Chapter One

 

 

Worthington Hall, London, The Height Of The Season

 

One of the violinists was flat. Just a little, just enough of a twang to make Emmeline’s ears prick up. She scanned the orchestra, squinting at them through the swirling mess of dancers, trying to decide which one was flat.

It was a shame, really. The piece was one of Mozart’s finest, but it only appeared in Society on account of its excellent ‘waltz-ability’, as Sophia had said once.

The waltz held all the young ladies and gentlemen of Society in an iron grip. Even Almack’s allowed the dance now, despite everybody’s mammas informing them sternly that when they were young, the waltz was considered quite scandalous.

No more. Now, the waltzes were the coveted dances. Everybody with their eye on a particular lady or gentleman was keen to waltz with that person, enjoying the breathless proximity to the object of their affections.

Not Emmeline, of course. Her dance card was empty, besides a pitying invitation to dance from Mrs Worthington’s son, a jovial fellow who everybody knew was about to become engaged to that heiress with the unpronounceable name.

That dance had been and gone, leaving Emmeline free to…

Oh dear, she thought miserably, watching her mother descend upon her.

Lady Brookfield sailed across the ballroom floor, her beribboned headdress streaming out behind her. She kept a pleasant, delightful smile on her face, but when she reached her daughter, her silk-gloved hand clamped onto her forearm with a painful grip.

“What on earth are you doing, skulking around in the corner?” she hissed.

“I am sorry, Mama. I don’t mean to… to skulk,” Emmeline managed weakly.

Mama growled faintly under her breath, letting the smile slip for a moment. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“Well, nobody has asked me.”

“Didn’t you dance with the Worthington boy?”

“Yes, but only because his mother told him to. Besides, he’s stood up three times with Miss Domouchel. Everybody is talking about it. There’ll certainly be an announcement.”

Emmeline’s attempt to distract her mother with gossip did not work. Mama only sniffed, shaking her head.

“If you’d tried harder, you could have captivated him.”

“No, I couldn’t, Mama,” Emmeline responded with something almost like sympathy.

Mama did not like that. Pressing her lips together, she turned to face her daughter, her gaze travelling critically over her figure.

Apparently, she did not like what she saw. Her lips disappeared into a thin line, and she reached out, tugging at Emmeline’s chestnut curls, and shaking out the skirt of her ruched gold-coloured dress.

“That is not your colour,” she pronounced, after a moment. “It makes you look sallow. We should have chosen the blue.”

Emmeline reddened. She would have preferred the blue and had said as much. Too late now, of course. No good would come of reminding her mother of it. Instead, she tugged at the too-tight bodice and wished to go home.

Again, this was a foolish hope. She wasn’t going home; none of them were, until dawn was near. Mama liked to get the most out of each ball, or so she said. That meant staying until the doors closed in their faces and the party was over.

The flat violinist played a trill that made Emmeline wince and close her eyes. Mama did not seem to notice. She didn’t even glance in the orchestra’s direction.

“Who else is on your dance card?” she demanded. Before Emmeline could stop her, Mama grabbed at her, lifting up her arm to get a good look at the card hanging around her wrist. She tightened her jaw when she saw all the blank entries and let Emmeline’s arm drop.

“Well,” she said flatly. “If you won’t try, Emmeline, then I suppose you shall simply have to resign yourself to a miserable life as a spinster.”

“I do try, Mama.”

“You are already a burden to your father and me,” she continued, as if Emmeline had not spoken. “And when your father dies, I don’t know who will care for you. It won’t be me, I can promise you that. You are so childish, Emmeline. Will you not think of your future?”

Emmeline was spared from answering. The orchestra finished with a flourish, and applause broke out as the dancers left the floor, talking and laughing amongst themselves. A familiar face emerged from the crowd and came bobbing towards them.

Emmeline nearly sagged in relief.

“Oh, look, Mama, Sophia is coming.”

Mama sniffed, drawing her shawl tighter around herself. “Well, you may waste time with your friend if you like, but you and I will have serious words after this party is over. This is your third Season, Emmeline, and this one is shaping up to be no better than the last. You are already something of a laughing-stock. You had better make an effort, or you’ll find yourself a lonely, dried-up old spinster with no money, no family, and no friends.”

On this pleasant note, Mama turned on her heel and marched away, nearly colliding with Sophia as she did so.

“Lady Brookfield does not seem very happy,” Sophia remarked tactfully. “Are you all right, Emmie?”

“Yes, of course,” Emmeline said at once, forcing a faint smile. “Did you enjoy your dance?”

Sophia’s face lit up. She was remarkably beautiful, with a delicate, heart-shaped face and a profusion of delightfully golden curls. Sophia’s only flaw was that she had hardly any fortune, which was probably why this was her second Season. But there were single gentlemen aplenty, and she already had several suitors.

Beside her, Emmeline felt like a peahen alongside a peacock. Emmeline’s own looks were ordinary, and nothing that seemed to make gentlemen look twice. Eyes skipped over her when they went by, gazes seeking something more interesting. She had chestnut hair, cool green eyes that might have been pretty had she not worn spectacles, or so Mama said, and a thin figure which did not suit the current fashion for voluptuous, curvaceous ladies.

Combined with her own determined lack of style when it came to dress and manners, Emmeline was generally met with blank, bored faces whenever she was introduced to a new, eligible gentleman.

She was used to it. Mama, apparently, was not.

Sophia slipped her arm through Emmeline’s and led her away.

“Let’s take a turn about the room, before the chaperones catch up to us,” she whispered. “I danced with Mr Grafton again. Edward. He’s so lovely. Do you know, he quoted Shakespeare’s sonnets to me, and seemed to understand them? He cares about poetry. Oh, he is perfect, Emmeline.”

Emmeline flashed a smile at her friend. “You like him, then?”

“So very much. Just think, Emmeline, how you would feel if you met a man who adored music as much as you do. And didn’t just enjoy the melody but played and sang with real feeling.”

