PRESENT◇ CHAPTER 9: HE ISN'T EASILY FOOLED

During this period, Gabriella felt it—that sickening prickle along the back of her neck. The weight of eyes crawling over her skin like greasy fingertips. A violation without touch.

Her stomach turned as her spine stiffened, her instincts shrieking at her to run, to claw away the invisible filth clinging to her.

Slowly, carefully, she turned.

And there he was.

Camentine Schnootz, the Earl.

Her breath hitched, bile rising in her throat.

Disgusting.

He stood there like some grotesque gargoyle carved from flesh, his pudgy form stuffed into layers of velvet that strained against his bulk. The embroidery on his coat couldn't distract from the yellowed sweat stains blooming under his arms.

His hair—or what little was left of it—hung limp and oily, brushing against the tops of his shoulders like strands of spider silk. He had no neck to speak of, just a sagging chin that folded into itself. And that smile—Gods, that smile. A sticky, predatory thing stretched too wide, as if his mouth could barely contain the appetite lurking beneath it.

Gabriella shuddered and fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself, as though it might shield her from the filth oozing from his gaze.

He didn't even try to hide it.

The way his eyes devoured her, lingering too long, moving too slowly—it was an insult. An open declaration of what he wanted. The Earl was old enough to be her grandfather and repulsive enough to make her skin crawl, but that had never stopped him before. He was a man who believed his status excused everything. And to men like him, a woman was nothing but an object to be admired—or consumed.

Gabriella didn't bother masking her disgust. She leveled him with a look sharp enough to draw blood and turned back around, dismissing him as though he were nothing more than a worm writhing in the dirt.

Let him stew in it.

The orchestra shifted suddenly, the music swelling and changing tempo, snapping her out of the moment. The balldom was finally in motion.

Despite the absence of the King and Queen, the nobility wasted no time. Couples glided to the floor, their movements fluid and practiced, gowns of silk and chiffon swirling like petals caught in the breeze. The colors blended into one another, a living kaleidoscope of crimson, sapphire, and gold.

Gabriella's fingers twitched. She longed for a brush, for paint, for the soothing scratch of bristles against canvas. Her mind had already started sketching—layers of color, light spilling across fabric, the golden shimmer of candlelight dancing against polished floors.

But there was no time for art tonight.

She forced herself to focus. Around her, some nobles lingered at the edges, too shy or too proud to claim a partner. Others waited for the Prince, their eyes alight with desperate hope. Gabriella didn't have such delusions. She wasn't here for fairytales. Her goal stood across the hall, surrounded by silk-clad vultures already circling their prey.

Duke Martin.

She bit the inside of her cheek, plotting her approach. With so many eyes on him, her chances of securing a dance seemed dismal. She turned around, hoping to have another biscuit. The corset protested.

A shadow loomed behind her.

Gabriella stiffened. She hadn't heard footsteps. Hadn't felt them. Yet someone had managed to close the distance, slipping into her space without her noticing.

Her breath stuttered. Every instinct screamed at her to whirl around, to see who—or what—dared stand so close. But she didn't. Instead, she forced herself to remain still, head high, shoulders back.

Weakness was the predator's invitation.

"Lady Gabriella."

The voice was smooth, almost velvet in its cadence, but it carried an edge—like silk hiding a dagger. Her stomach dropped. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Duke Martin.

Her pulse skipped before thundering back to life. Slowly, she pivoted, her face composed despite the storm raging beneath her skin.

And there he was, standing close enough that she could see the faintest scar slicing through the corner of his brow.

"Your Grace," she said, dipping into a curtsy.

His gaze swept over her, not like Camentine's vile assessment but something far more dangerous—measured, calculating. It made her feel as though she'd been laid bare, her secrets peeled back layer by layer.

Gabriella forced herself to meet his eyes.

"Do you find the refreshments to your liking, Lady Gabriella?"

"Your Grace honors me with his attention."

His lips quirked in the barest of smiles, but there was something searching in his gaze, something that made her pulse quicken.

"Not at all," he said. "It's rare to see someone so… contemplative at a celebration."

She straightened, letting out a light, practiced laugh. "Surely your return from the East is far more deserving of contemplation than my idle thoughts."

"Perhaps," he allowed, but his eyes never left hers. "And yet, I find that idle thoughts are often the most revealing."

Her fingers tensed against the stem of her glass.

"And what do mine reveal?"

He tilted his head. "That remains to be seen."

He was not going to be easy to fool.

If not she'd prefer the life of a titled, rich old widow, she'd have settled for someone else after this brief but trying conversation.

"I hear you're Lady Gabriella Gael," he continued, stepping closer. "Daughter of Count Gareth Gael, whose untimely death left his household… somewhat adrift."

Her grip tightened on the goblet, but she quickly released it. "It was a difficult time, Your Grace."

