Of course she was. Rhystan groaned. The last thing he needed was yet another ball, but a part of him knew he needed to come up with better suitors for his sister. And the truth was, he wanted to see Sarani again. In a safe place, surrounded by people, where he would not do anything untoward like drag her off to a deserted alcove to ravish her.
He’d done that already.
He truly was a dreadful excuse for a duke.
“Inform the duchess I will attend,” he said.
Appearances had to be maintained. For Ravenna’s sake, anyway.
* * *
Playing the wallflower on the fringes of the Van Dunne ball, Sarani did not feel any different. Not that she’d expected to—but she’d imagined that being ruined would feel somewhat salacious. That people would be able to see through the haze of immorality surrounding her.
Then again, she was wearing a mask. She huffed a laugh—not that the aristocracy didn’t wear figurative masks every single day. Very few let their real selves be seen for fear of being hurt or ridiculed by their peers. For all their culture and confidence, fashion and fortunes, aristocrats were extraordinarily frail. Like almost everyone else, Sarani supposed.
Ravenna and Rhystan caught her eye as they twirled past. They made a stunning pair. Ravenna was radiant in a ball gown the colors of the sunset and a beautiful red-feathered mask, and Rhystan wore black. Without a mask. Sarani wondered if he’d done it to be contrary. Or perhaps he was one of those few who refused to hide who he was. She frowned, recalling his stony-faced demeanor in his bedchamber.
No, Rhystan’s masks lay behind his eyes and appeared at will.
Few ever saw the real man.
“You won’t have him, you know,” a waspish voice taunted.
Sarani turned to see a lady in a buttercup-yellow gown with a Venetian-style mask hiding her identity, but those spiteful eyes were instantly recognizable. Lady Penelope, if Sarani were to hazard an educated guess. Given Sarani also wore a mask, she wondered how the woman had recognized her in the first place. Then again, she’d be standing with Ravenna, who was now dancing with her brother, the maskless duke. And from Penelope’s tone, she’d been watching Sarani since their arrival.
She looked away. “Why is that?”
“You’re a nobody,” she said. “The dowager duchess won’t stand for it. No one in the ton will stand for it.”
“Good thing it’s not up to her or anyone else,” Sarani replied.
“You think you are above us, don’t you?”
A bubble of laughter burned in Sarani’s throat. It’d been quite some time since she’d felt above anyone. Practically her entire life, from childhood to adulthood, Sarani had felt as though she couldn’t quite measure up, that something essential was missing that would elevate her…allow her to play with the other children, to marry a man who valued her, or to feel worthy of being loved. Even now, in pretense with Rhystan, she existed on the periphery. Good enough for some things. Not enough for others.
“All your airs and standoffishness,” Penelope went on, “but secrets will always come out. Remember that, Lady Sara, when you look down your nose at the rest of us and covet that which does not belong to you.”
“I did not covet anything that did not want to be coveted,” Sarani said calmly, though the way Penelope had snarled “Lady” sent a wary shiver shooting up Sarani’s spine. “And the duke is not a that, he’s a who, and contrary to what you may think, he does have a mind of his own.”
“No one denies me what is mine.”
Sarani lifted her chin with as much haughtiness as she could muster. “Then it seems you’ve been rather spoiled, Lady Penelope. Please excuse me.”
She strode away before the other woman could reply, her thoughts swirling. What had Lady Penelope meant by secrets having a way of coming out? If Sarani’s biggest secret were to be exposed, the scandal would be unavoidable. Did Lady Penelope know something?
Sarani was so caught up in her own world that she nearly crashed into a small mountain. Or rather, a large duke.
“Your Grace, I beg your pardon,” she murmured, her pulse already at war in her breast at his nearness. “I did not see you.”
A pair of keen blue-gray eyes narrowed on her. “You are upset. Where were you running off to?”
She drew a strangled breath, though the sudden short supply of air had nothing to do with Penelope and everything to do with the man sucking the oxygen out of the room. Good gracious, why was the ballroom so bloody hot? Every hair on her body stood alarmingly on end, his very presence making her feel like she’d been touched by lightning.
“Nowhere. I just needed some air.”
She swept past him to the narrow balcony beyond a pair of glass-paned French doors, acutely aware of what had happened last time they’d been on a terrace alone. But it was either that or faint. Thank goodness this one was well lit with no inviting alcoves to speak of. The duke followed, his huge frame propping against one marble column, and Sarani bit back a groan.
“What did Lady Penelope say to you?” he demanded.
Had he been watching her while dancing with Ravenna?
Sarani brought up her fan and stared at it before fanning herself vigorously. Dancing couples were beginning to stare at them whenever they twirled past the glass doors, not even hiding their interest. Rhystan was the sort of man who drew attention wherever he went, and she… Well, according to the scandal sheets, speculation was rife. The two of them arguing on a balcony would be too delicious for words.
“Nothing,” Sarani said. “She was being her usual self.”
“A brat?”
A puff of laughter escaped her lips. “Categorically.”
“I’ve danced with several ladies of unimpeachable reputation, including Lady Pettigrew, who practically devoured me with her eyes, then with my sister, launching her off in the most respectable of ways, and now I wish to take a turn with you. Will you dance with me?”
Instant panic flooded her veins. Even standing an arm’s length away from him, she was barely managing to restrain herself from dragging him to a deserted room, plastering her body to his, and begging him to ruin her again. She couldn’t begin to imagine what feeling those large palms on her for the entirety of a dance would do. Already, she could feel the dampness between her legs and her nipples tightening in shameless arousal.
That would simply not do.
“I cannot, but thank you,” she blurted out, bringing her fan up between them and fanning herself with brisk strokes.
He frowned at the lace device and then at her. “Why not?”
In response, her fan increased its speed, her brain failing to come up with an acceptable excuse that wasn’t an outright lie. Her gaze fell on the elegant fan. “Did you know that there’s a whole language to the lady’s fan? For example, twirling it in one’s left hand means we are being watched, which we are,” she added for good measure. “Drawing it across one’s eyes says ‘I am sorry,’ while resting it upon one’s lips says the gentleman is not to be trusted.”