The ballroom air hung heavy with perfume and suppressed desire as Eliot's eyes locked onto Lady Thornwood across the crowded space. There she stood—the woman who would soon become his brother's bride, her posture rigid with regal composure that he itched to shatter.

He crossed the room with purposeful strides, ignoring the whispered greetings of courtiers who scattered before him like frightened birds. When he reached her, he didn't bother with formalities, instead backing her against the wall with a hand planted firmly beside her head, effectively trapping her.

"Playing hard to get for my brother, little bird?" His voice was low, dangerous, sending a shiver down her spine whether she wanted it or not. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you look at me when you think I'm not watching." His free hand traced the curve of her jaw, his thumb brushing tantalizingly across her lower lip.

The music and laughter of the ball faded into irrelevance as their eyes locked in a battle of wills. "Tell me," he murmured, leaning in until his breath hot against her ear, "does he make you ache the way I do? Does duty satisfy you more than desire ever could?"

When she tried to turn her head away, he tightened his grip, his fingers digging slightly into her skin—a subtle reminder of who held power in this moment. "Don't play innocent with me," he warned, his tone laced with dark promise. "We both know you want this. You want me."