She was entirely at his whim. He could tell her to remove her mask that moment. He held all the cards, and she none of them. And still, she found room to tease him. Even now, minutes from her destruction, she stood her ground.
The woman was remarkable.
“I was forced to attend the coming-out party of a neighbor.”
Pink lips curved beneath the mask, underscoring the provocativeness of her costume. “You must have enjoyed that. Being forced into little mincing quadrille steps to even the ratio of males to females at the ball in question.”
“My father had made it clear that I had no choice,” he said. “It was as future dukes did.”
“And so you went.”
“I did.”
“And did you hate it? All the young ladies throwing their handkerchiefs at your feet so you’d have to stop and retrieve them?”
He laughed. “Is that why they did it?”
“A very old trick, Your Grace.”
“I thought they were simply clumsy.”
Her white teeth flashed. “You hated it.”
“I didn’t, actually,” he said, watching her grin fade to a curious smile. “It was tolerable.”
It was a lie. He’d adored it.
He’d loved every second of being an aristocrat. He’d been thrilled at all the mincing and my lording and the sense of pleasure and honor that he’d had as all of London’s youngest, prettiest women had chased after him for attention.
He’d been rich and intelligent and titled—all privilege and power.
What wasn’t to love?
“And I am certain the ladies of the land were grateful that you did your duty.”
Duty.
The word echoed through him, as faded as the memory, gone with his title when he’d woken in that blood-soaked bed. He met her eyes. “Why the blood?”
Confusion passed through her gaze, chased by understanding. She hesitated.
It was not the place for the conversation, in the home of one of London’s most powerful men, surrounded by hundreds of revelers. But the conversation had come nonetheless. And he could not resist pressing her. “Why not simply run? Why fake your death?”
He wasn’t sure she would answer. And then she did. “I never planned for you to be saddled with my death.”
He’d expected a number of possible answers, but he hadn’t expected her to lie. “Even now, you won’t tell me the truth.”
“I understand why you do not believe me, but it is the truth,” she said quietly. “They weren’t supposed to think me dead. They were supposed to think me ruined.”
He couldn’t help the bark of shocked laughter that escaped at that. “What kind of perverse acts were you expecting them to think I’d performed?”
“I’d heard there was blood involved,” she said, clearly not amused.
His brows rose behind his domino. “Not that much blood.”
“Yes, I rather gathered that once you were accused of murder,” she grumbled.
“It must have been—” He thought back on the morning.
“A pint.”
He laughed in earnest then. “A pint of pig’s blood.”
She smiled then, small and unexpected. “I have made up for it by treating Lavender very well.”
“So I was to have ruined you.” He paused. “But I didn’t.”
She ignored the words. “I also never expected you to sleep so long. I drugged you to keep you in the room long enough for the maids to notice. I’d been careful to make sure we were seen by two of them.” She met his eyes. “But I swear, I thought you would be up and escaped before anyone found you.”
“You’d thought of everything.”
“I overdid it.” He heard the regret in the words as she paused as the orchestra stopped playing, instantly releasing his hands. Wondered if it was regret for her actions, for their repercussions, or for now—for the revenge he had promised her.
Wondered if it was for herself, or for him.
He did not have a chance to ask, as she stepped backward, colliding with another masked man, who took the moment to have a good look at her. “If it isn’t the fighter from The Fallen Angel,” he leered.
“Find someone else to admire,” Temple said, darkly.
“Come now, Temple,” the man lifted his mask, revealing himself to be Oliver Densmore, king of idiot fops, the man who had offered for Mara as she’d stood in the ring of the Angel. “Surely we can make an arrangement. You can’t keep her forever.” He turned to Mara. “I’ll pay you double. Triple.”
Temple’s good hand fisted, but she spoke before he could strike. “You cannot afford me, sir.”
Densmore cackled and returned his mask to his face. “You would be worth the trouble, I think.” He tugged on one of Mara’s auburn curls, and was gone into the crowd, leaving Temple seething with anger. She’d protected herself.
Because she could not trust him to protect her.
Because he had vowed to do just the opposite.
As though the run-in had never happened, Mara returned to the conversation. “I know you don’t wish to hear this, but I think it’s worth telling you nonetheless. I really am sorry.”
“You are ignoring him.”
She paused. “The man? It’s best, don’t you think?”
“No.” He thought it was best for Densmore to lie facedown in a ditch somewhere. Right now he wanted to chase the man through the crowd and put him there.
She considered him, her beautiful eyes clear and honest through the mask. “He treated me like a lady of the evening.”
“Precisely.”
She tilted her head. “Is that not the point?”
Christ, he felt like an ass. He couldn’t do this to her.
“At any rate,” she continued, unaware of his riotous thoughts. “I am sorry.”
And now she was apologizing to him, as though he hadn’t given her a dozen reasons to hate him. A hundred of them.
“It’s nowhere near a decent excuse,” she pressed on, “but I was a child and I made mistakes, and had I known then . . .”
She trailed off. I wouldn’t have done it.
No, he might not want to hear the apology, but he most definitely wished to hear that she would take it all back if she could. That she’d give him back his life. He couldn’t help himself. “If you had known then . . . ?”
Her voice grew soft, and it was as though it were just the two of them in that ballroom, surrounded by half of London. “I would not have used you, but I still would have approached you that night. And I still would have run.”
He should have been angry. Should have felt vindicated. Her words should have chased away all his doubts about his plans for the evening. But they didn’t. “Why?”
She looked to the wall of doors, opening out onto the Leighton House gardens, several left slightly ajar to allow the stifling air in the ballroom out. “Why, which?”
He followed her, as if on a string. “Why approach me?”
She smiled, quiet and small. “You were handsome. And in the gardens, you were irreverent. And I liked you. And somehow, in all of this, I still rather do.”
Like was the most innocuous, tepid of words. It did nothing to describe how she should feel for him. And it did absolutely nothing to describe how he felt for her.
He couldn’t stop himself. “Why run?”