Emmeline tightened her jaw, glancing away. “Well, that won’t happen, will it? Such a man does not exist.”

Sophia’s face fell a little, and Emmeline immediately scolded herself.

I am ruining her happiness.

“But tell me more about your dance,” she said quickly. “You think that Mr Grafton has feelings for you?”

“I’m sure of it. Oh, I know how changeable men can be, but I am confident that he has affection for me. He’ll speak soon, I’m sure.”

Emmeline swallowed hard. “Just… Just have a care, Sophia. You know what happened to me during my first Season. I was foolish and naïve, and while you are neither… well, people can be cruel, and men can be deceitful.”

Sophia paused, turning to face her friend.

“I have thought of that,” she murmured softly. “Perhaps I’m a fool, but I cannot imagine Mr Grafton being so cruel as to lead a lady to believe he loved her merely to fulfil a wager.”

Emmeline’s jaw tightened, and she glanced away.

“Yes, I believed so, too. But I was wrong. I am sure that Mr Grafton is a much better man, but you should still be on your guard. We women cannot afford to let down our guard.”

“No, we cannot. But, Emmeline, do you not mean to marry this Season? You cannot possibly wish to remain with your parents.”

“It is not as though I have much choice. I am happy as I am, Sophia.”

That was something of a lie. Sophia eyed her friend sternly, as if she sensed the deceit. At last, however, she only sniffed and looked away.

“Well, if you say so. At any rate, I want to introduce you to someone. Mr Grafton has brought his cousin with him, and the man is already causing quite a stir. There, you can see them over there.”

She pointed, and Emmeline reluctantly followed her gesture.

Edward Grafton stood by the refreshment table. He was a pleasant-looking man, with a mop of reddish curls, and a round, happy face. He always appeared to be smiling, always had something to say, and was pronounced by even the sternest of chaperones to be ‘a charming man’.

Emmeline had met him, briefly. He had been pleasant, no doubt since she was Sophia’s friend, but his gaze was always fixed on Sophia.

As they watched, a trio consisting of one gentleman and two wide-eyed, hopeful ladies approached Mr Grafton. Two of them spoke to him, while the other lady eyed Mr Grafton’s friend hopefully.

Emmeline watched him with a frown. He stood a little apart, gaze raking the room. He did not smile.

“That’s the Earl of Carlwood,” Sophia whispered. “Isn’t he handsome?”

“I suppose so,” Emmeline managed. Tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built without the need for padding, he certainly caught the eye. A crisp blue-eyed gaze swept the crowd, and Emmeline found herself shrinking back when it passed over her. She needn’t have worried. His stare never settled on her, although that was likely due to how deeply they were buried in the crowd.

“That lady is very brave, talking to him,” Sophia continued. “He’s got quite a reputation.”

“Reputation?”

“Oh, yes. The man is a rake. Mama forbade me from talking to him until I really couldn’t avoid it. She says that Mr Grafton shouldn’t be judged by his friends, and that every decent gentleman has at least one rake as his companion. She says,” Sophia paused, chuckling, “that if a gentleman has no rakish friends, then he must be the rakish one amongst his companions.”

“I thought that reformed rakes made the best husbands,” Emmeline murmured.

Her friend sniffed. “Oh, really, Emmeline. You are too clever to believe that to be true.”

That was a fair point, which Emmeline acknowledged with a nod of her head.

“I heard a rumour that Lord Carlwood was engaged some six years ago,” Sophia added, leaning in with a whisper. “To Lady Hartley, no less. Although of course she was Miss Something-Or-Other back then. Anyway, the story goes that she abandoned him only days before their wedding, and he swore never to marry.”

Emmeline bit her lower lip. “That must have been painful.”

“I suppose so,” Sophia shrugged. “If it’s true, that is. If Mr Grafton and I grow closer, I shall ask him about the story. Perhaps he will… oh, dear.”

Emmeline glanced at her friend. “What?”

“Your mamma is back,” Sophia mumbled, eyes darting over Emmeline’s shoulder.

Her heart sank. A quick glance behind her did indeed reveal Mama standing there, shoulder to shoulder with a portly gentleman of about forty-five, with greasy strands of hair plastered over a visibly thinning scalp.

I already know how this is going to end, she thought, heart sinking.

“Who is that man?” Sophia prompted.

“Reginald Winters. Mama is pushing him as a suitor for me this year.”

“The Marquess of Wolendale? It’s a fine match.”

Emmeline threw an incredulous glance at her friend. “You cannot be serious. He is considerably older than I am, and thoroughly unpleasant. I do not like him, Sophia.”

Her friend had the grace to blush.

“I did not mean that you should marry him,” Sophia mumbled. “I only meant that you have to marry somebody. Life can be difficult for an unmarried woman without an independent fortune, Emmeline. I should hate to see you unhappy or without a place of your own.”

Emmeline said nothing and let her arm drop from her friend’s elbow.

Sophia eyed her uncertainly.

“Now I’ve offended you,” she said at last.

“You haven’t,” Emmeline murmured. It was a lie. To hear her oldest friend echo Mama’s oft-repeated adage hurt more than she had expected.

You have to marry somebody.

There was no time for further conversation, because at that moment Lord Wolendale came swaggering over. He gave a sickly smile, revealing a small chunk of something green lodged in his upper teeth.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Brookfield?” he purred. “Your dear Mama assures me that you are quite unengaged for this next set.”

Emmeline’s heart sank into her guts. Of course she was unengaged. A lady could not possibly refuse an invitation to dance. It was the height of bad manners. Nothing short of a broken ankle or perhaps dropping dead on the spot could save her from a dance already agreed.

Judging by his unwavering smile, Lord Wolendale knew this just as well as she did.

“Of course,” Emmeline managed weakly, placing her hand into his outstretched one.

Another man came shouldering through the crowd. For one ridiculous moment, Emmeline thought that it might be somebody coming to save her. This nonsensical fantasy was dashed at once. The man was Mr Grafton, and he was already beaming at Sophia.

“Would you care to stand up with me again, Miss Egerton?” he asked hopefully.

