The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 57: Forced proximity in ballroom

[Song recommendation: In the middle of the night by Elle Duhe]

The night of her Flame ball was finally here, and Marcella couldn’t be more underwhelmed. She hadn’t had a chance to breathe since she arrived, let alone eat. It had been dance after dance, small talk after small talk. Her heels felt like razor blades strapped to her feet.

"Might I say, you look absolutely beautiful tonight, Your Grace," Berith complimented as he guided Marcella across the dance floor. He shot her that insufferably cocky smile—the kind that always landed somewhere between flirtation and challenge.

Marcella didn’t miss a step. "Thank you, Your Grace. You look quite handsome yourself," she returned coolly, the corners of her lips barely tilting.

And he did—unfortunately.

Berith looked like he had stepped out of a painting hung in the halls of some old empire or perhaps descended from Olympus with a sword in one hand and a kingdom in the other.

His dark hair had been combed back, but a single lock had slipped free, falling carelessly over his brow like even his own reflection refused to be too perfect. Those metallic whiskey eyes drank in every movement of hers, like he was trying to catch a lie before she told it.

A Duke, yes.

But in this light, under these chandeliers? He looked like a god playing noble for the evening.

Berith puffed out his chest, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I do put a lot of effort into my appearance."

Marcella arched one brow as she turned elegantly beneath his hand. "Yes, I can tell. It must take hours to comb all that pride into place."

Berith leaned in, just slightly, breath brushing her ear as they twirled. "If I had known it would bring out that tone in your voice, I would’ve doubled the vanity."

"You’re enjoying this far too much," Marcella muttered as they dipped into another turn.

"I am," he admitted, without shame. "But only because you’re suffering."

Her gaze snapped to his, lips parting in something close to a retort but then Berith spun her. A spin that brought her chest flush to him the moment she returned to his arms. Their hands settled again, his fingers brushing the inside of her wrist, his palm splayed lightly at her waist.

Marcella hated how well he danced, how she fit against him like she belonged there, even though every part of her screamed that she didn’t.

Berith dipped his head, close enough that the ends of his dark hair brushed her cheek. "You haven’t eaten," he murmured. "You’re trembling."

Marcella tilted her chin up. "I’m wearing six pounds of stitched lies and I’ve danced twelve times. Of course I’m trembling."

Berith spun her again. But this time, the momentum didn’t stop.

Marcella stumbled.

His spin had flung her with a bit too much force or maybe her balance had finally given up. Either way, one step faltered, and she found herself colliding with a new pair of arms.

Strong hands steadied her instantly.

Marcella blinked up, lifting her head to find Crown Prince Lucian opposite to her.

"It’s been a while, my lady." Lucian’s eyes crinkled in a good-natured smile.

Marcella straightened, tension flickering across her spine. She should have stepped away, should have curtsied, should have turned back to Berith. But the music didn’t stop. Neither Lucian’s hand nor her heart.

"I believe," Lucian said, gently taking her hand, "this makes you my partner for the next set."

The next song had already begun.

Lucian’s hand settled lightly against her back. "Dance with me, my lady." His arms closed around her waist, steadying her as though he’d been waiting there all along.

Marcella relented because how could she not?

They moved together into the next steps—slower, more intimate. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

The scent of his skin. The warmth of his laugh. The betrayal she had buried. It all started hitting her.

"You look radiant," Lucian said, softer now. "The silver suits you."

Receiving his compliment, a blush warmed her cheeks. "You always did flatter well, Your Highness." Marcella kept her gaze trained somewhere over his shoulder.

"I only speak the truth." His eyes searched hers. Lucian guided her through the turn, and when she came back to him, his hand slipped lightly to her waist. Too close. Too familiar.

This was the man who had once been hers—in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons. He had once told her she looked like the dusk, not quite night, not quite light, but all the more beautiful for it.

They twirled, close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushed her bare arm, sending a small shiver up her spine.

"How is Ashenholt treating you?" Lucian asked gently as if they were the only two people in the room.

Her smile didn’t falter. "It’s... kind. In its own way."

Lucian studied her face for a second longer than he should have. "That’s a very polished answer."

