The Season’s Ball continued late into the night. Following the Duke’s shocking and highly romantic announcement, the entire ballroom was filled with a bright, buzzing energy. The orchestra played cheerful, sweeping music. The crystal glasses clinked together as the guests drank their sweet champagne.

Rowan became a very busy host. He had to accept the loud congratulations of dozens of older lords and passing ladies. Because of the large crowds, he was temporarily separated from his new fiancée. Delaney had been pulled away gently by Aunt Renee and Aunt Margery to discuss the urgent, rapid preparations for the wedding next week.

Rowan stood near the edge of the dance floor. He held a fresh glass of champagne in his hand. He watched the crowd, waiting patiently for his aunts to release Delaney so he could dance with her again.

From across the room, Lady Julia Moore watched him.

Lady Moore stood near a tall marble pillar, her eyes narrowed. Inside her chest, a cold, bitter anger was boiling. She had completely humiliated herself earlier by throwing herself at the Duke, only to be entirely ignored the moment Lady Kingsley walked down the stairs.

She watched the Duke standing alone. She saw a wicked, crafty opportunity. She knew she could not marry the Duke anymore, but she could certainly ruin his perfect, happy evening. She wanted to plant a small, ugly seed of doubt in the new bride’s mind.

Lady Moore opened her fan. She smoothed the front of her red silk dress. She put a sweet, perfectly innocent smile on her face and walked slowly across the crowded floor.

"Your Grace," Lady Moore said softly, stopping right beside him.

Rowan turned his head. His polite, aristocratic mask immediately returned to his handsome face. He offered a very short, crisp bow of his head.

"Lady Moore," Rowan replied, his voice completely flat and entirely formal.

Lady Moore fluttered her eyelashes. She looked up at him with a highly charming, perfectly practiced expression of admiration.

"I wanted to offer my most sincere congratulations on your betrothal," Lady Moore said smoothly, her voice sounding as sweet as honey. "Lady Kingsley is a very... fortunate woman."

Rowan did not miss the slight, sharp pause in her sentence. He knew exactly what she was doing.

"Thank you," Rowan replied simply. He did not encourage the conversation. He looked away, searching the crowd for Delaney.

Lady Moore took a tiny step closer. She entered his personal space, breaking the strict, polite rules of society.

"The music is playing a very lovely waltz, Your Grace," Lady Moore suggested softly, tilting her head. "Perhaps you would do me the honor of a single dance? Just as friends, of course, to celebrate your good news."

Rowan looked down at her. His eyes were completely cold and unyielding.

"I must politely decline, Lady Moore," Rowan refused her firmly. His deep voice carried absolute authority. "I only dance with my betrothed. If you wish to dance, I am sure there are many other gentlemen available."

It was a sharp, clear rejection. Lady Moore felt her cheeks burn with hot embarrassment. But she was a very crafty woman. She did not walk away angry. She saw her chance.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lady Moore saw Delaney walking through the crowd, heading directly toward them.

Lady Moore moved with sudden, calculated speed. She pretended to take a step backward, but she deliberately twisted her ankle in her soft dancing shoes.

"Oh!" Lady Moore cried out softly.

She let her knees buckle. She dropped her fan onto the floor and stumbled forward directly into the Duke’s chest. She threw her hands out, grabbing tightly onto the lapels of Rowan’s dark evening coat to stop herself from falling.

By pure, gentlemanly instinct, Rowan reached out his hands. He grabbed her arms firmly to keep the lady from falling onto the hard marble floor.

Because he was holding her arms, and she was gripping his coat tightly, they were suddenly standing incredibly close together.

Lady Moore leaned her face very close to his neck, her hair brushing against his white cravat. She looked exactly as if she were whispering an intimate, romantic secret directly into his ear.

It was an entirely compromising position.

Just ten feet away, Delaney stopped walking completely.

She had just managed to escape her aunts. She was walking toward Rowan with a bright, happy smile on her face. But when she saw the scene before her, her smile vanished instantly.

She saw the beautiful lady pressed closely against Rowan’s chest. She saw the woman’s hands gripping his coat. She saw Rowan holding the woman’s arms.

A sudden, hot, sharp spark of intense anger ignited directly in Delaney’s chest. It was a completely new feeling. For twenty years, she had only felt fear and sadness. Now, she felt pure, burning jealousy.

Delaney got angry.

Her hazel eyes narrowed into sharp, deadly little slits. Her delicate jaw locked tightly. She held her own white silk fan in her hands, and she squeezed the wooden handle so hard her knuckles turned completely white. She looked exactly like an angry kitten preparing to scratch that pretty face.

Delaney took a deep, steadying breath. She lifted her chin high. She marched directly toward them, her silver silk skirts swishing loudly over the floor.

Rowan quickly pushed Lady Moore backward, stepping away from her immediately. He let go of her arms as if her silk dress were made of burning fire.

"Are you alright, my lady?" Rowan asked loudly, ensuring everyone nearby knew it was an accident.

"Yes, thank you for catching me," Lady Moore replied softly, stepping back and brushing her skirts.

"Am I interrupting something, Your Grace?"

Delaney’s voice cut through the air exactly like a sharp knife.

Rowan turned around quickly. He saw Delaney standing there. He immediately noticed the dark, dangerous storm brewing in her eyes. He noticed her tight jaw and her white-knuckled grip on her fan.

Rowan felt a sudden spike of panic, mixed with a highly strange sense of deep amusement. She was jealous. The realization made his heart skip a happy beat, but he knew he was in terrible trouble.

"Not at all, my darling," Rowan said quickly, taking a step toward Delaney. "Lady Moore simply lost her footing. She stumbled."

Delaney did not look at Rowan. She turned her sharp gaze entirely onto Lady Moore. Delaney offered a very tight, completely fake, overly polite smile that did not reach her eyes at all.

"How terribly unfortunate," Delaney said smoothly, her voice completely icy. "The marble floors can be very slippery, Lady Moore. Perhaps you should sit down for the rest of the evening, before you accidentally fall into another gentleman’s arms."

Lady Moore’s fake smile faltered. She saw the confidence in the new heiress’s eyes. Delaney was not a weak girl she could easily bully.

Lady Moore picked up her fallen fan from the floor. She offered a quick, stiff curtsy.

"Thank you for your concern, Lady Kingsley," Lady Moore replied, her voice tight. "I believe I will find some fresh air."

Lady Moore turned around and walked quickly away, disappearing entirely into the large crowd.

Rowan let out a quiet breath of relief. He turned back to Delaney. He offered her a warm, highly apologetic smile. He reached his hand out to gently touch her arm.

"Delaney, I promise you—" Rowan began to explain.

Delaney took a smooth, deliberate step backward, completely avoiding his touch.

"Please excuse me, Your Grace," Delaney interrupted him softly, her voice still completely cool and dangerously polite. "My aunt is calling for me. I must go."

She did not wait for his answer. She turned around sharply, her silver skirts snapping against his legs, and walked away.

Rowan stood completely alone on the edge of the dance floor. He watched her walk away, realizing that Lady Moore had entirely succeeded in ruining their perfect night.