Sophia smiled back widely. “I should like nothing more.”

The gentlemen led their prizes towards the dance floor. Emmeline wondered if she could feign a twisted ankle. Probably not.

“This dance is not a waltz,” Lord Wolendale told her firmly. “I do not approve of this modern craze for such a dance. We won’t stand up for the next set for that very reason, as I believe there is another waltz.”

“Yes, I should not care to waltz with you, Lord Wolendale,” Emmeline said, before she could bite her tongue. The man shot her a quick, faintly annoyed glance, as if he sensed an insult in her words but could not quite pick it out.

Just as the orchestra was preparing to play, the doors at the back of the room flew open with an echoing bang.

Had the room been full of conversation and music as before, the entrance of the latest newcomer might not have been noticed. However, in the heavy silence, everybody flinched and spun around to see who had the gall to arrive so very late to a ball.

A woman strode in, head held high. A torrent of blue-black hair cascaded down from an elaborate style of curls and twists. Rubies glinted in her ears and around her neck, matching a truly shocking crimson silk.

She looked magnificent, of course. Women stared in eye-popping envy, and several men very nearly swooned as she walked by.

“Ah,” Lord Wolendale sniffed. “Lady Hartley. I do think that widows ought to keep themselves shuttered away from Society. Is it really proper for her to parade around, enjoying herself, when her husband is scarcely a year dead?”

“Well,” Emmeline heard herself say, “shutting herself up at home will not bring him back to life.”

Lord Wolendale threw her a look of heavy disapproval and would likely have said more had not the music started at that moment, forcing them to dance.

“I should hope that my wife would show me more loyalty,” he remarked, about half a minute into what proved to be a very energetic jig. “I have heard of clauses men can add to their wills, leaving conditional provision for their wives. Should my wife remarry, I see no reason why she should continue to enjoy whatever income I might leave her.”

“How generous of you,” Emmeline muttered. He either didn’t hear or didn’t sense the sarcasm in her voice.

“Tell me, Miss Brookfield, are you skilled at managing a house? Mine is a large one, with a great deal to be done. Things must run smoothly. I am most particular, too, with my food. I don’t permit fish dishes or lamb to be served, and I am not fond of soup. Seasonings are, in my opinion, unnecessary. Salt and pepper fire the blood. Too much bread, too, is not healthful. I don’t approve of sugary dishes, and I have a particular hatred of jellies and trifles. However, meals must be varied. I don’t care to eat the same thing again and again.”

“Oh,” Emmeline responded dismally.

“My mother lives with me,” he added. “She knows well how a house should be run. Whatever lucky woman I choose to make my bride will have a fine overseer in my mother.”

A flash of crimson caught Emmeline’s attention. She saw the vision from before, Lady Hartley, sweeping through the crowds. She kept her head high, oblivious to the attention showered upon her.

She’s going towards Lord Carlwood, Emmeline thought with a jolt.

Lord Carlwood seemed to have realised the same thing. He glanced around himself uneasily and then slipped off into the crowd.

Lady Hartley would not be dissuaded. She followed, hot on his heels, a dog chasing down an escaping stag.

“You are one and twenty, I believe, Miss Brookfield?” Lord Wolendale continued, dragging Emmeline’s attention from the interesting chase going on around her.

“Yes,” Emmeline managed weakly. “One and twenty.”

Lord Wolendale gave a disapproving tut. “I had hoped for a younger woman. That was my mother’s advice, you know, to marry the youngest I can. It is easier to mould and guide them in that way. Still, I suppose one and twenty is not very old.”

Emmeline wondered if she could trip Lord Wolendale up and get away with it. Probably not.

The music came to an end, and she nearly cried with relief.

Mama hovered on the edge and came hurrying forward as soon as the dance ended.

“How fine you both looked,” she chirped, clapping her hands. “Lord Wolendale, you dance exquisitely.”

Lord Wolendale nodded seriously. “Yes, my mother often compliments me on my lightness of foot. We must arrange for you to meet her soon.”

They began to talk at once about arranging a date to take tea with the Dowager Marchioness of Wolendale. Since Emmeline’s opinion or consent would not be asked, she turned to scan the room. Sure enough, the familiar crimson of Lady Hartley’s dress soon showed itself. She was close by now, and Lord Carlwood was only a little way ahead.

The pursuit, it seemed, was still ongoing.

Lord Carlwood stepped out of the crowd, onto the edge of the dance floor.

No, no, fool, Emmeline thought with amusement. Now you are in the open. She’ll catch you. She’ll run you down.

What Lady Hartley intended to do when she reached the man she’d once meant to marry was anybody’s guess. Emmeline sensed scandal in the air, something to liven up an otherwise dull evening.

In all fairness, she thought, this evening is probably not dull if a person likes dancing.

Then Lord Carlwood’s gaze landed directly on her. Emmeline stared back for a moment, quite certain that it was not her he was looking at, but perhaps someone behind her. Then he moved towards her.

He was halfway there when she understood, with a jolt, that he was walking towards her.

The earl was taller than she had realised. Up close, he towered over her and was at least half a head taller than most men at the party. Thick, dark blond hair was brushed back, an inch or two longer than was generally permitted, with a definite wave about his forehead.

He stopped only a few paces before her, and Emmeline stared up at him, her breath stuck in her throat.

Lord Wolendale and Mama finally stopped their jabbering to stare at him in surprise.

“I do not believe we have been introduced,” Lord Carlwood said at last. His voice, deep and sharp, made Emmeline flinch.

“I am Miss Brookfield,” she managed at last, when it became clear that Mama was too horrified to speak. “And you are the Earl of Carlwood.”

He inclined his head shortly. “There you are. We are introduced. Now, Miss Brookfield, would you care to dance? I believe the next set is beginning.”

Well, she could not refuse, could she? Lord Wolendale’s eyes bulged. Mama glanced between them, half elated and half horrified. After all, what mother did not dread a man like the earl asking her daughter to dance, almost as much as she hoped for it?

