A Gentleman's Curse (Avenging Lords 4)

“Did you not befriend that monkey who stole from the market in Ghaziabad?” Lockhart said, finding the conversation amusing, for Dariell had spoken about the night Raja attacked Valentine at the Westminster Pit.

“That animal did not maul my face and try to scratch out my eyes.”

Drake chuckled as he pointed to Valentine’s cheek. “If you look closely, you can still see the scar.”

Valentine slapped his friend’s hand away. “At least I don’t get down on all fours and growl at dogs.”

“I was trying to train the lazy animal,” Drake countered.

Nothing had changed during Lockhart’s absence. His friends knew how to lighten his mood, brighten his spirits. But one glimpse at Terence was enough to rouse the devil inside.

“Shall we dance, Claudia?” Lockhart said as the first few strains of the waltz echoed through the room. He would have a moment alone to school his partner in deception before approaching his brother. It was imperative Miss Darling looked happy and vivacious when they made their first move.

“You wish to dance the waltz?” She seemed nervous.

“I told you. I intend to keep you close. Give Juliet your mask and Drake will hold mine.” Not everyone waited until the grand reveal.

Miss Darling did as he asked.

When they walked out onto the dance floor, he felt the gossips’ piercing stares, heard their curious whispers.

“You love me,” he breathed. “Every person in this room must be in no doubt.”

“And you love me,” she said, allowing him to clasp her hand and draw her into the required embrace. “Do try to keep your gaze eye level.”

Lockhart smiled as his hand settled on her back. “I’ve more chance of calling a constable and admitting to murder,” he said, sweeping her into the dance. “Surely you’d not begrudge your husband one small indulgence.”

“Indulging you is becoming a habit.” Miss Darling returned his smile. She seemed genuinely amused, but then she was a good actress.

“Habit? Rather a pleasurable pastime I hope, not a chore.”

They moved about the floor in perfect time to the music. For a country maiden, Miss Darling possessed the elegance one needed for such a graceful dance. Yes, she might have stumbled once or twice had he not been strong enough to support her but that stemmed from a lack of experience as opposed to a lack of skill.

As they travelled and swayed through the steps, his focus shifted. He had meant to use the opportunity to gain his brother’s attention and yet gazing into Miss Darling’s eyes and feigning love proved distracting.

“There is a reason we are dancing,” she said. Her level of perception was as sharp as his own. “You want your brother to notice you. You want to witness his reaction.”

Lockhart had wanted to burst into the ballroom like a violent storm set to whip the room into a frenzy. He wanted to charge at Terence and drive his fist down his brother’s throat, for the simple fact that he’d lacked the strength to help clear Lockhart’s name.

But this was a complicated game.

One that took patience and perseverance.

“And how might I do that when I cannot stop looking at you?”

Lockhart took the opportunity to admire Miss Darling more closely. Her golden hair shimmered like silk in the candlelight. The sapphires decorating the comb added an ethereal appeal. The rise and fall of their movements on the floor matched the undulation of her milky-white breasts as her breath came quicker.

“Your need to prove a point must not distract you from your plan,” she said.

“Prove a point?” Did Miss Darling know of his history with Selina? Did she know he wanted the vixen to rue the day she married his brother? Surely not.

“To prove to the villain that his actions did not ruin your life.” Pity flashed briefly in her eyes. “We have a limited time to achieve success. We must make every moment count.”

Selina’s duplicity had helped stoke the fire of vengeance—had given him a reason to live. And while he fantasised about seducing the woman pretending to be his wife, that was not why he was here.

“Then let us move nearer to the orchestra,” Lockhart said.

Terence was still deep in conversation, his Scaramouch mask pulled high on his forehead, the long, pointed nose resembling a devil’s horn. Did his brother not know that in the commedia dell’arte it was the mask of vanity and the mask of a coward?