Deb Marlowe - Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom

She glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. The boy’s gaze followed. His engaging smile faded.

Jack managed a grim nod. ‘There, Miss Beecham,’ he said, keeping his tone brisk. ‘Perhaps this young man will take you back to my mother while I find the footman seeking me? Thank you for informing me of the message awaiting me.’

The boy’s grin returned at the welcome request. ‘I would be happy to escort you, Miss Beecham. Mr Bartleigh is but newly arrived, but he tells us you have more than a passing knowledge of many of the older broadsheet ballads. He’s hoping you’ll share your rendition of “Ballynamony”.’

She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should not.’ She glanced at Jack again, and this time there was a challenge glittering in her eyes. ‘So many of the ballads are sentimental. I should not wish to expose myself to ridicule.’

‘Never say such a thing! A lovely young lady such as yourself, in genial company such as this? Impossible,’ he scoffed. ‘And should anyone dare to suggest otherwise, I will deal with them myself.’

Jack’s jaw clenched. Miss Beecham smiled up at her young admirer.

He had to escape. Logic whispered fervently in his ear again and this time he paid heed. Logic stood correct and unassailable as always. He should feel grateful for the boy’s interruption, not ready and willing to strangle both him and the baiting chit.

‘Miss Beecham—’ he could not look directly at her ‘—thank you for your kindness in coming for me. Please convey my farewells to my mother?’

‘Of course. Goodnight, Mr Alden.’

He ignored the thread of steel in her voice and brushed past them into the hall. He did indeed go searching for a footman and sent the man off after his coat and hat.

He should be thrilled. He’d accomplished the first step and verified Miss Beecham’s connection to his target. Now he only had to wait for him to communicate with her, or he might even prod her into discovering her cousin’s whereabouts. She might even know more, such as where the shipbuilder might have gone when he disappeared.

He was not thrilled. The vague restlessness that had been plaguing him roiled in his gut, transformed into something altogether uglier. He’d had a narrow escape tonight, on several levels. This could not continue. He must control himself around the girl, no matter what tender emotions lived in her blue eyes and in spite of that damned tempting mouth of hers.

Control. Restraint. They were his allies, his support, as necessary to his existence as air. He breathed deep. He could do this. Hell, he’d already spent a lifetime doing this.

The footman brought his things. As he shrugged into his coat, the first few strains of a sprightly song began in the music room. Miss Beecham’s bright, lilting voice wafted out and over him.

Wherever I’m going, and all the day long,

At home and abroad, or alone in a Throng,

I find that my Passion’s so lively and strong,

That your Name when I’m silent still runs in my Song.

Jack placed his hat firmly on his head and walked out.

Lady Dayle’s morning room shone bright and airy, as warm and welcoming as the viscountess herself. Unfortunately, Lily’s mood did not reflect the serenity of her surroundings. She sat at the dainty writing desk, trying to compose a letter to her land steward.

Last night’s conversation had triggered the idea. She’d spoken of her cousin Matthew to Mr Alden and she’d woken this morning with a sudden longing for one of his breezy, affectionate letters. She’d realised that it had been quite some time since she’d last heard from him and resolved to ask Mr Albright to forward any personal mail on to London. Perhaps a lighthearted, teasing missive from America awaited her even now.

She hoped it was so. She could use a bolster to her confidence. She’d thought she’d come to London to find culture and learning and to broaden her experience. She’d begun to realise, however, that what she was truly looking for was acceptance, the casual sort of recognition and approval that most people experienced on a daily basis. She had found it, too, and from some truly amazing and worthy people.

But she had not found it in Jack Alden. She had seen flashes of approval from him, to be sure, and flares of something altogether darker, more dangerous and intriguing. But there had also been wariness and reserve and something that might be suspicion. And it was driving her mad.

The why of it eluded her. Perhaps because she had spoken truly last night—they were alike in some deeply elemental way. They both stood slightly apart from the rest of the world. The difference between them was that he seemed perfectly content with his situation. But her reaction made not a whit of sense. She both wished to achieve such serenity and, for some reason, wished whole-heartedly to shake him from his.

She sighed. She very much feared that it was for an altogether more common reason that she found herself fixating on him. He had been on the verge of kissing her last night. She’d guessed his intent and her heart had soared, her pulse had ratcheted and she had waited, breathless, for the touch of his mouth on hers. When they had been interrupted she had been frightened, and wildly disappointed.

Later, though, in the privacy of her own room, she had been appalled at her own behaviour and angry at his. Was he so far removed from the world that kissing a young woman in a public venue meant nothing? But, no, then she had remembered how brilliantly—and smoothly—he had covered their almost-transgression. And when she thought further on it, she realised that in actuality she had goaded him into it. He wore his cynicism and reserve like a protective shell and she had not been able to curb her desire to pierce it. She knew she should have shown more restraint, but she’d been left vulnerable by Mrs Bartleigh’s news. When he’d shown a bit of his own vulnerability she had overreacted. She’d taken the conversation to too intimate a level, pushed too far, got too close.

And he’d pushed back, struck out with his heated gaze and warm, wandering hands. Even now she couldn’t help wishing she had discovered a few more of the weapons in his sensual arsenal.

‘Good morning, cousin!’ a voice rang out.

Lily started nearly out of her chair, an instant flush rising. She turned to find Miss Dawson advancing across the room towards her.

‘Oh, goodness! Good morning, Minerva.’ She took up her still-blank sheet of paper and began to fan herself with it. ‘You look lovely today!’

Minerva Dawson laughed, her eyebrow cocked as she clasped Lily’s hand in her own. ‘As do you, my dear. Something has put a beautiful hue to your cheeks. Do tell!’

‘Oh, no, I am merely writing a note for my land steward.’

‘So I see,’ her friend said, glancing at the empty sheets in her hand and in front of her. ‘Well, are you ready to shop? Mother gave me firm instructions. I am to find the perfect pair of gloves to wear to my engagement ball—elbow length and ivory. Not white, not ecru, but ivory.’

‘I shall be ready to go in just a moment—if you would wait while I finish?’

Minerva rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, if I must.’

Lily laughed. ‘You know, Minerva, that I am thrilled that you found a familial connection between us, even if it is a distant relationship through marriage and largely born of your imagination—’ she grinned to take the sting from her words ‘—but I do not think everyone in your family is as well pleased with such a link.’ She gestured for her friend to sit and joined her in the comfortable grouping of chairs near the window. ‘In fact, I think your aunt disapproves of me.’