In what seemed like a very long ensuing silence, Emmeline heard a woman’s clear, nasty voice echo out from a group of ladies.

“Goodness, is it Miss Brookfield I see on the dance floor? I had quite given up hope of seeing her there. Poor thing. One does wonder whether she will ever marry.”

Emmeline flinched. There was no sense in pretending she hadn’t heard. The words were too loud and deliberate, and too nearby. She didn’t dare look at Mama’s face.

Lord Wolendale, at least, might actually not have heard.

Lord Carlwood’s face tightened, just for an instant. He flashed a wide smile and extended his hand. She caught a flash of red over his shoulder. Lady Hartley was closing in, then.

“I should love to dance,” Emmeline said at last. She was not sure she had ever claimed to love a dance before, but there was always a first time, was there not?

She placed her hand on his. Strong fingers closed over her gloved ones. She heard Mama speak briefly, a little panicked: “Wait…”

But it was entirely too late. The music began again, a few warning chords before the melody started in earnest. The earl led her away, and they took up their places. She realised a moment too late that it was a waltz.

“I am not very good at the waltz,” she stammered.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Fear not. I shall lead.”

Was he being charming? Was it a joke? Ought she to laugh?

Emmeline could not make up her mind and so decided upon nothing at all.

The music began in earnest, and as he’d promised, Lord Carlwood took her hand firmly in his, placed his hand upon her waist, and steered her efficiently.

It was decidedly strange, being so close to a gentleman. She had waltzed before, but generally one’s partners did not hold one quite so close. He smelled pleasantly spicy, like apple-cinnamon, and there was a single cravat pin hidden in the folds of that garment, a ruby-red eye winking at her.

Have I made a dreadful mistake?

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

Julian resisted the urge to peer over his shoulder. He kept seeing flashes of red out of the corner of his eyes. That might be Gillian, but then again, it might be somebody else. She was not the only woman wearing red.

He forced himself to relax as much as he could, squaring his shoulders, and concentrating on not crushing the toes of his partner.

What was her name again? Miss Brookfield, that was it. He had noticed her earlier, when Edward had eagerly pointed out the young lady with whom he was enamoured. That was not Miss Brookfield, but her friend, one Miss Sophia something-or-other. It was not like Edward to get so excited over a young woman, so he had paid particular attention.

Miss Sophia Something was pretty enough, but her companion had seemed much more intriguing. Serious-faced, with chestnut-curls, round spectacles, and a pointed face with a determined, sharp chin. The sort of young woman who might narrow her eyes and tell you exactly what she thought. The interesting type.

And then he had approached her just now, and she had stammered and bleated like a terrified little lamb, glancing frequently at her mamma.

She did not, he noticed, glance at the sweating boar of a man they were clearly trying to push onto her.

Well, at least I’ve given her a little reprieve. And myself, too.

And then Miss Brookfield sucked in a breath and lifted her eyes to his. There was a surprisingly steely look inside them.

“I am not a fool, Lord Carlwood. I know that you are only dancing with me to escape from Lady Hartley.”

Well. Julian blinked, missing a step, and very nearly sent them colliding into another dancing pair.

“I beg your pardon?” he managed.

She cleared her throat. “I saw her all but chase you through the ballroom. I imagine that I was the first woman you saw. You needn’t fret; I shan’t tell anyone.”

“And just what do you know about Lady Hartley and me?” he demanded, trying to sound as stern as he could manage.

She reddened faintly. “Not much, only that you were engaged once.”

Engaged? Ha. That’s a small word for the truth. We were days away from our marriage.

I suppose I ought to be grateful. I certainly don’t love her now, and I imagine that she did not love me at all. We both had a narrow escape.

“Well,” he said at last, keeping his words clipped. “I can’t say that I know what you are talking about, Miss Brookfield. I simply wanted to dance…”

“With me?” she queried, eyebrows lifting behind her spectacles. “What a compliment.”

He sensed that he’d said the wrong thing.

“You are quite the prettiest girl in the room,” he heard himself say. It was a clumsy attempt at charm, and it failed entirely. She all but rolled her eyes.

“You might spare us both, Lord Carlwood. I daresay you won’t care in the slightest, but Lady Hartley had drawn back from the edge of the dance floor. I believe she is heading for the refreshment table.”

He fought not to sigh in relief. It had been a terrible shock, seeing Gillian in the room. At first, he had hoped that she would not see him or would at least pretend not to see him. Cold horror washed over him when she made a beeline towards him. He could leave soon after this dance, however. Having been seen on the dance floor, he could stop to congratulate his hostess and then slip out of the door and make his escape. Gillian would probably not come haring down the street after his carriage.

“I imagine that I shall hear this story repeated on every scandal sheet in London by tomorrow morning,” he remarked, a little icily.

Miss Brookfield blinked at him. “Why should that happen? What, you can’t mean that I would tell people? I’m no gossip, sir.”

“Every young woman says that.”

She reddened. “Oh, really? And have you asked all of us?”

“No, but that’s hardly the point.”

“I think it might be. I am sure there are plenty of women and men who care to gossip, but I am not one of them. Besides, I am not overburdened with a surplus of friends,” she answered, and then blinked, glancing sharply away. He wondered if she regretted saying such a thing. Most likely. Society was all pretence, and a lady as open and outspoken as Miss Brookfield could not possibly fare well.

Their loss, in his opinion. She seemed a bright girl to him, and delightfully amusing. And pretty, too. Surely she could do better than Reginald, for goodness sake? It was a rare thing for a man of Reginald’s wealth to be struggling for prospects, so he must be particularly unpleasant.

“Are you enjoying the ball, Miss Brookfield?” he asked, when he had collected himself sufficiently.

She blinked up at him. “I suppose I am meant to say yes.”

“You are,” he managed at last. “But you are not meant to say that.”

“It is hardly my fault. I am tired of all the ridiculous little rules and expectations. I am tired of not being able to say no when I do not wish to dance, and of having to keep a smile on my face regardless. I hate waltzing, I hate small talk, and most of all, Lord Carlwood, I hate that the second violinist in the orchestra has been playing flat the entire night.”

