Chapter 11: Not Her

Ravielle didn't breathe.

She couldn't have if she'd wanted to.

He was everywhere, his chest flat against hers, his hands braced on the plaster on either side of her head.

The heat of him came straight through the duchess's silly lavender silk.

The boots reached the top of the stair.

Through the gap at the edge of the curtain she saw lamplight swing past.

"Back rooms," the voice said. "Look under the tables if you have to."

They went by an arm's length from the alcove.

One of them was whistling through his teeth.

Kyrian didn't move.

She could feel his heart going, hard and slow, against her breast.

And she could feel the rest of him, too, pressed against her hip, and getting harder the longer they stood there.

She turned her head a fraction, until her mouth was at his jaw.

"Your Grace," she breathed. "I'm shocked."

"Be quiet."

"You started it. You put your knee there."

"Ravielle."

It was the first time he'd said her name without a title in front of it.

It went down her spine.

The whistling faded into the long room.

Kyrian pulled the curtain back an inch, looked, and then took her wrist and dragged her down the stair at a run.

A plain black carriage stood at the end of it with no crest on the door.

He put her in it, got in after her and rapped on the roof, and the wheels lurched into motion before he'd even sat down.

Ravielle pushed her mask up into her hair.

Her hands were shaking, and it wasn't from fear.

"You followed me."

"You went to the worst gaming house in the city in the duchess's domino. Half the room knew you by your walk."

"So you sat at my table."

"Somebody had to keep you from losing your stake."

"I've never lost a stake in my life."

"You lost one on our last Thursday," he said. "To me."

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