"It’s a very polished court," she replied, tilting her chin with a soft smile.

He laughed under his breath. "I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from a Duchess."

Marcella arched an elegant brow. "You mean to say you expected me to be less than I am?"

"Never," Lucian grinned, meeting her gaze. "But you surprise me, my lady. You always did."

They moved in sync, gracefully sweeping across the floor.

Across the ballroom, Berith watched them with the expression of a man remembering every cut that ever made him bleed. The rage sat in his chest wrapping itself around his ribs.

Berith didn’t remember the exact moment he stopped listening to Lady Virelle, the noblewoman in his arms who was still smiling and talking about house alliances and seasonal politics. He nodded at the right times, smiled when required.

But his eyes? They were fixed on the woman in silver.

His wife.

Marcella was dancing with the man who had once taken everything from him, on how close Lucian’s mouth was to her ear. Lucian was smiling, of course. The way his hand hovered just a little too long on her waist. The way he bent his head too close to hers when he spoke.

And Marcella—gods, she was letting him. She wasn’t retreating, not even resisting.

She had left him once for that man. And now? She smiled again, as if none of it had ever happened.

His grip on Lady Virelle’s hand tightened. She winced, fingers twitching in his. "Your Grace...?"

Berith blinked. A beat passed before he answered, like the world had to claw its way back into focus.

"Apologies," he said, loosening his hold.

Virelle tilted her head, lips curling into a nervous smile. "You seem... distracted."

Berith’s jaw flexed, but his smile came anyway. "I’m simply remembering why I never liked this dance."

The final turn came too fast.

Marcella barely registered the shift before she was spun again—Lucian’s hand guiding her outward in a graceful flourish. But it wasn’t his hand that held her when she stopped.

It was Berith’s. His palm found the small of her back.

"Careful," Berith murmured. "Someone might think you’re trying to fall for every man in the room tonight."

Marcella’s spine stiffened. She looked up, a six-foot-five, unsmiling wall.

Berith pulled her into the next dance without waiting for permission. He turned her smoothly, his chest brushing her back, one arm sliding around her waist, the other guiding her hand.

They were dancing now, her back to his chest, his breath at her neck.

A scandalous position.

"Don’t flatter yourself," Marcella stifled a groan. "I only fall when I’m pushed."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Berith replied, his voice a low hum near her ear.

Marcella might have imagined it, but she felt it—his thumb, brushing over the delicate skin of her wrist. Too gentle to be accidental. Too bold to be meaningless.

"How are you enjoying the ball?" Berith drawled, his words lethally soft.

Marcella blinked once, refocusing. "It’s fine," she replied, guarded. But her mind stayed tangled in that small touch, in the fire it sent crawling up her arm.

"Just fine?" Berith repeated. Another rub. "You spent quite a bit of time with the Crown Prince." he said, like the name tasted wrong in his mouth.

"He asked me for a dance." Marcella kept her tone light.

They moved through the next turn, closer now than etiquette allowed. His hand never strayed from her waist.

"And you said yes." She could feel his breath again, warmer now, near her ear.

"It would’ve been rude to refuse."

"Rudeness," Berith lowered his head, his mouth brushing the air near her cheek. "has never stopped you before."

She met his eyes. "Are you jealous, Your Grace?" Her voice dropped to a hush, almost teasing.

"I don’t get jealous." Berith pressed his thumb against her pounding pulse.

He twirled her gently, slowly, keeping her close when she returned to him. Their hands found each other again. This time, his palm slid lower, resting against the curve of her waist.

Her skin suddenly burned under his touch. "This isn’t how a Duke dances with his Duchess."

"No," Berith protested, his breath brushing the shell of her ear. "This is how a man dances with a storm that he knows will eventually destroy him."

Marcella swallowed hard. What do you mean?

"You’ve had too much wine," she chuckled, not trusting her own voice.

"Not a drop," he murmured. "Though I am drunk on something."

Marcella turned her face slightly, just enough to catch the barest glimpse of him from the corner of her eye.

"And what’s that?"

"You."

His response should have frightened her, but instead, her skin tingled and her thighs clenched.