Candice had sworn solemnly to herself that she would not dance more than twice.
By the third dance, she had already broken that promise.
The ballroom was warm, shimmering with candlelight, silk and satin brushing past one another in a blur of colour and polite smiles.
Candice lingered at the edge of the floor, fanning herself with a midnight-blue fan edged in silver, when the music shifted, slower, deeper, deliberate.
A hand appeared at her side.
"May I claim this dance, my lady?"
The voice was calm. Deep. Measured.
Candice turned.
The man before her was dressed in black from throat to boot, silver designs at his cuffs and vest. A silver mask hid the upper half of his face, smooth and unreadable, leaving only his mouth visible, firm, unsmiling, far too serious for a ball.
She did not recoil. She only blinked.
"I do not know your name."
"Cassius."
She tilted her head. "Only one name?"
"It has always sufficed."
Candice smiled faintly. "Then you may call me Candice. We are now evenly matched."
He bowed. "Shall we?"
As he led her onto the floor, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Conversations faltered. Eyes followed them. A masked man was always noticed, and rarely welcomed.
Cassius's hand rested lightly at her waist, guiding her with effortless precision. Not commanding. Not correcting. Anticipating.
"You dance as though you have done this countless times," she said lightly.
"I have," he replied. "And you… as though you have never feared a mistake."
She laughed, breath catching. "That is unkindly accurate."
The music swelled. They turned. Her skirts brushed his boots.
"You wear a mask," she said.
"Yes."
"Fashion or preference?"
"Necessity."
Candice considered this. "That seems… inconvenient."
"It is fatal to ignore."
She glanced at him. "You are not much for small talk."
"I find it a waste of time."
Her smile softened, slower now. "Then why dance with me?"
"You seemed… unclaimed," he said carefully.
Candice raised a brow. "A dangerous assumption."
"I am accustomed to danger."
The dance ended far too soon.
As they separated, Candice felt the absence of his hand like a sudden chill. She curtsied; he bowed lower than necessary.
"Will you dance again?" she asked, surprising herself.
Cassius stepped back into the shadows. "I should not."
"That," Candice said, "is not an answer."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Then allow me to disappoint you."
He vanished into the crowd, leaving nothing but whispers and the echo of a certainty she could not yet name.
Candice stood still long after the next set began.
Miss Harcourt appeared at her side. "Who was that?"
Candice shook her head slowly. "I do not know."
But somewhere across the room, hidden behind silver and shadow, Cassius Deveraux had already decided: she would be the last woman he risked so soon. Little did he know she was already promised to him.
Candice had barely begun to wonder if the masked man might truly vanish forever when another hand appeared at her side.
"May I claim the next dance, my lady?"
This voice was older, smoother, practised, the confidence of a man used to being obeyed.
Candice turned.
The gentleman before her was impeccably dressed. His hair was touched with silver at the temples, his smile warm, safe, entirely unremarkable—the sort of man no mother would object to and no daughter would notice… until now.
She hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his.
"Of course," she said. "Though I fear I am nearly worn out."
"Nonsense," he replied pleasantly. "A young lady is never worn out, only momentarily distracted."
As they moved into the dance, Candice felt rather than saw Miss Harcourt stiffen at the edge of the floor.
Her governess's hand gripped her reticule. Her color drained.
Miss Harcourt knew that man.
She had not seen him in over twenty years, yet the memory of him was vivid—the posture, the measured charm, the tilt of his head as though the world had always made space for him.
Her breath caught painfully. No. Not now. Not here.
On the floor, Candice smiled politely. "You dance well, sir."
"I have had much practice," he said. "Though not recently."
They moved easily, his hand steady, his gaze attentive without being intimate. Candice felt… oddly at ease.
"You are new to town?" she asked.
"In a manner of speaking," he replied. "I have returned to observe."
"Observe what?"
"You."
The word landed heavier than she expected.
Candice laughed lightly. "I fear you will be disappointed."
"On the contrary," he said softly. "You are exactly as I imagined."
Miss Harcourt's vision blurred.
Exactly as I imagined.
She watched them beneath the chandeliers, Candice's expression open, curious, unguarded with the same tilt her mother had once had. The same tilt he had once admired.
Her knees weakened.
"Miss Harcourt?" a lady murmured beside her. "Are you quite well?"
Miss Harcourt did not answer. She could not take her eyes off the dance floor.
The man leaned closer to Candice. "Tell me, my dear—were you raised nearby?"
"No," Candice replied. "I grew up in the country."
"With a mother?" he asked gently.
"Yes."
"And a father?"
Candice faltered slightly. "No."
His grip tightened, but enough to make her notice.
"I see," he said.
Miss Harcourt closed her eyes, remembering a winter, a carriage leaving in the night, a promise never kept.
On the floor, Candice smiled again, unaware. "May I ask your name, sir?"
He hesitated. "Call me Edmund."
Miss Harcourt's breath left her entirely.
Edmund Whitcombe. The Baron of Arlington.
The music swelled. The dance drew to its close.
He bowed deeply to Candice. "It has been an honor, my lady. I hope we shall speak again."
Candice curtsied. "I should like that."
As he withdrew, his gaze lifted, not to Candice, but past her. Straight to Miss Harcourt.
Their eyes met. Recognition passed like a blade.
His smile faltered. Miss Harcourt's hand trembled.
The gentleman inclined his head, once, respectfully, and disappeared into the crowd.
Candice frowned. "Miss Harcourt? You look quite pale."
Miss Harcourt forced herself to breathe, to stand, to smile. "It is nothing," she said too quickly. "The room is warm."
But her heart pounded with the terrible realization: Candice had danced with her father.
And somewhere else, in the shadows, the masked man had just lost control of the board entirely, realising that the young lady was the baron's daughter.