Page 1 of Duke of Diamonds
CHAPTER 1
“Hester, do lower your chin, you are beginning to resemble a curious giraffe,” Lady Fiona Pierce said, her voice dipped in amusement as she leaned slightly toward her friend.
Lady Hester Jensen, daughter to the Earl of Hightower, ignored the playful reprimand and continued to peer rather blatantly about the crowded ballroom, her fan held aloft but serving little purpose save as a prop to cover her roving eyes.
“I have it on good authority that the Duke of Craton is in attendance,” she whispered, the words spilling from her lips with breathless eagerness.
Fiona blinked. “The Duke of Craton?” she repeated, uncertain she had heard correctly. The name pulled at something faintly familiar, though no clear image presented itself in her mind.
“He is here?” asked Lady Nancy Gallagher, the third of their little trio and daughter of the Duke of Neads. Her posture straightened at once as she too joined the search, her expression less desperate than Hester’s, but no less intrigued.
Fiona turned toward the ballroom’s entrance, scanning the gilded archways and the press of elegantly clad lords and ladies. Chandeliers blazed overhead, spilling golden light across the marbled floor, but no looming figure resembling a duke—beastly or otherwise—presented itself.
“I do not see him,” Nancy murmured, standing on the tips of her slippers for a moment before settling back.
“My heavens, Fiona, have you never heard of the Beast of Mayfair?” Hester asked, her tone lowered dramatically, as though she feared being overheard.
Fiona’s brows lifted. “Beast of Mayfair?” she echoed, faintly incredulous.
“He is so called,” Hester continued, nodding solemnly. “It is the name society has bestowed upon him, and I daresay he has done little to dispel it.”
“Do not expect Fiona to know anything of Craton,” Nancy said with a soft laugh. “He’s shown himself so rarely in society that half the ton believes him to be a myth.”
Fiona tilted her head, more intrigued than she wished to appear. “Why does he bear such a moniker?”
“Do you know the great, brooding mansion on Mayfair’s far end—the one shrouded in ivy and more shadow than light?” Hester asked, leaning closer.
Fiona’s eyes widened slightly. “You cannot meanthathouse? I always thought it quite abandoned. I have never seen so much as a flicker of candlelight through those windows.”
“Indeed, that is his residence,” Hester confirmed, eyes bright. “They say he abhors social gatherings, that he prowls the edges of society like a ghost, scowling at anyone who dares approach. Some claim he does not even speak unless he must, and then only to insult.”
“Hence his reputation as the Beast of Mayfair,” Fiona mused aloud, her lips curving despite herself.
Nancy, ever the voice of reason, gave a delicate shrug. “Let us not build castles from whispers. These are tales, Hester. Gossip dressed in velvet and lace. None of us truly knows the man.”
“You make it sound as though we are sitting in judgment,” Hester huffed, snapping open her fan with a brisk flick.
“You are,” Nancy replied coolly, “Fiona is merely listening to your tales with admirable patience.”
Fiona allowed a small, bemused smile to form, though she kept her expression serene. Her heart beat just a touch faster, a curious rhythm tapping at the edge of her calm.The Beast of Mayfair… How very dramatic. And yet, why does the thought stir such interest?
“You are positively no fun when it comes to gossip, Nancy,” Hester grumbled, folding her arms with the petulance of a child denied her favorite sweet.
Fiona let out a soft chuckle despite herself, and beside her, Nancy allowed a small, amused shake of her head.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Nancy replied smoothly.
Their laughter mingled lightly with the music, but the sound was swiftly swallowed by a sudden shift in the air—an almost tangible murmur that rippled across the ballroom like wind sweeping through a field of reeds. Conversations faltered. Fans stilled. Heads turned in one collective motion.
“What on earth—?” Fiona began, only to trail off as her gaze followed the source of the disturbance.
The crowd near the entrance was parting, guests stepping aside with practiced grace, but their eyes were wide, their expressions a mix of curiosity and hesitation. Through the opening, a figure emerged.
Fiona’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.
He moved with the assurance of someone entirely unaffected by the attention he garnered. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black that suited his frame far too well, the Duke of Craton possessed an air of cold command that seemed to darken the very light around him. His presence was not loud—it was silent and thunderous all at once.
His dark hair curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, and though his face bore no expression, there was something in the line of his jaw, in the sharpness of his brow, that held the attention like a blade pressed to the skin.
