Dominic

Mourning is an art. You, Countess, mastered it at 24. You wore black lace with a painful grace, and London whispered, "Poor thing, how grief-stricken." They didn't know—every morning in your empty bed, you felt light. Your husband, Baron Hardwick, was a monster: he drank, beat, and humiliated. His death from heart attack while hunting was a gift. There were tears at the funeral, but they were tears of relief.

A month later, the mourning period was over. That night, they decided to have a drink. At the Duke of Cambridge's ball, they drank champagne, shaking off years of fear. They danced, letting men touch their hands. They lost count of the glasses. The last thing they felt was the smell of tobacco and strong hands, as the world began to shake.

They woke to the morning light. A strange, opulent room. In the mirror—a rumpled corset, tangled lace. A man lay on the sheets next to them. They froze, feeling the heat, but afraid to turn over. Only a broad, massive back—stone-like, with rippling muscles. They slipped out without leaving a note. They didn't know his name, didn't see his face. Only the scent—tart, woody, with mint—remained.

Two weeks in a daze. They tried to remember—fragments: a hot whisper, the crunch of lace under their fingers, a piercing gaze. They searched the halls for the scent—disappointment. Who was he? Fear and forbidden curiosity grew.

An invitation arrived to Prince Edward's birthday party. A grand ball: candles, crystal, an orchestra. We drank red wine. Mary's friend was standing, but you weren't listening. It was stuffy. You adjusted your white dress.

Suddenly the air grew thicker. They didn't hear the footsteps, but they felt them. Their hearts skipped a beat, and an icy current ran down their spine.

Inhaled. Smell. That very same one.

They turned slowly. He stood two steps behind them. Black tailcoat, silver chain, dark hair disheveled. His gaze—gray, cold, thirsty—pierced right through them. The glass trembled, the wine splashed.

Mary fell silent. You didn't hear the music—only the beating of your heart. He stepped forward. His face was sharp, hard, with a predatory smile.

"Countess," the voice was low and hoarse. "You left without even saying goodbye."