White Roses, Black Doves

A hunger through time-3

The ballroom of our London townhouse was an opulent cage, glittering with chandeliers that cast a predatory light upon the guests. It was the height of the season, 1834, and the air was heavy with the scent of lilies and the hushed, frantic maneuvering of the marriage market, the season has begun.

I stood near the musicians’ gallery, feeling like a prize exhibit, while Lord Harrington, my most dedicated suitor, hovered at my elbow. He was, by all accounts, the perfect suitor: handsome in a refined, predictable way, with a smile that never faltered and a tendency to dote that was as sweet as it was suffocating. He leaned close, his voice a polished murmur.

"Miss Alice, the dance floor is crowded, but I find the company here far more agreeable. May I secure your promise for the next waltz? And perhaps… perhaps a moment of your time afterward to speak with your father?"

My heart stuttered. Harrington was safe, a known quantity, yet as he spoke, I felt a familiar, restless itch. I was about to offer a polite, non-committal smile when the atmosphere in the room shifted. A subtle tremor moved through the guests, a ripple of curiosity as Cornelius Thorne entered.

He didn't walk; he prowled. He moved through the throng with a dark, magnetic grace that made the surrounding aristocrats seem like paper cutouts. He didn't offer a bow to the hostess or a nod to the elder statesmen. His eyes locked onto mine from across the room, dark and piercing, and for a moment, the music seemed to lose its rhythm.

He reached us in three strides. He didn't acknowledge Harrington. He simply stood between us, his shoulder brushing mine, a possessive gesture that was both subtle and undeniably public.

"Miss Alice," Cornelius said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He turned his head just enough to catch my gaze, his smirk slow and infuriatingly knowing. "I believe I promised you a conversation regarding the sketches for the new conservatory. The room is far too loud for such intricate matters. Shall we?"

Harrington stiffened, his jaw tightening. "I believe Miss Alice has already promised me the next dance, Mr. Thorne."

Cornelius’s eyes flicked to Harrington, cold and dismissive. "Then the lady is mistaken. A business matter of this urgency requires immediate attention."

"I think," Harrington began, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm, "that perhaps—"

"I will handle this, Harrington," Cornelius interrupted, his tone chillingly smooth. He turned to me, his hand resting briefly, firmly, at the small of my back. "Wait by the lemonade table. I shall be but a moment."

I moved away, my legs feeling like lead, my senses screaming. From the periphery, I watched them. Cornelius and Harrington stood by the long, draped table, two distinct species of men. Cornelius leaned against the wood, his posture relaxed, while Harrington looked ready to snap.

Cornelius spoke first, his head tilted, his expression one of bored amusement. "You are chasing a dream that has already been spoken for, Harrington. You lack the stomach for what she requires. Drop the pretense; there is no possible way you could obtain her hand. I have had my eyes on her since the moment I stepped into this house."

Harrington’s face flushed a deep, indignant red. He leaned in, his voice rising, drawing the eyes of a few nearby dowagers. "You are a common opportunist, Thorne! She deserves a man of character, not a shark who deals in shipping manifests and stolen favors. I will not stand aside for you."

Cornelius’s laughter was a short, sharp bark, utterly devoid of warmth. He reached out, straightening Harrington’s cravat with a slow, deliberate movement that was more of a threat than an adjustment.

"Character does not win the prize, Harrington," he murmured, his eyes turning hard as flint. "Power does."

Harrington batted his hand away, his eyes blazing. "We shall see, sir. I have her father’s favor and her own grace to rely on. Let the best man win."

Cornelius watched him walk away, a thin, jagged smile touching his lips. He turned back toward me, and in his eyes, I saw a hunger that made me tremble—not for the conservatory, not for the business, but for the thrill of the hunt. He began to cross the room toward me, and I realized with a sickening, delicious jolt that the trap had already been set.

“We didn’t have plans for a conservatory Mr.Thorne.” I said.

“I know very well what is being built and not built Miss Alice, I just needed a moment of your time alone. It seems that the dinner was not nearly enough allowance for my satisfaction” he said as he looked into my eyes.