a bloody Viking, standing against the far wall with his arms crossed, his powerfully masculine form a contrast to the dandified gentlemen surrounding him. Spectacularly dressed in dark evening wear, expensively cut and tailored to fit him like a second skin, Haddon was drawing every feminine eye in the Cambourne ballroom.
And why would he not? Marissa took in the stretch of his coat across his broad shoulders, admiring the flex of muscles beneath the fabric. Haddon needed no padding, as some gentlemen were wont to use, in order to cut such a fine form. Marissa had traced the lines of all that beautiful sinew with her own fingertips and could testify to the fact.
A delicate shiver tickled her skin.
Marissa had been on the receiving end of Haddon’s attentions, and despite her determination to put him from her mind, relived every second with pathetic regularity. It was really rather sad. She hadn’t taken a lover since returning from her visit to the Peak District. Not since Haddon.
He looks smashing.
They hadn’t spoken since that fateful day at Brushbriar, when Brendan had stormed into her room and informed her his father had been murdered by their hosts. Marissa had fled the estate after dressing, barely pausing to inform Brushbriar’s startled butler she’d send for her things. The news of Reggie, the absolute rage filling Marissa at the duplicity of John and Lydia, had managed to blot out everything else.
Even Haddon.
She’d felt guilt over not speaking to him again, not even to tell him goodbye. But at the time, Marissa hadn’t been capable of coherent thought. He’d written her, asking to call. But she’d ignored his letters, telling herself it was best they not continue their relationship.
It was not a relationship. It was a dalliance.
Marissa had only stayed in the Peak District long enough to arrange a quiet burial for Reggie. The tears she’d cried as he was laid to rest were full of more anger than grief. Her husband had been killed by his best friend. Not a unique tragedy, she supposed, but one she intended to avenge. She’d left as soon as Brendan had wed Petra.
Her eyes strayed to the angelic-looking young lady hovering at Haddon’s elbow, adoration shining from her pretty features as she gazed up at him.
Lady Christina Sykes, daughter of the Marquess of Stanton. Lady Christina was speaking to Haddon, her hands fluttering delicately as she sought to retain his attention. His dark head tilted in the direction of her shining gold coiffure, giving the appearance he was hanging on her every word.
Marissa had her doubts. Nothing Christina Sykes had ever said was of the least import.
Haddon chose that moment to look up, silver eyes flashing at Marissa from across the ballroom as he caught sight of her. A small frown appeared on his beautiful lips.
“Oh my.” Adelia raised a brow, looking askance at Marissa. “You know him.”
“Not well,” she lied smoothly, wondering what Haddon was thinking. Warmth crept up her body the longer he watched her, as if she were sinking into a warm bath.
Adelia snorted in disbelief. “Really?”
“Don’t make such a sound, Adelia. It’s reminiscent of a pig.” She ignored the quiet hiss of outrage from her friend, unable to tear her gaze from Haddon’s. The attraction between them, the one she so desperately wished to ignore, sparked sharply to life. The flame snaked through the crowd of well-dressed society to embrace Marissa, just as it had during the house party at Brushbriar. She’d spent months telling herself they’d been drawn to each other only out of boredom.
How very wrong she’d been.
“I made his acquaintance while visiting Brendan this past summer,” she heard herself say to Adelia. “At a house party, of all things. A rather dull one.” Her pulse fluttered madly as Haddon excused himself from Lady Christina Sykes and strode purposefully in Marissa’s direction, stalking toward her as a hunter does its prey.
Oh, dear.
Lady Christina pouted dramatically at Haddon’s departure, which made her even more exquisitely beautiful. Like a hothouse rose.
“Naughty girl. Taking up with a gentleman like that,” Adelia murmured. “And not telling me. Here I was, growing concerned that you seem to prefer solitude or worse, that you only desire to surround yourself with bland, decrepit things like Enderly. Haddon shows much more promise.”
“Enderly is far from decrepit.” Enderly was a lovely older gentleman whose acquaintance Marissa had made upon returning to London. His interests were in politics and politicians, and he was particularly enamored with Viscount Pendleton. Marissa was marginally attracted to