The words burst out of her with unstoppable venom, and fury sparked in her eyes. Julian stared at her for a long moment.

“The second violinist?” he managed at last.

She’d turned red. The blush did not fade. She cleared her throat, not meeting his eye.

“Yes. I wasn’t sure which violinist it was, but now that I am here on the dance floor, I am quite certain that it’s the second fellow from the left. I feel very much like striding over there, snatching the instrument from his hand, and smashing it over his head.”

Julian bit back an incredulous laugh. “So violent.”

She had gone red as beets now, and stumbled, missing a step. He felt her weight pull against him, fingertips digging against his shoulder. He held steady, preventing her from falling, and she recovered, straightening up at once and glancing around to see if anybody had noticed.

“I don’t really mean that,” she mumbled.

“Oh, no, I think that you do, Miss Brookfield. I confess, I had not noticed the flat violinist. You must be very fond of music.”

He certainly saw her eyes brighten at the mention of music. He had got the right subject, then.

“Yes, I am fond of music.”

“Do you sing?”

“Yes, rather well.” She rolled her eyes. “Or, I should say, passably well. We are meant to be modest. But I have a good voice, I have trained it well, and I am pleased with the progress I have made. I can manage a decent soprano.”

“My congratulations. I myself cannot sing without sounding like a dog barking.”

Her lips tugged as if she were about to smile, only to swallow it back at the last moment.

It would be a challenge, winning the smiles of so serious a girl, Julian thought absently. Of course, I can hardly charm her properly, but why should she not like me a little? She’s interesting company. I cannot remember the last time somebody told me what was on their mind in a place like this.

That was a fair enough point. Society and ballrooms were, as everybody knew, full of fraudsters and liars.

Miss Brookfield, at least, had the grace to be honest.

“You play musical instruments, I take it?”

She nodded, brightening up further still. “The violin, and the harp, a little, although Mama says that I do not have nice enough wrists or sufficiently neat elbows to play the harp in public.”

He considered this. “What constitutes a neat elbow?”

“I really have no idea. I had always thought elbows were simply elbows. I have never encountered anything in a book to suggest otherwise, but Mama was quite firm on the matter. My elbows are apparently inadequate.”

“What a pity. Still, I daresay elbow inadequacy plagues more hopeful young women than we imagine.”

He did win a smile that time, a quick twist of the lips that she hastily tucked away.

“My favourite instrument, however,” she continued, having swallowed back the smile, “is certainly the pianoforte.”

“I imagine unsightly elbows do not prevent you from playing that?”

“No,” she answered, really laughing this time. “I can wear long sleeves.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but to his surprise, the music ended with a flourish. The dance, it seemed, was over, having flown past more quickly than he had expected.

I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed a dance so much. Or a good conversation.

No sense in thinking of that. A quick glance around told him that Gillian was nowhere to be seen. Even if she had been waiting on the very edge of the crowd, it would not matter. He had to return Miss Brookfield to her mother.

Forcing a smile, he held out his hand. She took it, but did not smile back. Did he see disappointment in her eyes, or was that wishful thinking?

No doubt the latter.

They moved across the dance floor in silence. Lady Brookfield waited grimly by the wall. There was no sign of Reginald.

“Here is your daughter, madam,” Julian said breezily, flashing a smile.

Lady Brookfield did not return it. She seized her daughter by the elbow, dragging her forward.

“We are obliged to you, Lord Carlwood,” she said frostily.

No invitation to stand and chat longer. Very well, that would suit him. Julian turned to Miss Brookfield, making a deep bow. She curtsied, missing a beat. He let himself glance up at her through his lashes and found her staring at him, a faint line between her brows.

What is going on in that preoccupied little head of hers?

Well, he was not likely to know. Besides, it was not his business.

Ignoring the impulse to stay and force a conversation, Julian turned on his heel and slipped back across the ballroom.

Edward remained just where he had left him, sipping whisky.

“Miss Egerton is talking to her friend now,” he said, hushed, not looking at Julian but keeping his eyes fixed across the room. “Goodness, but she’s lovely.”

Julian glanced back at the woman he had just left. Miss Sophia Egerton was there now. Egerton, that was her name. She and Miss Brookfield were deep in conversation, no doubt discussing the dance.

“She is remarkably pretty, I confess,” he said at last. “I find that spectacles are a very flattering item on a lady. She suits them. Her eyes are a remarkably rare shade of green behind those lenses.”

Edward shot him a quick, bewildered glance. “I am not talking of Miss Brookfield. I am talking of Sophia.”

“Oh,” said Julian, trying not to feel foolish. “You ought not to call her Sophia.”

“I know, I know. But is not Sophia the loveliest name you have ever heard?”

“I cannot say I have any strong opinions on the matter.”

Edward sighed. “You never have strong opinions on anything. Well, why did you do it, Julian? Why corner that poor little wallflower like that? It’ll be all over the scandal sheets tomorrow that you targeted a frightened little sparrow.”

“You know why,” Julian responded frostily. “I cannot believe that she is here.”

“Well, there is not a great deal you can do about it, unless you plan to leave London?”

“I cannot leave London until my business is completed,” Julian responded moodily. “At times like this, I miss my late steward more than ever. It’s tedious.”

“Hire another, then. Excuse me, I intend to ask Sophia to dance.”

Julian glanced sharply at him. “And leave me here alone?”

Edward froze, grimacing. “Ah. Gillian. I’ll stay with you.”

Julian briefly closed his eyes. “No, no, I am being entirely selfish. I shall be fine.”

“Julian…”

“Go ask your lady to dance,” he said firmly. “I will take care of myself.”

Edward hesitated, chewing his lip, but apparently the pull of Miss Sophia Egerton was too strong to resist. A moment later, his resolve gave way, and he hurried across the ballroom towards Miss Egerton, whose eyes were already fixed upon him.

Julian stared after them, biting back a wry smile.

