Page 112

“Polite.” He exhaled a low chuckle that vibrated through me. “Is that what you want, Lily? Polite?”

No. God help me, no.

“What I want,” I said carefully, “is to not be commanded around like property.”

“Would you have preferred I let him keep touching you?”

I stopped, because we both knew the man's hand had drifted lower than appropriate. I'd been about to extract myself when August appeared.

“What are we doing?” The question escaped before I could stop it.

His expression shifted—something vulnerable flickering across his features. “I don't know,” he admitted quietly. “But I know I couldn't watch him touch you for another second.”

My breath caught. “And what about tomorrow?” I whispered. “What happens when the dance ends?”

“I don't know that either.” His hand flexed against my back. “I just know that right now, you're exactly where I want you.”

“I don't trust you.”

“Good.” His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. “I don't trust myself around you.”

The waltz ended, and for a moment neither of us moved. Then August's hand slid from my waist, and he offered his arm. “Let me escort you back.”

I hesitated, then placed my fingers in the crook of his elbow.

He guided me through the crowd back toward our table where Adeline sat watching us with barely concealed amusement. August pulled out my chair, his hand lingering briefly on my shoulder before he stepped back.

“I need to speak with someone,” he said, his tone suddenly distant, controlled. “I'll return shortly.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I watched him disappear into the crowd, confusion twisting in my stomach. Then I saw where he was headed.

Constance Sterling stood near the edge of the ballroom, her red dress perfectly tailored, her dark hair swept up elegantly. She smiled as August approached—the kind of smile that spoke of familiarity, of history. Of intimacy.

“Business, not pleasure,” Adeline murmured beside me.

I glanced at her. “What?”

“Constance.” She took a sip of wine.

“She has connections. Information. August uses her when he needs to know what the prominent families are saying.” That shouldn't have made me feel better. But it did.

Garrick scooted his seat closer to mine. “Enjoying the show?”

I'd written a paper once on the performative nature of Victorian dining rituals—how the placement of a fish fork could communicate class anxiety more efficiently than a hundred words. Now I was living inside my own footnotes.

“What show?” I asked.

“All of it.” He gestured vaguely at the ballroom. “Though I'd wager August's father is enjoying it most of all.”

A chill ran down my spine. “What do you mean?”

“Elias Hawthorne doesn't attend social events for pleasure.” Garrick's expression turned serious.

The name hit me like ice water. Elias. Elias Hawthorne.

My breath caught as fragments slammed together—Elowen the Weaver, the one who had unintentionally created this mess. Created the Unraveler. The man who'd turned her death into a reason to kill a whole group of women.