. The one that wanted a future for him that he feared he could not provide.
“Not at all,” he said softly. “You have my best interest at heart. How could I complain about that?”
“You can’t,” she said. “But you can certainly complain about my methods.”
“I would not dare to do so,” he teased. “And risk your wrath?”
His mother rolled her eyes. “My wrath that is of legend?”
He chuckled and felt a wave of comfort wash over him. He did feel more himself when he was with family and friends. The self he had settled into since Angelica’s death. There was an ease to that, one he lost the moment he stepped into the masquerade and was confronted by burning desire that lit in him when he saw his stranger.
“You are very far away tonight,” the duchess said. “Are you bored at the ball?”
He shrugged. “It is a ball. I suppose it’s as fine a way to spend time as any other.”
“Enthusiastic,” she drawled. “So there is no one here who catches your interest?”
Matthew sighed as he let his gaze scan the room. He found friends aplenty, for most of the dukes had come to the party and were either gathered in clusters, talking to the other guests, or spinning around the floor with their brides. There were other friends to be found, as well. Friends outside his tight knit group, including their host.
But that wasn’t what his mother meant about interest. She meant ladies. Unattached, marriageable ladies. Ones that would help eventually carry on his father’s legacy by marrying him and birthing his sons.
“I don’t—” he began, and then came to a stop. The crowd had parted slightly and revealed not a lady who caught his eye, but someone else. Someone far worse.
“What is it?” the duchess asked as she lifted on her tiptoes to gaze over the crowd with him.
“Fenton Winter,” he breathed.
The name caused a visceral reaction in his mother. She caught her breath and grabbed for his arm with both hands. “Matthew,” she whispered.
There was a reason for the strength of that reaction. Winter was Angelica’s father. For years their families had gotten along. The man had approved of their match. But when she died, Winter had been truly devastated. He had rained down rage and heartbreak, as well as accusations, on Matthew’s head.
Normally they did not attend the same events. Matthew made certain of that. But tonight there the man was. Over the years, he’d grown thinner. Gaunt, even. His jaw was set as he looked at the dancefloor, a line of displeasure that Matthew had come to know very well.
But he clearly had not yet seen Matthew, for he had no doubt Winter would have already come smashing across the ballroom for a public confrontation if he had.
“Perhaps I should go,” he murmured.
His mother said something in reply, but he didn’t hear her. In that moment, a lady came off the dancefloor and stopped in front of Winter. She had her back to Matthew—he could not see her face, but he didn’t need to.
There was familiarity in the way she moved. The way her gown hung on her slender shoulders. In the dark, silky magic of her perfectly arranged hair.
That was…it looked like his swan. His stranger. His lover. And she was talking to Fenton Winter in a ballroom of a viscount, standing not fifty feet from Matthew.
“Matthew!” His mother’s tone was sharp and pierced his stunned fog.
“Yes?” he asked, making himself look at her.
“What is wrong?” she asked. “Aside from Winter’s being here, I mean. I’ve said your name three times.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t know.” He glanced back at Winter and his companion. She was still not facing him and his head began to spin. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
He walked away from his mother, faintly aware of her saying his name yet again. He ignored it, too caught up in the swirling drumbeat of horror that was the situation unfolding before him. One he didn’t understand completely, but recognized was not going to end well. How could it?
He staggered up to James and Emma, who were standing beside the dancefloor, heads close together, whispering and giggling to each other. When he interrupted them, James’s expression immediately fell.
“What is it?” he asked, catching Matthew’s arm.
Matthew felt glad for the grip. It brought him back to reality a bit. “I—Winter,” he muttered.
James jerked his gaze in the direction Matthew looked and his eyes widened. “Christ, I’m sorry. I had no idea he would be here.”
“Neither did I,” Matthew gasped out. “Who is that woman with him?”
James looked again, as did Matthew. When they did, the lady finally pivoted to stand beside Winter, and Matthew got his first look at her face. And there was no longer any doubt or hope that she wasn’t his stranger. He could tell by the shape of her lips, the curve of her jaw, the color of her dark eyes.
It was her.
James began to shake his head when Emma drew in a long breath. “That is Isabel Hayes,” she said gently. “She is…she’s Angelica’s cousin, Winter’s niece. She has been staying with him for about a year. She’s been in mourning most of that time, for her late husband.”