You deserve a little happiness, Edward.

“So, Edward has found some new debutante to torment?” came a low, warm voice at his side.

At one time, that voice had filled him with delight, a thrill of excitement that she was here.

Now, it only brought dread.

Pasting a smooth mask onto his expression, Julian turned slowly.

“Lady Hartley,” he said coolly. “How good to see you.”

Gillian had not changed. There were the same glittering, sea-blue eyes that had once ensnared him. A porcelain complexion, a mane of shimmering black hair, and of course the knack of captivating everybody in any room she entered. Even now, a dozen or so women and even more men were staring at them, jaws slack, equal parts envious and admiring.

I am glad you are here, he wanted to say. You’ll serve as a timely reminder to me not to entertain any romantic thoughts or plans of marriage, because I know the pain and horror they can bring. I suppose I ought to thank you.

He said no such thing. Instead, he tucked his arms behind his back, set his jaw, and waited politely for Gillian to speak.

She smouldered up at him for a moment, but when her pouted lips and dark, hopeful eyes did not have the effect she wanted, she blinked, narrowing those splendid eyes.

“You are angry with me. I thought you would be happy to see me, Julian.”

“Did you? Were you also surprised that I did not accept the invitation to your wedding?”

“I am not married now,” she retorted, tilting up her chin. “I needed to restore my reputation, Julian. You were beyond reach, and I required a marriage. Lord Hartley was a suitable match.”

“You were married to him for several years. I daresay he lived longer than you expected.”

“Oh, hush,” she snapped. “Can we not be friends, Julian?”

His shoulders sagged a little.

“No,” he said at last. “I don’t believe we can. I bear you no ill will, Gillian. Believe me. But nor can things be as they were. London is large, and our circles in Society are rather different. We can avoid each other.”

This was not the answer she’d hoped to hear. He’d learned by now to tell when Gillian was displeased. Those perfect lips curled in annoyance, and her eyes narrowed.

“Will you not try, Julian?” she insisted, sounding more like a petulant child than a dashing widow. “You were so fond of me once.”

“Once,” he repeated coldly. “I am sorry, Gillian. Lady Hartley. I shall walk away now, and I hope you won’t make a fuss.”

He glanced over his shoulder, in hopes that perhaps Edward had noticed the stir and was on his way back. No such luck, of course. Edward was not yet dancing, but he was deep in conversation with Miss Egerton. Miss Brookfield stood beside them, listening to something that Edward was saying. Her eyes, large and thoughtful behind her spectacles, darted from side to side, taking it all in.

“Oh,” Gillian breathed, entirely too close for comfort. Julian flinched back.

“Lady Hartley, please step away,” he murmured, warningly.

She was too busy staring over at Edward and the ladies, and gave a low, mirthless chuckle.

“I see that you have found a new diversion,” she murmured. “Seducing a wallflower is rather low-hanging fruit for you, isn’t it? A sad little spinster like Miss Brookfield would surely be flattered by your attentions.”

“I am not seducing anyone,” he snapped, eyes flaring. “I would ask you not to repeat such nonsense, but I know that you will do as you please, Lady Hartley.”

“You danced with her,” Gillian shot back.

“And that is no concern of yours. Leave Miss Brookfield alone.”

Even as he spoke, Julian knew that he’d made a mistake. Gillian’s face crumpled into a tight, nasty smile.

“Why, you are very distrustful,” she purred. “You cannot possibly think I would be unkind to Miss Brookfield. The poor girl has quite enough to contend with already. She is one-and-twenty, an age when gentlemen begin to turn their attention to younger ladies. She is plain, too clever for her own good, and already in her third Season. Poor Miss Brookfield must be growing desperate. Perhaps desperate enough to risk her reputation by throwing herself at one of London’s most notorious rakes.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. It was not difficult to see what tale Gillian was so diligently constructing.

“You know fine well that is a fiction,” he growled. “If you spread rumours about Miss Brookfield, Gillian, I warn you…”

“You’ll what?” she interrupted smoothly, gliding closer. “We both know that you’ll do nothing, Julian. I wonder, would you allow our relationship to return to what it was in exchange for Miss Brookfield’s peace of mind? A lady you have barely met? Come, now, answer honestly.”

Julian ground his back teeth together. The answer was simple. No, he would not. Miss Brookfield seemed like a decent sort of girl, but he hardly knew her. He did not expect to see her again. Surely, once he left the ballroom, she would leave his thoughts as readily as any other passing acquaintance.

True, she occupied his thoughts rather more than most ladies with whom he danced. But that was only because she was unusual and outspoken. She had no hold over him. He would not allow it.

He had worked very hard to make sure that no woman would have a hold on him ever again. It was a matter of some importance.

“She certainly seemed very overwhelmed by your attentions,” Gillian observed, when he did not immediately take the bait. “But then I imagine that just about everything overwhelms Miss Brookfield. She’s a quiet, mousy little thing, is she not? Fond of music, fond of books, but not fond of people. That is a pity, because a love of people is just about the only thing that matters in a lady. All the rest is nonsense.”

“I was under the impression that ladies had to fit a much more rigid mould than that,” he answered, then cursed himself for responding to her at all. Much better to simply stand still and silent and let her talk herself out.

He ought to walk away. As a rule, gentlemen did not walk away from ladies. The rules, unspoken and otherwise, were clear. A gentleman did not contradict a lady. He did not walk away from her. He did not deny her anything. But in return, a lady must never force her attention upon any gentleman, under any circumstances. That could take many forms. A too-loud voice, a too-determined attempt to begin conversation, even a tap on the elbow.

Seeking a gentleman’s attention led to being called fast, or a determined flirt, and of course there was no coming back from such a label.

Gillian did not fear labels. She did not fear much at all.

“Poor Miss Brookfield does not fit any mould, I think,” Gillian sighed. “I wonder if that is why you like her?”

“I do not like her,” he answered automatically. “Enough of this, Gillian.”

“Enough of what? I have barely begun, and it is only a conversation.”

