Dear Readers, this novel is intended for adults only (18+). Within these pages, you will discover passion, power, and desire woven into a bold tale that is not suitable for younger audiences. Enter with an open heart and daring spirit—this story will tempt, challenge, and captivate you…

Author ✍️

The Ball at Ashcroft Manor

The chandeliers of Ashcroft Manor glittered like a thousand captured stars, their brilliance reflecting off polished marble floors and gilt-framed mirrors. Lady Evelina Ashcroft stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, her gown of deep emerald silk clinging to her figure with scandalous elegance. Every head turned when she entered, though she pretended not to notice; the ton loved to whisper about her sharp tongue and refusal to bow to convention.

But it was not the gossip of society that unsettled her tonight. It was him.

Damian Hawthorne, Duke of Ravenscroft, stood near the far wall, a predator at ease in his lair. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair falling just untamed enough to tempt fingers, he cut a striking figure in black. Whispers surrounded him—rumors of duels fought, women ruined, a heart too cold to love. Evelina had sworn never to be caught in his orbit. And yet, the moment his gaze found hers across the ballroom, she felt it like a touch against her skin.

Her pulse quickened. He did not look away.

When the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz, she had no time to protest before he moved through the crowd like a shadow. Ladies flushed and gentlemen stiffened as the Duke approached her, every step calculated, every eye following. He stopped before her, bowing just enough to satisfy propriety, though the heat in his gaze suggested nothing proper at all.

“Lady Evelina,” his voice was smooth velvet, “you will grant me this dance.”

It was not a question. And though she should have refused, her gloved hand slid into his, betraying her.

He led her onto the floor, his hand firm at her waist, the other enclosing hers with a strength that brooked no escape. The music swelled, and they moved together, her body swaying in time with his, though she felt more prisoner than partner. His grip was commanding, his presence overwhelming, his eyes fixed on her lips as though he meant to devour them right there under the chandeliers.

“You should not look at me so,” she whispered, her breath trembling against his jaw as he spun her.

“And yet you do not look away,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of her waist where silk met flesh.

The touch burned through her gown, scandalous though unseen. Evelina gasped softly, praying no one noticed how close his body pressed to hers, how his leg brushed hers with every turn. The dance was a cage, and she was trapped in it with a wolf.

When the music ended, he did not release her hand at once. Instead, he bent his head, lips grazing her ear as he whispered low, “Before the night ends, my lady, I will have you.”

Her knees nearly buckled, but his grip held her steady. By the time she caught her breath, he was gone into the crowd, leaving only the echo of his promise—and the wild heat it awakened.

A Dangerous Dance

The ball carried on with its endless chatter, tinkling laughter, and perfumed air, but Evelina felt none of it. Her heart still raced from Damian’s whispered promise. The Duke had vanished into the throng, yet she felt tethered to him by an invisible string, each tug a reminder of the fire he had awakened.

Her cousin, Lady Cassandra, fluttered to her side, eyes sharp with envy.

“You should be careful,” Cassandra said sweetly, though her tone dripped with malice. “The Duke of Ravenscroft ruins women. It would be wise to keep your distance.”

Evelina forced a polite smile. “And yet, you seem very eager to speak of him.”

Cassandra’s painted lips tightened, but before she could retort, a shadow fell across them. Damian had returned, towering, his presence drawing stares and whispers from every corner of the room. His hand extended toward Evelina once more.

“One more dance, Lady Evelina,” he said, his voice low enough to be a challenge.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, scandal written in every blink. Evelina should have refused—every lesson of propriety screamed at her—but her hand betrayed her again, sliding into his as if it belonged there.

The orchestra began another waltz. Damian drew her onto the floor, though this time his hold was tighter, more possessive. His palm pressed firmly at her lower back, guiding her body so close their breaths mingled.

“You tempt scandal,” Evelina whispered, daring not to meet his gaze.

He tilted his head, his lips grazing dangerously close to her temple. “No, my lady. I tempt you.”

Her body betrayed her with a shiver. His thigh pressed against hers as they turned, each movement of the dance a veiled caress. She felt the heat of him even through the layers of her gown, every brush a promise of what lay beneath his control.

“Release me,” she demanded softly, though her grip on his shoulder tightened.

“I will,” he said, his voice a sin against her ear, “but only after I’ve made you admit how much you crave this.”

The music swelled, and he spun her, pulling her flush against him as though they were alone, unseen. His hand slid daringly low along the curve of her waist, fingers brushing the swell of her hip where no gentleman should ever touch. Evelina’s breath caught, her cheeks aflame. If anyone noticed… her reputation would be ashes.

Yet she could not step away.

Her eyes met his at last, and the dark hunger there nearly undid her. Damian Hawthorne was a man who took what he desired, and every unspoken word told her she was next.

The music ended, but he did not bow nor step back. Instead, he bent close, his lips almost brushing hers before stopping, forcing her to ache for what he withheld.

“Midnight. The east garden,” he whispered. “Come—or spend the rest of the night wondering what it is I would do to you.”

Then he was gone again, leaving Evelina breathless, trembling, and dangerously aware of the heat pooling low in her body.