“I don’t require your pity, Your Grace.” Good lord, she had had enough of it to last a lifetime.
“You think I pity you?” His voice was incredulous.
“Everyone does. Why should you be any different?” She was glad for the protection of her gloves, for she could feel her fingers, frigid and clammy, slipping within them.
“I don’t pity you,” he said. “Pity would imply some sort of regret regarding your broken engagement, and I have none.” His hand gripped her waist possessively, the heat of it searing her even through her gown and his glove. “If he had been more of a man, if he had honored his commitment to you, then you would not be here now. Available. In my arms.”
His voice washed over her, a deep, low rumble of sound meant only for her ears. She heard the intent in it, the inherent threat lingering within the words, and felt like a helpless little rabbit—a rabbit that had fled from the fox only to be captured instead by a wolf.

∞∞∞

As he watched a hot tide of color flood Jillian’s cheeks, James experienced a fierce surge of satisfaction. Good lord, he could not have planned better himself—her errant former fiancé had unwittingly done him a great service and chased the stubborn woman straight into his arms. Perhaps bargaining for more from her while she had clearly been under a great deal of stress had been unsporting, but who—aside from the lady herself—would blame him for pressing his advantage?
He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes, felt the sudden tension that stole through her, as though she suspected he might fall upon her right then and there, in the middle of the ballroom, for all to see. He summoned his most charming smile in an attempt to set her at ease. He intended to play for higher stakes than those, although she could not possibly know it.
Still, the dance was drawing to a close, and he needed to keep her at his side, lest she decide the faithless Lord Kirkland had, in fact, turned out to be the lesser of two evils.
In the future, she would doubtless come to that conclusion on her own. Better a faithless suitor than a man who had contrived to ruin her as he had. And would.
But damned if he wasn’t looking forward to it—she was delectable in her shimmering gown of jade silk, her breasts lush and full, her waist so narrow he suspected he could span it with his hands. Her hair glistened in the candlelight like a flame. He would always be able to pick her out in a crowded ballroom by that alone. The rest of the year’s crop of debutantes looked like unlit tapers, pale and bland. She was a glowing ember, alive and vibrant, and just as likely to singe.
And staring at him as if she half-suspected him of some sort of villainy—which, of course, was more correct than she could know.
The music flowed to an end, the last plaintive notes lingering on the air. A sort of pall hung over the ballroom, as if the whole of the Ton held its collective breath, awaiting the drama they were certain was soon to come. He glanced just over Jillian’s shoulder and saw Lord Kirkland waiting at the edge of the floor, his jaw tight and tense. James could not recall having met the man before, but he supposed he could see something in the man that might have appealed to her, at least years ago when she had surely been every bit as young and silly as the other girls.
Lord Kirkland was handsome, a dark-haired, bronze-skinned man of roughly his own age. His eyes were a cloudy hazel, and his nose looked as if it had been broken at least once. There were lines on his face that spoke to a certain degree of strain, as if it had been many years since he had last been tempted to smile. Though he must have once been a suitable partner for Jillian, he looked now too dour, too given to moping.