Too Bruised to Stand, She Collapsed at the Ballroom—Until a Duke’s Gentle Hands Changed Her Fate
Chapter 1
The first thing Lady Eleanor Vale heard was the crack of a wineglass beneath her shoe.
The second was the whisper behind her.
“She cannot possibly remain standing.”
Eleanor tightened her fingers around the edge of the marble table.
Her knuckles had gone white beneath the lace of her glove.
Hundreds of candles burned beneath the gilded ceiling of Ashcombe Hall, their flames reflected in tall mirrors and polished silver. Musicians played a lively country dance from the gallery, while ladies in silk gowns turned beneath crystal chandeliers and gentlemen in powdered wigs bowed and laughed.
Everything was beautiful.
Everything except Eleanor.
Her left cheek was hidden beneath a layer of carefully applied powder, but beneath it was a dark bruise. Another mark disappeared beneath the high neckline of her ivory silk gown. Her right wrist ached beneath her glove.
She had spent two hours pretending nothing was wrong.
She had smiled when spoken to.
She had curtsied when required.
She had danced one country set because her aunt insisted.
And now her legs were beginning to tremble.
She had not eaten since morning.
Her uncle had warned her before they left their estate.
“You will not embarrass this family tonight.”
Eleanor had understood what he meant.
Do not speak of the bruises.
Do not mention the locked room.
Do not tell anyone why you had fallen down the stairs.
Do not tell anyone that the stairs had not been an accident.
So she stood beside the ballroom table, holding herself upright while the room slowly blurred around her.
Across the ballroom, a man in a black coat watched her.
He was not laughing.
He was not dancing.
He stood apart from the other gentlemen, one hand resting lightly upon the head of a silver-topped cane.
The Duke of Ravensmere.
Lord Julian Ashford.
Eleanor had heard his name many times.
Every young lady in London had heard it.
He was said to be cold.
Proud.
Difficult.
A man who had refused three advantageous marriages.
A duke who rarely attended London assemblies and almost never permitted anyone to see behind his reserve.
But what Eleanor noticed was not his title.
It was his eyes.
They had fixed upon her hand.
The glove had shifted.
Just enough to reveal the purple mark around her wrist.
Julian’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
Then Eleanor’s knees gave way.
The musicians continued playing.
A lady screamed.
Someone laughed nervously.
Eleanor struck the marble floor before anyone could catch her.
And the last thing she saw before darkness took her was the Duke of Ravensmere crossing the ballroom with an urgency no one had ever expected from him.
