The ballroom sparkled too much for Leofric's liking. It was hot, stuffy, and filled with far too many people pretending to enjoy each other's company.
He had been standing in a tight circle of men rambling on about politics—earls and viscounts puffing out their chests, quoting taxes and trade routes like it would win them a prize. Leofric nodded and grunted in agreement, pretending to listen, until one of them asked for his opinion.
"Well, what do you think, Lord Leofric? About the grain tax increase?"
Blast the old viscount to hell!
He blinked. Grain tax? Were they still on about that? "Ah," Leofric cleared his throat, flashing the tight-lipped smile of a man whose mind was far away. "Grain is… important, I suppose."
"Yes, we've already heard that part," one of the men cut in with a huff. "But tell me this, was it really wise of the king to lower taxes for the farmers? Seems to me it will only make them bold. What next? Demanding free land and a seat at the council table?"
Another snorted. "Oh, come now. They're farmers, not revolutionaries. A bit of relief might actually keep them from complaining every market day."
"Hmph. I say raise the taxes. Keep them grounded. Hard work builds character." Came another opinion.
"Aye, and empty bellies start rebellions," Another muttered into his wine.
The discussion turned into a tug-of-war, each man pulling on his point like it were a stubborn mule. No one truly won, but everyone enjoyed pretending they had.
Leofric resisted the urge to rub his temples. What the hell was he thinking when he agreed to attend the ball? Quietly, he promised himself: five invitations, no matter how gold-inked, or scented, or royal-sealed they come, they would all meet the fire.
The moment a servant walked by with a tray of wine, Leofric snatched a glass and drank it all in one go. He gave a polite nod to the men, holding up the empty glass as if it were a perfect reason to leave. Without waiting for a reply, he walked straight to the far end of the ballroom and settled in a quiet corner, one with a clear view of the entire room. Or rather, a clear view of his wife.
Lady Isabella. His wife.
She was doing her best to mingle, laughing at something a woman said, her voice light and careless. He still couldn't get over how stunning she looked this evening. The sleeves of her gown barely touched her shoulders, revealing the smooth skin of her collarbones and the long line of her neck—an area he had kissed just last night, and which still haunted his thoughts. He could have sworn she wore that dress on purpose.
Leofric sipped his wine and muttered, "Witch."
For the past few days, she had been toying with him. It wasn't just flirtation—it was war. She would lean in during breakfast, her hand brushing his thigh, only to snatch it away when he reacted.
She would whisper something completely sinful in his ear, then complain of a headache. She once dropped her towel on purpose—he was certain—then walked around the chamber as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
When she had tortured him out of his senses, he had even begged. Literally begged. He, Lord Leofric—commander of warriors who had faced swords and arrows without flinching—had once asked his wife, with a cracked voice and shaky hands, and half-made with need to put an end to his lustful misery.
She had only smiled and said, "Good things come to those who wait."
Blast her. And blast Ella twice for teaching her such evil. He would not only have Ella's head on a spike—he would feed it to the hounds of hell.
As if knowing his eyes were burning into her back, Isabella turned and looked straight at him. That innocent smile. That little wave."Damn the woman," he growled under his breath.
On the other side of the room, Isabella was growing more bored by the second.
Lady Treymore was still ranting about how her cousin's daughter married a merchant, and now the entire bloodline was doomed. Isabella nodded politely, but her gaze kept drifting. Specifically, to her husband.
Leofric looked like he would rather be anywhere else. His arms were crossed, his jaw clenched, and his eyes—oh, those eyes, burned with irritation and something else entirely. Something she knew all too well.
She bit her lip as her eyes roamed over him, drinking in the sight. The coat he wore fit him like a second skin, tailored to show off those annoyingly broad shoulders and that proud, upright posture. She had chosen that coat. He hadn't even argued when she told him blue suited his eyes.
And now, he stood alone, brooding, handsome, and utterly tempting.
"I swear, if your husband scowls any harder, his face might crack," one of the ladies, Lady Aubrey, whispered to Isabella.