Matthew’s ears began to ring as he stared at the lady, the swan…Isabel, once more. She was even more beautiful when her face wasn’t half covered by a mask.
“No.” He choked on the word. “No.”
“Matthew,” James said. “Matthew, what is it?”
Matthew couldn’t answer. He stared, unblinking, as Winter said something to Isabel and then stepped away from her into the milling crowd. She shifted, a look of discomfort crossing her face. Her lying, deceiving, utterly gorgeous face.
He said nothing to explain himself but headed off across the room toward her. The room was crowded, but it didn’t matter. All he saw was her. All he could think about was her. Her and her lies and whatever horrible plan she had hatched in her head.
As he pushed through the groups of revelers, she turned, and her gaze settled on him. He watched emotion flood over her. Her eyes widened almost impossibly, her cheeks went bloodless, and in her gaze he saw abject terror.
All of which only proved what he knew all the more. She was his lady. And she had absolutely known exactly who and what he was.
He crossed the last few steps toward her and she pivoted, turning as if she would run. He didn’t allow it. He caught her bare elbow and tugged her back, trying desperately to ignore the flash of heat and desire that rushed through him when his skin met hers.
“Come with me,” he growled beneath his breath. “Mrs. Hayes.”
Isabel couldn’t breathe as she was dragged through the winding halls of Lord Callis’s enormous house. Her vision was blurred and she couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. She staggered, but Matthew didn’t slow his pace, he just steadied her as he pushed into a parlor. As he released her, she staggered forward, flinching as he slammed the door behind them.
She didn’t want to look at him and so she stood, eyes squeezed shut, hands fisted at her sides, her back to him. That moment stretched into an eternity before he barked out, “Turn around.”
She was shaking from head to toe and tears stung her eyes as she slowly did as he ordered. He was still standing at the door, staring at her with his arms folded across that broad chest.
Gone was the lover who had so thoroughly tended to her needs over and over again. Gone was the man who confessed he was just as confused by the physical connection between them as she had been. Gone was all the softness and gentleness that made her believe he wasn’t capable of hurting her cousin.
Left in the wake was rage, bubbling just below the surface. And contempt that turned his gorgeous gray eyes into stormy seas.
“Was it all a trap?” he snapped, his voice clipped. “A plot?”
She caught her breath at the accusation. At the emotion that echoed behind it. For a wild moment, she thought of lying, of denying she knew anything about what he asked. Of pretending she’d never been his stranger, his swan.
Only she couldn’t. He arched a brow and it was clear that lie wouldn’t save her any more than all the others had. The time had come for truth, and to let go of the brief foolishness that had placed her into his arms.
“No,” she gasped, her voice sounding so rough and foreign. “I didn’t know, not at first. I swear to you.”
He laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “You swear, Isabel? Mrs. Hayes. Is that supposed to have meaning to me?”
She dropped her head. She deserved his censure, she knew. It still stung far more than it should have considering the fact she barely knew him. Couldn’t have him. Despite the fact that everything between them was now over.
“I didn’t know when I first met you,” she repeated.
“But you did after,” he growled, and paced past her farther into the room. “When? Was it before my mask came off? Was it before you bedded me?”
The hardness of the accusation slashed at her, and she struggled to maintain composure as she watched him walk to the fire. He pivoted and faced her, all darkness and anger now. And yet still utterly irresistible.
“No,” she said. “Not before. It truly was when you were dressing after that…after that first time we were together and your mask came off that I knew. You remember my reaction, how I ran away. If I were already aware, why would I have done such a thing?”
For a fraction of a moment, the anger on his face faded. He nodded slowly. “I suppose that is a fair point.”
She stepped toward him, her cheeks heating when he flinched. “Yes,” she said. “I was horrified when I saw your face. Of all the men in the world that I could have just…just…”
“Fucked,” he filled in.
She recoiled from that harsh word, one a lady was not meant to hear. Perhaps that was why he used it, to tell her he did not consider her a lady anymore. And why should he?
“Y-yes,” she said, her voice shaking. “You were my cousin’s—”
She stopped, for she couldn’t say it. There was too much power to it.
