But Hyacinth’s gaze had fixed on something—or rather someone—across the ballroom, and her expression had shifted into that particular blend of fascination and disapproval that London society reserved exclusively for its most notorious figures.
“The Duke of Blackmere has just arrived.”
The announcement rippled through the assembled guests like wind moving across water—a sudden, palpable shift in attention, in energy, in the very quality of the air itself. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Heads turned with barely concealed eagerness or extensively maintained disdain, depending on the observer. Young ladies straightened their postures and checked their appearance whilst their mothers’ expressions ranged from calculating interest to scandalised horror.
Penelope did not need to look. She had witnessed this exact spectacle enough times over the past two years to know exactly what was transpiring.
Alastair Reed, Duke of Blackmere, had deigned to grace them with his presence. London’s most notorious rake, scandal’s absolute favourite son, the man who had made a veritable art form of disappointing every expectation placed upon him whilst somehow managing to remain perpetually sought after by society’s hostesses and their unmarried daughters alike.
Her brother-in-law’s closest friend. Her sister Caroline’s most frequent and frankly tiresome dinner guest. The man who had been repeatedly inflicted upon Penelope at countless social gatherings over the past two years, always with that insufferable smirk and those clever eyes that seemed to find amusement in absolutely everything.
She had rather hoped he would not attend tonight.
Apparently hope was worth precisely nothing.
Against every instinct screaming at her to maintain her carefully cultivated disinterest, Penelope turned her head. Just enough to confirm what she already knew with absolute certainty.
There he stood at the ballroom entrance, pausing with the sort of careless, bone-deep confidence that could only come from being far too wealthy, far too titled, and far too bloody aware of both facts. Dark hair slightly dishevelled despite what had clearly been deliberate attempts at proper grooming. Evening clothes tailored to absolute perfection yet somehow worn with studied casualness, as though he could not quite be bothered to care how he appeared. And that face—classically handsome in a way that would have been insufferable even without the perpetualexpression of sardonic amusement, as though the entirety of London society existed purely for his entertainment.
He surveyed the ballroom with the lazy assessment of a general contemplating a battlefield he had already conquered. Penelope watched—with a sort of horrified fascination she would never admit to—as at least three young ladies went visibly weak at the knees merely from being in his general vicinity.
Utterly ridiculous. The man was a walking scandal. A libertine. A rake of the absolute worst sort, the kind who made no pretence whatsoever of propriety or responsibility.
His gaze swept across the assembled company with visible calculation, cataloguing and dismissing options with each pass. Then, with what seemed like grim inevitability, it found her.
Recognition sparked in his eyes. One dark brow lifted in acknowledgement, and his mouth curved into that familiar, absolutely infuriating half-smile—the precise expression that suggested he knew exactly how irritating he was and considered it a personal triumph.
Penelope’s eyes rolled skyward entirely of their own volition, beyond any conscious control.
Heaven help her. It was going to be a very long evening indeed.
CHAPTER 2
“Lady Pembridge, you look absolutely radiant this evening.”
Alastair Reed delivered the compliment with practiced ease, watching the elderly matron’s expression soften from suspicious disapproval into something approaching maternal indulgence. It was a minor victory, perhaps, but victories were victories nonetheless, and he had learnt long ago that charm deployed strategically could accomplish what rank alone could not.
“Your Grace,” she replied, her tone still carrying a note of censure despite the flush of pleasure colouring her cheeks. “I must say, we had not anticipated your attendance this evening. The Bancroft ball is typically considered rather… respectable.”
“How utterly devastating for everyone involved.” He offered his most disarming smile, the one that had extracted him from countless uncomfortable situations over the years. “I do hope my presence has not irreparably damaged the event’s sterling reputation.”
Lady Pembridge’s lips twitched despite her obvious determination to maintain disapproval. “You are incorrigible, sir.”
“So I have been told. Repeatedly. With great conviction.” He executed a shallow bow, already scanning the room beyond her considerable frame. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I believe I see someone requiring my special brand of incorrigibility.”
He moved away before she could formulate a response, slipping through the assembled guests with the ease of long practice.
Around him, the opulence glittered and ladies giggled. Alastair observed it all with the detached amusement of a man who had no intention whatsoever of being captured.
The attention followed him as he walked, palpable as a physical touch. He felt it in the sudden hush of nearby conversations, the sideways glances hastily disguised as casual observation, the way young ladies straightened their postures and adjusted their gowns as he passed. The matrons’ expressions ranged from calculating interest to scandalised horror, often cycling through both in rapid succession.
He rather enjoyed it, if he were being honest. The notoriety, the whispers, the delicious certainty that his mere presence could shift the entire tenor of an evening. It was power of a sort, and power—even the frivolous kind—had its uses.
His gaze swept the ballroom with deliberate leisure, cataloguing faces and dismissing them just as quickly. Lord Waverly holdingcourt near the card room, likely already three drinks past proper. The Brightmore sisters positioned near the orchestra, practically vibrating with eagerness. Lady Huntington watching him with an expression that promised complications he had no interest in entertaining tonight.
Then his attention snagged on something far more interesting than any of society’s usual offerings.
Miss Penelope Hartwell stood at the refreshment table, her posture perfectly erect, her expression neutral, her entire demeanour radiating precisely the sort of studied disinterest that Alastair had learnt to recognize as its own form of fascination.