Her family raised her to remain invisible—then the feared Duke crossed an entire ballroom for the woman he’d been searching for since childhood

Chapter 3

The Duke of Ashcroft was not in his seat of honor near the hostess. He was standing near the back of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his gray eyes fixed on me with an unwavering intensity that sent a jolt of electricity through my entire body.

He was not looking at Cordelia, who was pretending to be enraptured by the music while subtly angling herself to be in his line of sight. He was looking past the pillar, past the flowers, directly at me.

My breath hitched. I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning. It had to be a coincidence. My mind was playing tricks on me, inventing significance where there was none. I was the gray mouse, the shadow. Men like the Duke of Ashcroft did not look at shadows.

During the interval, I tried to escape to the ladies’ retiring room, but my mother intercepted me at the door, her fingers digging into my arm with surprising strength.

“Stay put,” she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. “He is here. Cordelia will need to be at her best. Do not move from that chair.”

Trapped, I retreated to my pillar, keeping my head down, pretending to study the intricate pattern on my fan. The minutes crawled by, each one an eternity. The murmur of conversation and laughter swirled around me, but I heard none of it. I was acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every second that passed.

A pair of polished black boots entered my field of vision.

“Miss Whitmore.”

I looked up, my fan fluttering uselessly in my trembling hand. The Duke of Ashcroft stood before me, holding two glasses of lemonade. He offered one to me.

“Your Grace,” I stammered, taking the glass. My fingers brushed against his, and a strange warmth spread up my arm, pooling in my chest.

“You should not — I mean, I should not —”

“Should not what?” he asked, one dark eyebrow arching slightly. “Bring a lady a refreshment? I was under the impression it was a common courtesy.”

“Of course, but my sister —”

“Your sister seems to have a great many admirers vying for her attention,” he said, his gaze flicking for a moment toward Cordelia, who was surrounded by a coterie of young officers. He turned his full attention back to me. “I find I prefer less crowded conversations.”

The directness of his words stole my breath. He was not being accidental. This was intentional. He was choosing to speak to me. The invisible girl behind the pillar.

“Why?” The word escaped before I could stop it.

He studied me for a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable. “The sonata was a rather melancholy choice for the evening,” he remarked, changing the subject with an ease that felt deliberate. “What did you think of it?”

I found a sliver of courage. “I thought it was beautiful. It spoke of a deep and profound longing. Of things left unsaid.”

A flicker of something — surprise, interest — crossed his features. “You appreciate music, then. Not merely as a backdrop for social maneuvering.”

“I do,” I said simply. “And poetry.”

“Ah, yes. The book at the ball.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth, transforming his severe face, making him look younger, less formidable. “May I ask the author?”

“Whittier,” I confessed. “A bit sentimental for some, but I find his words comforting.”

“There is nothing wrong with comfort, Miss Whitmore.” His voice softened, losing its formal edge. “In a world of sharp edges, comfort is a rare and valuable thing.”

We stood in silence for another moment, sipping our lemonade. The din of the party faded into a distant buzz. It was as if he carried a circle of quiet with him wherever he went, and I had been invited inside it.

I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me, a feeling so foreign I barely recognized it. For the first time, I was not shrinking from his presence. I was finding a strange solace in it.