Page 67 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
The words only rushed out because he had finally found something. It was definitely that, and nothing to do with promising to try to keep his walls lowered.
“What is this?” Eleanor turned in her chair.
Spencer’s eyes flicked to her robe, which was open loosely at the collar, revealing the chemise beneath. Her skin smelled like jasmine and honey, and he wanted to lean in closer. He wanted to press his nose to the length of her neck, to chase lines over her skin with his tongue and?—
“Spencer?” she prompted.
Heavens, his control wavered.
Forcing his attention back to the document, he spoke, “They move cargo—presumably the women—under a false label of medical supplies, but look. This is addressed to Lady H, and the address is not around here.”
Eleanor furrowed her brow as she thought, and Spencer found that he rather enjoyed watching those cogs in her mind turn.
He liked how openly she thought. He likedhowshe thought. She was not deft at keeping up facades, but she was when it came topiecing clues together, and he hated that he had shut her out for so long, battling his need to keep her safe.
Her mind was brilliant, honed during her years at the convent. The struggle for survival had certainly made her wits sharp.
“There was a Sister Henriette at St. Euphemia’s,” she began. “If the cargo has been sent from Belgrave, then my theory last night makes sense.”
“The women are moved through the convent, then,” Spencer concluded.
Eleanor nodded, her face pale. “I noticed… I noticed women who were there one day and gone the next, but… well, they merely told us they had repented. Nobody made friends there—not really. We were either too scared, too angry, or too helpless. Some were in denial that they would not be left there long enough to form friendships, thinking they were not needed, but friends in that place would have been useful.”
“It would have only been another loss,” Spencer said, wincing at how cold it sounded when he only wished to offer comfort.
Still, Eleanor nodded again. “You are right.”
She stood up. He didn’t step back, letting her move into his space. His hands rose, automatically anticipating a stumble, and he laughed under his breath. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed as if she knew.
“I believe Lord Belgrave will be present at the ball tonight.”
Her face shuttered at the revelation.
“I do not know for certain, but he has been absent during smaller gatherings, where he would have been easily spotted. I think he is afraid that with your new title, you have the power to expose him publiclyandwith my full support. However, the masquerade ball tonight will provide cover for him and any of his associates. You will not go unprotected.”
He did not know much of her manner was bravado and how much was confidence and assurance of her power, but she had a fierce look on her face that assured him she would get through the night.
She had endured far worse.
The ballroom at Livingston House was a sea of masks trained on Eleanor—masks that could be hiding Belgrave from sight until he was ready to reveal himself.
She navigated that sea, her husband a solid presence beside her, and felt as though she could handle whatever the night brought.
Elaborate disguises hid influential members of theton.Earls grinned behind lion masks, and ladies lifted their feathered adornments to their eyes, while others were fastened with silkties. Eleanor’s mask was thick without being obtrusive. It was streaked with silver, curling into a point between her eyes, while a bronze-colored ribbon kept it affixed to her face.
Next to her, Spencer’s fox mask was dramatic and striking, the color matching his hair. It hid most of his scar, but there was no mistaking how the scar tugged at his cheek and slashed down to his jaw.
Eleanor always thought it made him look darker, more wicked, though she had kept that observation to herself. It made his smile sharper, wielding danger in such an open way that people knew if they crossed him, he was more than capable of handling himself.
Eleanor still did not know exactly what he had handled.
Ladies fanned around her in their finery, enjoying the anonymity of the masquerade. The chandelier overhead cast dim light to create a mysterious atmosphere. She could swear that shadows danced between the guests, and she followed them with her eyes, making sure it was not her imagination.
Spencer’s voice was low at her ear. “I do not see Belgrave or Follet. Even with the masks, I do not see any hints of them. Not in attire or stature.”
The knowledge should have eased her nerves, but it did not.
She turned her face to him. “Me neither.”
