The infernal noose! What he wouldn’t give to be rid of it. But if he ripped the knotted material in public, it would only confirm the haute ton’s suspicion of him: he was a barbarian. James maintained a distance from the revelry. He had arrived late to the ball, one of the last of the London Season. Hosted by Maximilian “Rex,” the Earl of Baine, the tedious affair attracted the most affluent members of society, for the earl’s “kingly” taste in decor was much gossiped about. The ballroom was a glittering spectacle: smooth, white marble columns with soft gray veins, rich yellow drapery flanking each of the dozen windows, a pale blue fresco with gold filigree on the ceiling, gilded sconces on the walls, crystal chandeliers… James considered it all garish rubbish, like too many sweets sitting deep in the belly, so heavy and uncomfortable. Blood hastened through his veins. It was a subtle, warm shift, too discreet for an unwitting mind. But two decades at sea stalking—and being stalked—had conditioned him to be more sensitive, and he scanned his surroundings in pursuit of the pair of eyes he was sure were watching him.
