The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 11

The air in the ballroom crackled with a heady mixture of warmth and laughter, the music weaving in and out of the conversations that filled the grand space. Constance stood at the edge of the crowd, a contented smile gracing her lips as she observed the festivities from the sidelines. Her gaze flitted over the guests, who danced and laughed beneath the chandeliers glittering with a thousand crystals. It was a splendid night—one she and Vincent had hoped would make the troubles of the past seem like nothing more than a distant memory.

Yet despite the gaiety around her, a strange sense of unease had settled in the pit of her stomach. She could not explain why, only that it lingered like an unwelcome shadow, prickling at the edges of her awareness.

She was drawn from her thoughts by the approach of a man who did not seem to fit any familiar face. He wore a black domino mask, as was the fashion of some gentlemen, though his attire was less extravagant than many of the other guests. His eyes were dark, watchful beneath the mask, his voice smooth as he greeted her with a respectful bow.

“Good evening, my lady. I must say, the hostess of this ball is even lovelier than I’d been led to believe.”

Constance inclined her head slightly, a practiced smile touching her lips. “You flatter me, sir,” she replied, though there was something about his gaze—sharp and appraising—that made her hesitate. “And I must confess, I do not recall your name.”

“No reason you should,” he said easily. “I am but a humble guest, fortunate enough to gain entry into such a grand affair. Might I offer you a refreshment?” he asked, gesturing toward the drinks being served near the far side of the ballroom. “A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

Though something in her mind whispered that she should decline, Constance found herself nodding out of politeness. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

He departed to fetch the drink, his form weaving through the crowd with surprising ease. As she waited, Constance allowed herself to relax once more, reminding herself that she was safe here, amidst friends and family. The oddness of the man’s approach was likely nothing more than an eccentricity, she told herself, nothing more than an amusing footnote to an otherwise perfect evening.

Yet even as the masked man returned with the champagne, a slender figure sidled up beside her, a young woman with a wild mop of golden curls and a pair of wide, anxious blue eyes—Lady Phoebe Ashworth, who was known throughout the ton as something of an eccentric, a wallflower who kept to herself more often than not.

“Lady Constance,” Phoebe said in a rushed whisper, her voice trembling as she glanced nervously toward the approaching man. “You must not drink that.”

Constance blinked, taken aback by the other woman’s tone and the desperate look in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Phoebe’s gaze darted back to the man, who was almost upon them. “I—I saw him tamper with the drink,” she whispered urgently. “There is poison in it.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and terrible. Without a moment’s hesitation, Phoebe lunged forward and knocked the glass from Constance’s hand just as the man stepped up to them. The champagne spilled onto the floor, the shattered glass glittering like diamonds against the marble.

The disturbance drew the attention of the nearby guests, who turned to stare at the commotion. Murmurs began to rise among the crowd as they watched Lady Phoebe, her breath coming in ragged gasps, glaring at the masked man with a mixture of fear and determination.

The man’s expression tightened as the room fell silent. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger.

Before Constance could reply, Vincent was at her side in an instant, his hand firm on her arm as he took in the scene with a deadly calm. “What is happening here?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. His gaze fixed on the masked man, his eyes narrowing.

Lady Phoebe did not hesitate. “This man—he was about to give Lady Constance a poisoned drink,” she said, her voice loud enough for all to hear.

A ripple of shock went through the assembled guests, gasps and whispers spreading like wildfire. The man’s mouth curved into a sneer, and with a swift motion, he reached up and pulled the domino mask from his face, revealing the unmistakable features of Lord Ramson.

A cold silence fell over the room as recognition dawned. Constance’s breath caught in her throat, a rush of cold dread sweeping over her. She had not seen him in months—not since the ruin of her engagement and the bitter shame that had followed. Yet here he stood, as if summoned from the past to haunt her once more.

Vincent’s expression darkened, his voice as cold as the winter night outside. “Lord Ramson,” he said, the name a curse on his lips. “You have trespassed where you are not welcome. I suggest you leave.”

Ramson’s eyes flashed with hatred as he regarded Vincent, his voice dripping with disdain. “Leave?” he repeated mockingly. “Why, I have only just arrived. And what a grand affair it is,” he added, casting a derisive glance at Constance. “Though I must admit, I did not expect to find the former Lady Constance Rivers—now, what is it?—the Countess of Southdale, still clinging to her husband’s arm.”

Vincent’s jaw clenched, his fury barely restrained. “You will not speak of my wife in such a manner,” he said. “Leave now, while you still have the choice.”

But Ramson only smirked, a twisted sort of triumph in his gaze. “Ah, yes. Your wife. Spoiled goods, wasn’t she? Yet you were fool enough to take her, weren’t you?”

The words hung in the air, as venomous as the poison that had nearly touched Constance’s lips. The crowd recoiled, some averting their gazes, others leaning in with rapt attention.

Vincent turned toward them all, his voice ringing out clearly as he took a step forward. “Let it be known to all,” he began, “that the lies Lord Ramson has spread about my wife end tonight. I will not have her name dragged through the mud any longer.” His gaze swept the room, then settled on Constance, his eyes filled with a fierce tenderness. “I took her maidenhead, as her husband and no one else.”

A murmur of surprise spread among the guests. Ramson’s smirk faltered as Vincent continued, “The truth is, Lord Ramson here lost out on a gem, and he knows it. That is why he has spent his time and energy on nothing but schemes of spite and malice, all because he could not stand to see her find happiness without him.”

The room was silent as the weight of his words sank in. Constance felt her cheeks burn, not with shame, but with gratitude. There, before all these people, Vincent had claimed her as his own—had defended her honor and cast aside the darkness of the past.

Ramson’s face twisted with rage, but he saw now that he had lost. “You fool,” he spat at Vincent. “You think you’ve won? She’ll betray you, just as she did me.”

Vincent’s voice was steady, calm. “The only betrayal here is yours, Lord Ramson. You betrayed the honor of a lady, and now you have paid the price.”

With that, he turned his back on the disgraced baron and, wrapping an arm around Constance’s waist, led her away from the crowd, leaving Ramson to face the cold reality of his failure alone.

The room erupted in conversation behind them, but all Constance could hear was the beat of her own heart as Vincent guided her toward a quiet alcove. There, he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently, as though sealing the vow he had just made.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You didn’t have to say—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted softly. “For too long, you have carried the weight of his lies. Tonight, we cast them off.”

And for the first time since that fateful evening when her world had been torn apart, Constance felt the last remnants of shame lift from her heart, leaving behind only the warmth of Vincent’s love.