Molly shot a look at Willow, not liking her taut tone. "What is it that you need to say? Is there something the matter?"
"There is news that you must know."
They came to stand before Ava and Hallie. She kissed them both in turn, greeting the dukes standing at their wives' backs, before turning toward the gathered throng. Willow worked her hands before her, glancing at the door. Hallie pulled her aside, and dread pooled in her stomach. "Willow, what is wrong?"
The hair on the back of her nape rose as the muttering of voices dimmed. The music fell as conversation quietened. Molly forgot her question to her friend and looked to see what had everyone so fascinated.
The booming voice of the major-domo bellowed out the name of the latest guest. "His Grace, the Duke of St. Albans."
Molly stilled, her body seized with panic. Hugh was in London. Willow clasped her hand, squeezing it a little. Molly searched him out in the crowded room, but she could not see him. Was it really Hugh? Was he back in London?
A small part of her mind screamed it was because he was here for her. That he'd come to repair their broken marriage, but there was little he could do. The past, no matter how many apologies one gave out, could not change what had occurred.
Unless he is innocent of the crime.
Molly pushed the unhelpful thought aside. He was guilty, had fled London to escape the ton's censure. No one innocent acted in such a way.
"That is what I wanted to tell you. Your husband has arrived in London, and from what I heard from Abe, he was at Whites Gentleman's club today with the Duke of Whitstone. His Grace was overheard telling Whitstone he was in town to win back his wife."
Oh, dear Lord. Did that mean all of society knew that they had a falling out? It was no secret what his scandalous past incurred, and now they knew she had scurried back to England from Rome. She could only imagine what the ton was saying about them both behind closed doors.
Heat rose on her neck.
"You've gone very pale, my dear. Are you well?" Ava took her hand, patting it a little.
Thoughts of what the Duke of St. Albans and his family did to hers rushed back into her mind and made the room spin. Of her cousin who had been courted and promised things during her coming-out by Hugh. How all of those things had come to nothing, not after receiving what he wanted all along. Her innocence and nothing else.
"Ava, did you know Mr. Armstrong was Lord Farley when you saw me off to Rome?"
Her friend's brow furrowed, a grim look on her face. "I did not, no, my dear. Tate has explained his absence to me since your return, and I know my husband, Molly, he would not lie nor support a liar. He believes St. Albans to be telling the truth."
"Did he see Hugh's brother demand he take the fall for him?" To have been a witness would at least clear Hugh of that offense.
Ava shook her head. "No, he read the missive that was sent to Lord Farley from his family."
Hope bloomed in her heart that perhaps Hugh could prove his innocence after all. "Well then, Hugh just needs to show me that letter so I can see for myself what was asked of him. Not that it changes the fact he went along with such a heartbreaking ruse."
"I'm sorry, Molly, but you cannot. So enraged was Hugh by the demand, the letter was burned that very night. You will not be able to read it, my dear. I'm so sorry." Ava stepped back, joining her husband, who looked sheepish at best.
She swallowed her nerves at facing Hugh again. There was nothing he could say that could change what she thought of his conduct. But blast it all to hades, he looked dashing.
She watched, along with every other woman in the room, as the Roman god of sin strode across the ballroom floor. Gone were his tan breeches and cravet-less shirt that he often wore in Rome, and in its place was a man made for ogling. For pleasure and all wicked, delicious things. His eyes bored into her, never diverting to anyone else, and for the life of her, she could not look away. She ought to run, her mind certainly screamed to flee, but she could not. A small part of her wanted to hear what he had to say. How he would explain away his actions. He'd tried in Rome, and he had failed. He would fail again here.
"I'm so sorry, Molly. I can only imagine what you are feeling." Evie clasped her hand, standing beside her and facing down the duke like a knight going into battle.
"Oh dear," Evie whispered, the words rushing from her the closer he came. "He is a marvelous specimen."
Molly's breath hitched, and a sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. She took a calming breath, needing to compose herself for the inevitable confrontation. She had not thought to see him again. Had thought he would stay in Rome as he said he would.
The Duke of Whitstone and Carlisle stepped in front of Molly and came to greet Hugh. Molly watched them, the genuine accord and friendship shone through all of their eyes. Betrayal coursed through her blood. How could they be friends with a man who had caused her family so much harm? Molly reminded herself that they did not know Laura was her cousin. A fact she would soon amend.
Worse still, how could she still love that very man?
Molly blinked back the burn of tears. She no longer loved him, to do so would be the veriest perfidy. The three dukes, the highest nobles of the realm before royalty, stood together, laughing and talking as if they had not spent the past ten years apart. All the while, Molly felt the scorch of Hugh's eyes on her. His gaze slid across her person, from her head to her toes and back again like a physical caress.
Her breasts felt heavy and large in her gown. With every breath, her bodice's silk rippled across her nipples that were already sensitive from the child she carried in her womb. She supposed she would have to tell him that she was enceinte. So many things they needed to discuss, to plan on how they would continue this marriage apart.
A shadow fell before her, and she took her attention off the dancers and met Hugh's stare head on. He picked up her gloved hand, never averting his attention before kissing her. "Duchess." The title slipped from his lips like a caress, a declaration of fact, and one from the measured tone of his voice he intended to keep as truth.
"Your Grace," she answered, glad that her voice didn't wobble like her knees beneath her gown. She dipped into a curtsy, allowing him to keep her hand in his as he came to stand beside her. Had he stopped her from leaving Rome, they could have had this conversation there, worked out the particulars of their union. But no, he had to choose the very first ball that she attended in London to have it out with her.
"I've missed you." The whisper of his words tickled her ear, and she fought not to shiver. How could she be tempted by such a man? A seducer of women, and one who would let them suffer the consequences of those erotic actions. "We need to talk." His hand shifted to wrap about her waist, his fingers taking a long time to settle on her hip.
"What if I do not want to talk to you?" Molly did not dare glance at him. To stare at such beauty would only end with her being blind to his actions. She needed more time to compose herself and prepare for their confrontation. They could not have it here, at the Whitstone's ball. That would never do.
The sounds of a waltz started to play, and couples hurried out onto the dancefloor. The duke clasped her hand, pulling her along with them. Molly followed, not wanting to make a scene. She smiled, looking to all the world as a woman who was gleefully happy her husband was going to dance with her. The truth could not be more opposed.