Another woman—Isabella couldn't recall her name—leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. "Your husband hasn't stopped watching you."
"Really?" Isabella asked, pretending as if she had not noticed the man drilling holes into her back.
"It's rather sweet," another added. "And... intense."
Isabella smirked, eyes drifting back to him. "He always looks like that. Like he wants to eat me or murder someone. It's hard to tell." The women giggled.
"Or he might come stalking over and ravish his wife right here in front of us," Lady commented in a conspiratorial voice, eyes darting between Leofric and Isabella.
She blushed. "It is nothing like that," Isabella managed to croak through the heat rising to her cheeks.
"Do tell us, Lady Isabella, what have you done to that warlord? He can't seem to take his eyes off you tonight."
"Um, nothing you want to hear, trust me." Isabella couldn't help the grin that took over her facial features as she imagined the ladies' faces if she revealed her friendship with Ella, who had filled her with so much knowledge.
"Oh, look who it is," Lady Aubrey nodded conspicuously toward Leofric. Isabella followed her gaze. Her amusement turned to irritation as she saw Lady Harcourt approach him.
The woman moved like a snake with good posture, slithering across the floor until she reached Leofric. Without waiting for an invitation, she laid her hand on his arm.
Isabella stiffened.
Leofric, to his credit, looked like someone had just handed him a dead rat. He delicately removed Lady Harcourt's hand and gave her a stiff smile.
"You've been hiding," she said.
"Not hiding. Just bored," Leofric replied flatly, hoping she would take the hint.
"Surely you don't mind a little... entertainment." Her fingers slid down his arm.
He peeled them off gently. "I don't appreciate being touched by anyone but my wife." His gaze flicked toward Isabella—just a glance—but she caught it. She was watching. Damn it! "I would love to be left alone, if you don't mind."
Lady Harcourt laughed to hide her annoyance. "You know, I often wonder why a man of your... origins insists on behaving so properly."
Leofric raised a brow. "And I often wonder why a woman of your status keeps chasing a man she believes is beneath her." That shut her up., but only for half a second. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I would love to spend the rest of the evening in the company of my wife." He spoke without missing a beat.
Just as he was about to walk away, Lady Harcourt grabbed his hand. And just when he thought the evening couldn't get worse, she nodded toward the far corner of the ballroom. "Perhaps you'll want to greet an old friend."
He followed her gaze, and his body went cold.
Miriam.
She stood there, smiling sweetly, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.
Leofric's throat went dry. Of all the places. Of all the times.
"Why is she here? How do you know that lady?" His eyes flickered to Isabella. Thankfully, she was no longer paying attention—but that didn't mean he couldn't sense the anger rolling off her stiff shoulders. He knew that stance all too well.
Taking advantage of his distracted state, Lady Harcourt stepped closer. "Seeing how surprised you look, I would say your dear wife doesn't know about your pregnant mistress that you've been housing for a while now."
Leofric's eyes narrowed into slits as he glared at the snake in front of him. "What games are you playing, Lady Harcourt?"
Lady Harcourt laughed, triumph dripping from her voice. "Games? I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord Leofric. I was just wondering why you haven't told your wife about her, that's all. Perhaps we could get them acquainted tonight."
"You wouldn't dare!" Leofric interjected, eyes flickering between Isabella and Miriam. His hands balled into fists by his sides.
A slow waltz began to play in the hall. People moved around in search of their dance partners.
"You have just one way of preventing that from happening tonight," Lady Harcourt said flirtatiously as she extended her hand. "First dance."
Across the room, Isabella stood ready. Her eyes lit up the moment the music began. She clearly expected him to cross the room, take her hand, and spin her into a perfect waltz.
But he didn't.
Isabella watched in horror as his face turned unreadable. Then, slowly, he extended his hand to Lady Harcourt.
"My lady, shall we?" he said in a tight voice, as he escorted her to the dance floor.
Isabella's anger grew hotter when Lady Harcourt looked right at her and gave her a quick, smug wink.