EPISODE 1

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.

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