Chapter 53

"Beautiful lady, may I have this dance?"

The moment Baron spoke, the whispers around Freya quickly faded.

The noble ladies who had been covertly watching Baron clenched their teeth in silent frustration, both disheartened and irritated. They could not understand how a man of such refined elegance would choose a girl like Windsor—someone of questionable birth and no formal manners.

Windsor herself was startled, her small face turning pale at Baron's request. Surprise gave way to something closer to panic.

She had seen Baron the moment he entered the hall—his posture straight as a soldier's, every step courteous and measured, as though he were a knight reviewing troops. In an instant, every eye in the room—man and woman alike—had fixed upon him. He had been surrounded by alluring matrons and beautiful Old-Blood young ladies, while she had grown up on the Inside, never given a single proper lesson in court etiquette. Could someone like her really do this?

Instinct urged her to refuse, but Baron took her hand and led her toward the dance floor without waiting for an answer. She tried to speak, but he leaned closer and whispered, "To be honest, I'm terrible at dancing. After one look at the noble ladies here, I thought you might be the only one willing to teach me. I'm begging you—just play along."

Windsor stared at him in surprise, then glanced up to meet her father's gaze on the balcony. She bit her lip and finally tightened her grip on Baron's broad hand.

"I hope I don't step on your feet," the young man said.

Windsor gave a soft hum of agreement. By then Baron had already drawn her into the music, moving just as clumsily as he had warned. Several times he trod on the hem of her gown and the toes of her high heels; once or twice he even scuffed the gleaming boots and patent shoes of the dancers beside them.

Yet whenever someone looked ready to protest, their eyes flicked to the gold-thread pattern on Baron's sleeve and the complaint died unspoken. The men muttered that if one couldn't dance the least he could do was watch where he stepped; the women tucked stray locks behind their ears and offered—ever so gracefully—to teach him themselves. Baron declined every time, insisting that the young lady at his side was the finest instructor he could ever hope for.

He wasn't being polite. He meant it.

That afternoon Stella had summoned London's best ballroom masters—experts in tango, Latin, tap, and modern dance—to drill him intensively. Yet in Baron's honest opinion none of them could match Windsor.

Her steps were unhurried, her carriage graceful. In her white gown she spun like a daisy in full bloom, every movement poised, every turn light as air. She danced as though balancing on a wire above a cliff—precarious yet feather-soft, a bird gliding through empty sky.

At first the room's attention had fixed on Baron as the oddity; once the music began, the center of the floor became the girl in white.

High above, on the dais, Gold watched the whirling pair with a cold, displeased expression.

Andy swirled his wine, idly remarking, "So you really can't stand the sight of anyone from Westminster?"

"What a pointless question..."

"Then go down and have a little fun with him. He looks new to dancing—easy to trip up. With this crowd he won't dare make a scene."

Andy clapped his hands, and a voluptuous woman in generous attire stepped forward. "Kaysha, Black-Iron rank demon-hunter and the finest dance partner in London."

Kaysha slipped her arm through Gold's, her gaze lingering, cheeks flushed. "Do you tango?"

"Demon-hunters don't just tango—we dance on the edge of a blade."

Gold snorted, hooked an arm around her waist, and strode down the stairs.

...

At the buffet beyond the dance floor, Jack was still devouring everything in sight. His plate—piled with Boston lobster, escargot à la française, and Spanish ham—was on the verge of collapse. Nearby guests regarded him and the red-gowned girl beside him as if they were some strange species of wildlife.

Though the girl in the red dress ate with perfect poise, the quantity of braised trotters, sliced pork belly, duck, and steak disappearing between her dainty bites rivaled Jack's own.

"I'm Jack," he said, cheeks bulging with tuna sushi. "Still don't know your name, miss. Next time we should eat together again—give me your number?"

But the girl merely dabbed her lips. "What's his name?"

Jack wrestled with a crab leg. "Whose name?"

"The young man who was with you earlier—the one from Westminster."

"L... why, are you interested? Too late, I'm afraid. L's the darling of Westminster these days. I'm betting Secretary Stella's already set her cap for him—why else would she be tying his tie for him..."

Jack mumbled on, then glanced sideways and found the red-gowned girl gone. He scratched his head. Why did no one ever let him finish a sentence? Was he really that long-winded?

Grabbing another crab, he slipped into the ballroom. Moments later he returned, snagged a fresh lamb chop, and crept back inside, still chewing.

British cuisine was a crime against the stomach. After years of fish and chips with bread, Jack-Caesar-Napoleon-Hannibal-Bismarck-Tang refused to let opportunity slip through his fingers—or out of his belly.

...

"You're a wonderful dancer. Professional?" Baron asked.

"My father hired an instructor," Windsor murmured. "He didn't want me to embarrass the family at banquets, so I practiced hard."

"Looks like I'm the one embarrassing you," the young man teased.

Windsor smiled faintly. She lifted her eyes, saw her father nod from above, then lowered her gaze again.

As they moved together, Baron used the privacy of the dance to piece together the current state of House Constantine.

The family had no acting head—only a council of seven elders. These elders oversaw the clan's lands, ancestral rites, and tax affairs. Windsor's father was one of them.

He had brought his children to the ball both to demonstrate that House Constantine and House Lancelot remained on good terms and to show the wider world that the family had not declined in the absence of a true patriarch.

When Baron delicately asked about the legendary Baron Constantine, Windsor only shook her head and said she had never met him.

Finally Windsor gathered her courage and looked fully at the young man's face.

Just as the noble ladies around Freya had whispered, here was a youth whose very presence outshone mask and evening coat. His eyes—clear jade like spring water—met hers steadily.

Her cheeks grew warm. Either he was laughing at her, or... he liked her.

But Baron's voice cut through her thoughts. "Watch out."

He pulled her close, sweeping her out of the path of a powerful leg that sliced into the dance floor. The woman's long leg—taut beneath a clinging gown—drove in like a blade, her high heel carving a line that separated the pair from the rest of the dancers.

Windsor's heart still fluttered at being held so suddenly; she had not even sensed the danger—the kick had been aimed at her to begin with.

Baron looked up. A scantily clad, bewitching woman leaned against her partner's chest, drifting like a butterfly skimming a tree. Her gaze at Baron was equal parts challenge and flirtation.

The woman's partner smiled at Baron—thin, mocking, and cruel.

Handkerchiefs fluttered from the ladies along the floor as they greeted the man.

Gold Walter.

Baron committed the name to memory.

Gold lifted his chin toward Baron and the girl in his arms, then signaled the musicians. The tempo rose at once—not merely spirited now, but almost martial, as though the dancers were soldiers about to ride to war. Faces turned, puzzled, yet etiquette held: while the music played, the dance must go on.

Baron would have liked to leave the floor with Windsor, but his role—and Westminster's reputation—forbade retreat. His gaze lifted and found Freya watching from across the room.

So far, at least, everything was going according to plan.