He tightened his jaw, shaking his head. At that moment, at last, Edward raised his head. His face darkened at the sight of Gillian. Hastily taking his leave from Miss Egerton, he set off at a brisk walk towards them, eyes set.

Gillian heaved a sigh. “Your watchdog is on his way back. I suppose I had better go, or he’ll savage my ankles.”

“I hope our paths do not cross, Gillian,” Julian responded tightly.

“They certainly will,” she chuckled. “But fear not. I do not intend to get between you and your wallflower.”

“She is not my wallflower. And if I intended her to be, I should not have achieved my goal after only one dance.”

Gillian chuckled. “You are too modest, Julian. Entirely too modest. Now this is not the Julian I remember.”

Before he could respond, she drifted away, melting into the crowd seconds before Edward reached them.

“This is why I hate parties,” Julian snapped. “Let’s go home, Edward.”

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

“Sophia is here,” Mama announced, standing in the doorway of the library with a crisp, disapproving expression on her face. “She wishes you to accompany her to the shops, apparently. I have half a mind not to let you go.”

Emmeline swallowed hard, staring up at her mother. Two days had passed since that fateful ball. Unsurprisingly, no gentlemen had called, not even Lord Wolendale. If some small part of Emmeline had hoped to find Lord Carlwood among the callers, she had firmly refused to indulge it. Expectations, she had learned, were merely disappointments waiting to happen.

Mama, apparently, had not learned the same lesson. On the morning after the ball, she had insisted that Emmeline dress in her finest gown and submit to an especially elaborate arrangement of her hair. They had sat in the parlour for hours, awaiting callers who never came, while the tea cooled in the pot and the biscuits went untouched. When at last Mama permitted her to retreat to the library, her voice had been clipped, her disappointment unmistakable.

Emmeline had stayed quiet. It seemed safer.

But now here was Mama, glowering at her, arms folded, with all the power to forbid Emmeline to go.

Arguing seemed like a foolish idea, so Emmeline marked her place in her book, set the volume aside, and waited. Mama sniffed.

“But cooping you up in the house will do no good at all. You had better be seen out and about town. Have you any of your allowance yet?”

“Yes, Mama,” Emmeline answered obediently. Withholding her allowance was Mama’s favourite punishment, second only to locking the library and taking away her daughter’s books, so Emmeline saved her money as carefully as she hid her favourite volumes.

“Good. Buy yourself a new bonnet. Green or blue, I think. Nothing too fussy, for frills do not become you, but nothing excessively plain either. Do you understand? Ask Sophia to advise you. She has good taste, at least.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Mama gave a grunt and a nod. “Well, then, you had better dress for your outing. Your friend is waiting in the foyer. Apparently, she means to walk. A ridiculous notion, for it only serves to remind everyone that her father keeps but one carriage. You had better take your parasol. I will not have you arriving at the next ball with your complexion ruined by the sun.”

Emmeline’s heart jumped at the prospect of a whole afternoon away from her mother and the dead-still house. Still, she tried not to show her excitement. That would be tempting fate, and she did not want to risk having this treat snatched away.

“Of course, Mama,” she answered, as mildly as she could manage.

A very few moments later, armed with a parasol and a heavy yellow cloak, Emmeline scrambled down the stairs. As promised, Sophia waited for her, with a maid in tow, looking very pretty in a white sprigged muslin and matching shawl.

Her face brightened when she saw her friend.

“I’m so glad you got permission to come with me,” she whispered, looping an arm through Emmeline’s. “I have so much to tell you.”

As they walked, Sophia talked without pause. Mr Grafton, or Edward, as she had shyly begun to call him in the privacy of her own thoughts, had indeed called upon her the day after the ball.

“He’s just the ideal sort of man,” she sighed. “He’s kind, thoughtful, amusing, and so very handsome. I should be here all day if I were to list his virtues. I’m quite captivated by him, Emmie. Oh, I know what you are going to say. I can tell by your face.”

“You always do know what I’m thinking,” Emmeline chuckled.

“You mean to tell me that I am rushing headlong into this, and that it is unwise to let one’s affections become engaged too soon. You are right, I know, but I cannot seem to help myself.”

“It’s true, it can be a poor idea for a woman to fall in love,” Emmeline admitted, “but I am not so practical as to believe affection has no place in marriage. Respect and esteem alone are not sufficient grounds for a union, in my opinion. And Mr Grafton does seem very fond of you. Do you think he will declare himself soon?”

“I certainly hope so. The waiting is intolerable. Oh, I wish we women were permitted to speak plainly. I should much rather talk to him myself and have the matter settled between us. It would spare us both a great deal of uncertainty, and yet Society would never forgive me for being so bold.”

“It is unfair,” Emmeline agreed with a sigh. “I suppose you must simply be patient. A pity patience has never been among your accomplishments.”

Sophia nudged her friend with her elbow. “You are too much.”

“I can hardly deny it,” Emmeline said with a chuckle. “Apparently, even Lord Wolendale agrees. He has not called.”

“And you are disappointed by this?” Sophia asked, regarding her narrowly.

“No, of course not, but Mama is nigh on unbearable. She says that I have lost my final chance at marriage, and I daresay she is right. Who wants to marry a wallflower who’s been through three Seasons? I can hardly blame the gentlemen.”

“Well, I do,” Sophia responded, outraged. “You are a fine catch, Emmie. You are clever, and funny, and beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have you.”

Emmeline managed a smile, but it turned out more bittersweet than she had intended.

“Thank you, my friend,” she said softly, squeezing the arm still looped through hers. “But enough of all that. You have more to tell me about Mr Grafton, I can tell. And I am keen to hear it.”

Almost at once, Sophia brightened, a smile creeping across her face.

“Oh, he is the most amusing man. Only the other day, he…” she launched into some anecdote of the fellow’s cleverness, and Emmeline listened as good-naturedly as she could. Mr Grafton did seem like a fine match for Sophia. He was rich and well connected, but more to the point, he was kind and sweet and seemed to have genuine affection for her. She had as much chance of being happy as anybody else.