He didn’t seem to have those same reservations. “Your cousin’s fiancé?” he asked, sneered. “Her killer.”
She sucked in a breath at those words. “What?”
He moved forward now and she clenched her fists so that she would remain in place. “That is what your uncle thinks, isn’t it? What he’s fed to you over the years? Don’t think I’m such a fool that I don’t guess that is the reason you came back, sought me out, after you knew my name.”
She bent her head. “I-I cannot deny it. I did come back, seek you out again, in part to…to…”
“Say it, Isabel,” he growled. “Don’t stop now.”
“To investigate you,” she finished on a sob.
His face twisted in disgust at that word. “You whored yourself to me in order to find out if I killed Angelica. On your uncle’s orders?”
“No!” she said. “He doesn’t know. He could never, ever know what I did.”
His eyes narrowed, filled with disbelief. She’d earned that, of course. Earned all of his ill regard of her. His hate. But she didn’t want it. Being this close to him, that wasn’t what she wanted at all from the man who had awoken the desires she’d hidden. The man who had given her such pleasure.
“So you did it for your own interest,” he said slowly. “And did you come to a decision about my guilt or innocence?”
“We did not meet often.” Her voice shook and she couldn’t control it. “But I could not believe that a man who—who—”
“Pleasured you,” he said, his voice still hard even as his gaze flitted over her.
She nodded, her cheeks aflame once more at his bluntness. “Yes. But did it so…sweetly. With such attentiveness and care when he did not have to give either…I couldn’t believe a man whose first act was to protect me could have hurt Angelica.”
His jaw set, rippled. She wished she could touch that hard cheek, trace it with her fingers as she had once done and now would never do again.
“You said investigation was part of why you returned, sought me out at the masquerade,” he said at last. “What was the other?”
Her lips parted at the question. She hadn’t expected him to pursue it. She hadn’t even been fully cognizant of saying it. But now that she had and he was…
“Because I didn’t want to walk away from what we shared those two nights,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying in the quiet room. “I-I couldn’t, even though I knew what I was doing was wrong.”
He didn’t respond, just stared at her. His face was unreadable now. Not angry, not contemptuous, just…blank. Cool.
“My uncle is going to arrange a new marriage,” she explained, somehow unable to keep the words from cascading from her lips. “I’m certain it will be like my last.”
“What was your last?” he bit out.
Heat flooded her cheeks. “With an older man, a union for position, not passion. It was the lack of the latter that took me to the masquerade in the first place. Just to…see that passion. Just a little. And then you touched me, and suddenly it was a flood of passion. A wave that swept me away.”
“And so you stole my ability to chose what I would do in order to fulfill your own desires,” he said.
When he said it that way, she saw it for the violation that it was. And she hated herself for it. “Yes. I-I did. And it was very wrong of me. I wish I could take it back.”
“Do you,” he said, and he stepped forward.
The space between them closed in that long stride. He was almost touching her now, invading her space, his warmth curling around her like it had when he’d taken her to his bed. His breath steaming over her. His eyes boring into her.
She held those eyes, remembering what they’d looked like when he wanted her. Seeing a shadow of that same expression even now in this heated, emotional moment. And words fell from her lips without her ordering then to do so, “What would you have chosen if you had known?”
His cheek twitched again, but this time his expression was not of anger. It was something else. Something she had seen before, just the moment before he touched her, took her, in that hidden room at a forbidden masquerade.
She saw it and she knew what he would do even before he pressed his lips to hers. There was nothing gentle to the kiss. She still felt his anger in the way he demanded with his tongue and his hands that closed over her forearms and tugged her even closer.
But she felt his desire, too. She tasted it on his tongue as he drove it hard into her mouth. There was no denying that passion she had come to crave. No denying the man who inspired it so deeply inside of her. She made a soft sound in her throat and lifted on her tiptoes to get closer to him. Her tongue met his and the kiss deepened, widened, crashed like waves on the shore. Destructive and beautiful all at once. She wanted to be swept away.
He swore and broke away from her, setting her aside as he lifted his hand to his mouth like he’d been burned. He stared at her for a beat, two, until it felt like forever. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her alone in the chamber.
Alone and breathless and utterly confused.