saw the Duke of Warnick’s gaze light on the entrance to the room, and caught a glimpse of the duchess’s red hair rising and falling, as though the woman were going to her toes to see, as well.
Hattie wouldn’t have to go up on her toes. A whisper of air came at the back of her neck—a breeze from outside, nothing more. Still, she turned, slowly, knowing who would be there, even as she should have no earthly idea. Even as she could not fathom how it was possible that a king of London’s shadows had found his way here—to the bright lights of a Mayfair ballroom.
For a moment, it seemed he was a king, standing at the top of the steps, impeccably dressed, impossibly handsome, like he’d been left there by divine right.
But royalty would have no interest in a too-plain, too-large, too-old spinster, as lost as such a woman could be in the assembly. And this man was staring directly at her.
Hattie went cold, then blazing hot, willing him to look away from her, because she couldn’t seem to find the willpower to do it herself. How had he even found her in the crush of bodies? She supposed she stood several inches above most of the guests—she was not a person easily disappeared in a room. But that did not mean that he should be able to find her so easily.
And it did not mean he had permission to look at her in such a way—the kind of way that made her remember precisely what it was to have him look at her when they were far from society. Alone. In a tavern. Or a brothel.
Her cheeks flamed as heads turned around them, attempting to follow his gaze, to discover its target.
Several people craned to see past Hattie, over her, around her. Not so Nora. If the smirk on her friend’s lips was any indication, Nora was fully aware of the direction of Beast’s attention.
Not Beast.
Saviour Whittington.
Whit.
It had been a name.
She’d asked him to tell her his name, and he’d done so. Whit. But now, more than that. Now, she knew the whole of it. Saviour Whittington. No title, but he looked as though he’d simply left it at home, in the pocket of another coat, exchanged for the one he wore tonight—dark and perfectly tailored, with a bright white cravat and a beautiful face and, somehow, with an invitation to a ducal ball—which no person who called himself Beast should have access to.
“Who is he?” The words were out of her mouth before she could catch them.
“Do you not remember?” Nora asked, teasing at her elbow as he descended the steps and the room came alive again. Hattie spun on her heel and pushed her way deeper into the crowd. Nora followed, impossible to lose. Clarifying—as though it were required—“From Covent Garden?” Another pause. “From the tavern?”
Hattie’s reply was barely recognizable as anything but a strangled, “Shut up, Nora.”
Nora did not shut up. “He looks even better in light, Hat.”
He looked beautiful in the light. He looked beautiful all the time. Hattie refrained from saying such a thing.
“I told you the duchess always has interesting guests,” Nora said smugly.
Hattie ducked her head and kept going, weaving through revelers, eager to get to the far side of the room, champagne suddenly feeling far more urgent. Once at the refreshment table, glass in hand, she drank deep.
Nora watched carefully, then said, “You’re slouching.”
“I’m too tall.”
“Nonsense,” Nora said. “You’re the perfect height. Everyone loves an Amazon.”
Hattie slid her a look. “No one loves an Amazon.”
“Seems like Mr. Whittington doesn’t have much of an aversion to them.” Nora grinned. “Especially since he’s here for you.”
He called me a warrior. Well. She wasn’t going to tell Nora that, as she’d never hear the end of it. She settled on, “He is not here for me.”
“Hattie. That man has never set foot in a Mayfair ballroom before.”
“You don’t know that.”
Her friend cut her a look. “You honestly believe a man like that could casually attend society events and the mothers of London wouldn’t find it worthy of gossip? Filthy, wonderful gossip? My Lord, Hattie, we had to sit through six hours of listening to Lady Beaufetheringstone regaling us with which waistcoat colors were worn by the unmarried gentlemen of the season the last time we were forced to tea with her.”
“It wasn’t six hours.”
“Wasn’t it? It felt like sixty.” Nora drank. “Point is, Hattie, that man has never been in society, and