But once Sophia was married, Emmeline would lose her last friend. Of course, they would not stop being friends once she was wed, but things changed; everybody knew that. Sophia would have a married woman’s duties. She would have parties and dinners to plan, a husband’s moods to manage, a house to maintain, and, very shortly, children to care for. With the best will in the world, she would simply not have so much time for Emmeline. There’d be no impromptu shopping trips, no long lunches, no afternoon teas.

That was the way of the world, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. Swallowing, Emmeline tried to put this miserable thought behind her. It was simply what happened when a woman remained unmarried. Unless she was remarkably lucky, blessed with a large and loving family, and of course a hefty fortune, life simply left her behind.

They reached Bond Street, and the hustle and bustle put all maudlin thoughts from her mind. The two women wove their way along the crowded pavements, dodging filthy puddles and the splashes of mud-water and dust from passing carriages.

When walking on the pavement, the carriages seemed somehow twice as large as usual, great rattly things that stormed past, all noise and weight, making the ground shake and conversation impossible. Several times, Emmeline raised her voice to say something to Sophia, only to give up. They would talk when they were in the modiste’s, she supposed. Most London shops put in good glass windows, if they could afford it, to muffle the sound of the street.

“Buy a flower, missis? Nice, fresh flower,” begged a thin-looking girl, stepping out of an alleyway as Emmeline walked by. She held up a faintly wilted posy and stared up at her with such a miserable expression that Emmeline nearly reached for her reticule. Sophia tutted and dragged her on, whereupon the girl spat deliberately on the ground after them, barely missing their hems.

“You’d better not give her money,” Sophia whispered. “She’ll only spend it on drink. Or worse, be forced to give it to her father or brother, or whoever shelters her now. It’ll be wasted, I assure you.”

“But she looks so very sad,” Emmeline murmured regretfully.

“I know, my dear. It is sad. But we can’t help her.”

If I had money and a powerful husband, I could, Emmeline thought to herself, but was careful not to say the thought aloud. I could open a charity. I could help girls and women like her get away from their masters, if they wished it, or at the very least escape poverty.

No one deserves to live in poverty, whatever their faults.

Abruptly, Sophia paused, frowning.

“Oh, goodness, I’ve made a mistake. This isn’t the modiste’s side of the road at all. We have to cross the street. Now, we’d better hurry, it’s particularly busy at this time of day.”

Busy felt like an understatement. Emmeline eyed the churning mud of the roadway, flattened and chewed up further by countless wagon wheels and horses’ hooves. The carts and carriages thundered by in both directions, with barely a space between them. Emmeline swallowed.

“Is there nowhere safer to cross?”

“Not that I can see,” Sophia sighed. She summoned her maid beside her, and they gathered themselves on the edge of the pavement. Emmeline stood beside them, glancing up and down the busy road with trepidation. There was no way any of the cart drivers or coachmen would stop to let them by. They would have to choose a space between the vehicles and make a run for it. But if they misjudged, they…

“Now,” Sophia cried, and rushed forward. Her maid followed, puffing away. Emmeline had a brief choice. She could stay on the pavement and move when she was ready, or she could hurry after her friend now.

She chose the latter, stepping over the edge of the pavement only one beat behind.

At least, she tried to step off the pavement. Instead, a man cannoned into her, knocking her forward. She nearly lost her balance, tumbling head-first into the muddy street, but saved herself at the last moment.

That was not the worst of it, however. Emmeline clearly felt the thin straps of her reticule, previously clutched in her hand, tug around her wrist. They gave almost at once. Snap.

And then the man was off, leaving only the foul scent of unwashed bodies and tobacco. And, of course, with her reticule.

“Thief,” Emmeline gasped, frozen to the spot in shock. “He just…”

Before she could recover, another man rushed past her, presumably in pursuit of the thief. His shoulder bumped hers, hard. Balanced as she was on the edge, she really had no chance.

Emmeline toppled back into thin air, arms wheeling. With a sickening squish, she landed on her side in the inches-deep mud, foul-smelling. At once, she gagged. The mud stunk of horse droppings, urine, rotten fruit and all the awful things her mind could conjure.

Pain exploded through her shoulder and temple.

I must have hit my head, she thought dizzily, trying to bring her limbs underneath her to get herself to her feet.

It was no use; her muscles had turned to jelly. She was faintly aware of somebody calling her name, perhaps Sophia, but her head was pounding and pain blurred her vision. Emmeline forced herself up onto her hands and knees, but she slipped in the mud, falling again and this time cracking her chin on a hidden cobblestone.

Pain exploded through her face, and her teeth clicked together so hard she thought one might crack.

Someone cursed as a cart swerved past, lurching perilously onto two wheels in an effort to avoid her.

“Out of the road, girl! Do you want to die?” the driver bellowed as the cart rattled past.

Emmeline shook her head, trying to shake the stars out of her eyes. She drew in a ragged breath and tried once more to force herself to her feet. This time, a stabbing pain in her ribs knocked her down again, forcing the breath out of her body.

Somebody shouted. A horse neighed. She glanced up, and saw a wide, four-horse carriage bearing down on her. It was moving fast, rather too fast for a busy Bond Street road. The driver sat so high up on the seat that she couldn’t even see him. Could he see her? No, probably not.

This is it, Emmeline thought faintly. Her limbs had gone stiff. She had only been in the road for two or three seconds, and yet time seemed to stretch out into nothing, lasting forever.

I’m going to die here. I’m going to get run over by a carriage on Bond Street, with half of London crowding around.

Mama will be furious at the embarrassment. And then she’ll have to organise my funeral with the money she set aside for my wedding. She’ll be even more angry at that.

The carriage was almost on her now. Emmeline felt as though she were glued to the ground. Pain half-blinded her, and she closed her eyes.

I suppose it would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Run down in the Bond Street mud by a carriage driving much too quickly.

She opened her mouth, quite without meaning to, and screamed at the top of her lungs.