Deb Marlowe - Her Cinderella Season

The farewells were made. Lily returned the viscountess’s embrace and agreed to meet to make plans on the morrow. She approached her son with a cautious step and a wary glance. ‘Mr Alden, I scarcely know what to say to you.’

She flinched a little at the disapproval she glimpsed in his expression. But then she squared her shoulders. She had faced disapprobation nearly every day for years. Why should his stab any deeper?

‘Thank you for everything that you have done for me today,’ she said with a smile, ‘Even though I’m sure some of it was quite unintentional.’

He bowed. ‘I am very happy to have met you, Miss Beecham. It has been an…interesting experience.’

Once again he had donned that impenetrable mask. It saddened her, this barrier that she could not breach. Earlier today he had handled a difficult situation with humour and ease. But now he only looked worldly and cynical. How disappointing. He obviously possessed a great mind. She suspected he also possessed a sense of justice, perhaps even a thoughtful nature, but how could she know for sure?

This was her chance. Lily knew there would still be restrictions, but she could not suppress this glorious feeling of freedom . For a few weeks she would be able to relax, to give her true nature free rein. Perhaps if she was very lucky she might even find a position, or, she blushed, a suitor. Anything to supplant her mother’s idea for her future.

Lily knew she owed Mr Alden for this chance, and, indeed, she was grateful. But staring into his closed countenance, she knew she had no time to waste on him.

‘Goodbye,’ she whispered. She turned wistfully away and followed her mother out the door.

Lady Dayle chattered happily for a few minutes after her guests had left. Jack listened to her, content to see her so excited about the coming weeks. When the servants came in to clear, he rose, kissed her goodbye and let the butler show him out. The door clicked closed behind him. Jack stood for a long moment on the step, breathing deep in the cold evening air.

The girl was from Dorset. He was going to do it—he was going to find Matthew Beecham, who would lead him to Batiste. He no longer knew if it was truly justice he sought, or some twisted sort of redemption. He no longer cared. He was going to quiet the roiling furore that had turned his existence upside down.

It would take some delicate manoeuvring, he was sure. He was going to have to proceed very carefully. He was more than a little disturbed by his own actions. Right now he stood, evaluating his options with reason and purpose. That had not been the case in there.

He’d done what he could to manipulate the situation in his favour. And he’d succeeded. But one minute he’d been speaking like a man of sense and the next Lily Beecham had been glaring at him with accusation in her lovely face.

It had done something to him. His brain had shut down with a nearly audible click . He had spoken up to fix the situation with her goal in mind as much as his, and with an overwhelming desire to remove the wealth of hurt in her eyes.

It was a very dangerous precedent. It had been an unthinking response, an action dictated by emotion . Clearly this was a very dangerous girl.

Yet having recognised his weakness, he was armed against it. He would proceed, as he always did, with logic and reason as his weapons. And a healthy dose of caution as his shield.

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