"And yet," he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast, "you seem to have endured admirably."

The words could have been flattery.

They weren't.

His tone carried the weight of someone who had already measured her strengths and weaknesses. It made her stomach knot.

Gabriella met his gaze. "We do what we must to survive, Your Grace. Surely you understand that better than anyone."

His smile faded, replaced by something more contemplative. "Indeed."

For a moment, the noise of the ballroom seemed distant. Gabriella's heart pounded in her chest. She had expected arrogance, perhaps even indifference, but this? This was something else entirely. A man who saw too much.

He raised his glass to his lips, and she was struck by the sudden, foolish thought that perhaps she should kill him now—slip a few drops of poison into his wine before the night was over.

But no. Timing was everything and her assignment wouldn't be deemed successful unless the man she was killing was her lawfully wedded husband.

"Care for a dance?"

Gabriella stared at the Duke's outstretched hand in mild shock.

'Well it is nothing more than a passing interest.' Martin told himself as he asked her hand for a dance.

She accepted.

Gabriella felt the strength in Martin's arms as they moved in perfect rhythm, his grip steady, commanding—but not unkind. It had been far too long since she'd accepted a partner for a dance, and her muscles resisted, stiff and hesitant, betraying her nerves.

When Martin's palm slid lower, pressing against the small of her back, bare skin met his touch. Heat flared there, sharp and unwelcome. She jumped, a fleeting, involuntary reaction, before forcing herself to relax into the steps.

Her eyes flickered up, drawn to his face.

Their gazes locked.

Her pulse slowed. Her thoughts steadied.

The wrong color.

The realization hit with a dull thud, grounding her. His eyes weren't the shade she could lose herself in, and his touch didn't send her heart racing. And yet, her lips curved—not from warmth but from purpose. This was a man who could be made to want her. That was all she needed.

Around them, the whispers swelled. Gabriella could feel their weight, sharp and prying, pressing down on her like daggers disguised as curiosity. She caught glimpses of couples who had stilled mid-step, their gazes fixed on her—on them.

The Duke and the infamous Gael girl.

She kept her expression smooth, unfazed, even as her thoughts churned. She didn't need to win Martin's heart. She only needed to make him hand it over willingly. And then she'd take it. With trembling fingers or steady ones, it didn't matter.

They danced through the murmurs, and Gabriella found herself growing restless. The spectacle, the whispers, the predictable awe—it was all so terribly boring.

And Gabriella loathed boredom.

"Everyone's staring." Her voice came out soft but playful, edged with feigned vulnerability as if she were unaccustomed to such attention.

She tilted her head slightly, casting him a glance meant to stir his ego. "It must be quite unnerving for you."

Martin's brow lifted ever so slightly, his expression unreadable. "Why would it be?"

His voice was low, steady, and devoid of arrogance, though the words carried the weight of certainty. "I'm used to it already."

Of course, he was.

Gabriella's lips twitched into something that resembled admiration, though it was carefully calculated. She let the silence stretch, letting him feel her gaze linger just long enough to leave an impression—before pulling it away.

He was accustomed to attention, but Gabriella wasn't interested in becoming just another admirer. She intended to make him see her differently. See her as something unexpected. Something worth risking everything for.

Gabriella let Martin's words hang in the air, her lips curving slightly as if amused—though her mind was already moving several steps ahead, weaving the beginnings of a web.

"Of course you are." She tilted her head, her voice light, teasing. "I suppose battlefield glory has a way of making one immune to scrutiny."

His eyes didn't waver. "Glory?" The corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You make it sound as if I came back wearing Madness' Crown."

Gabriella's steps faltered for the briefest moment, but Martin's firm grip steadied her before she could stumble.

"Didn't you?" she asked, her voice low.

"From the way they speak of you, I expected something divine." Her gaze flickered upward, catching the sharp edge of his jaw, the proud line of his brow. "And yet, here you are. Flesh and blood after all."

"Disappointed?" he asked, and this time, there was humor in his tone.

"Not disappointed." Gabriella's eyes darkened as her lips curled. "Just reminded that even gods can bleed."

For the first time, she saw a flicker of something in Martin's expression—curiosity, perhaps, or wariness. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

He turned her sharply, guiding her into a spin before pulling her close again. "You have an unusual way of speaking," he said, his tone casual, though there was an unmistakable weight behind his words. "Most women I meet are far more concerned with flattery than philosophy."

"Flattery is for those who don't have anything else to offer." Gabriella let the words slip out easily, masking the sharpness underneath with a smile that was all softness and charm. "Surely you don't need another simpering admirer?"

"And what are you, then?" His question came without hesitation, and Gabriella felt her pulse quicken—not with nerves but with the thrill of the game.

She leaned in just slightly, enough to close the distance without overstepping.

"Curious," she murmured, her voice dipping lower. "For now."