“You should have told me about this confrontation sooner!” Crispin grimaced as he examined the bruises on her arm.

“I’m fine,” Amelia assured him, pushing his hand away and readjusting the sleeve of her gown so the marks would not be visible.

“Amelia, the bastard threatened you.”

“And I threatened him.” She sniffed, trying to pass herself off as unaffected by her recent encounter with her former guardian, but Crispin saw right through her.

He tsked. “Darling, you couldn’t deliver a threat if your life depended on it.” She scowled at him, and his mouth compressed. “I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words. But you know I’m right. Sir Clarence won’t stop pushing you into another marriage. Not if it can benefit him in some way.”

She knew where this conversation was leading. It took Crispin another few minutes of hedging before he finally came to the point.

“Amelia, you know Martin wanted me to watch over you in case anything happened to him. I think we should revisit our discussion about that. Sir Clarence can’t force you to marry anyone if you are already wed to another.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Crispin, I can’t marry you.”

“Why not? It’s the most reasonable solution. We’re close friends, and we understand each other’s needs.”

“I’m aware of all this. But…I don’t want to live in England.”

He snorted softly. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“What does that mean?” she asked in annoyance.

“Just last week I was actively dissuading you from traveling abroad. But now you seem ensconced in town. And something tells me it has little do with my scintillating company or the perils of travel abroad.”

He appeared about to say something else when the coach stopped. In another moment, the coachman had opened the door. “We’ll finish this discussion later. We’re here.”

Here was the Ashton’s bash. Though smaller gatherings often proceeded it, this annual event was considered the official start of the ton’s social season.

“Are you sure I should even be here?” Amelia asked. “I wasn’t invited.”

The Duke of Ashton was part of the old guard, a paragon of propriety and social decorum. His party was attended by everyone and, to date, Amelia had avoided large crowds, particularly when she was unsure of her reception.

“Well, I was invited. By now, everyone knows I am your escort to all the ton’s functions. Everyone expects you to be on my arm, so have no fear. Just stay close to me. No more private conferences with dashing earls or despotic former guardians,” he said exiting the carriage and turning to hand her down. “By the way, you never mentioned how Sir Clarence lured you to the maze, only that he used some form of trickery.”

She took his arm and leaned into him. “He had Mrs. Spencer write me a note. Sir Clarence caught me by surprise. I did not expect him to attend such a function,” she replied, omitting one salient detail.

Come to think of it, I really should not have expected Gideon there either. She had been foolish.

Crispin hummed, continuing to eye her suspiciously before resuming his assurances that all would be well. In the same breath, he warned her against straying from his sight. “Don’t worry. We’re making a fashionable entrance—the receiving line should be long over. We will simply slip inside and blend in with the crush.”

Amelia took his warnings to heart once they were circulating through the crowd inside. She had no desire to leave the shelter of his side.

La belle monde was gathered in all their finery, their sly glances and little barbs as polished as any weapon. Amelia smiled stiffly and tried to ignore the attention they were garnering, but the whispering started almost immediately. A few of the less discreet women of the ton pointed at her from behind the safety of their fans. Men looked down their noses at her. A few stared at her so lasciviously she felt exposed even though her gown’s neckline was far more modest than most others in the room.

Feigning gaiety as best she could, she ate, drank champagne, and conversed with those polite enough to give her and her champion a civil greeting. Eventually, she forgot the crowd as the novelty of her appearance wore off, allowing her to feel the tedium of such events.

Despite Crispin’s enthusiasm for them, Amelia detested balls. The conversations were all superficial, pointless discussions on fashion or the weather.

At one point, Crispin was compelled to dance by a particularly aggressive young miss in her second season, Cecily Chisholm, the daughter of an impoverished baron, who nevertheless had impeccable family connections.

“Go,” she ordered, accepting the glass of punch he had just fetched her. She rather liked Cecily, who was refreshingly forthright. “I will not stir from this spot, I promise.”

“Very well,” he relented, offering his arm to Cecily with a charming, if somewhat forced, smile.

Amelia hovered at the edge of the dance floor, her eyes fixed on the whirling figures. Looking neither right nor left, she studiously avoided making eye contact with anyone. However, her refusal to engage only prodded her detractors to action. A figure swathed in lilac satin barreled into her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the smug-looking matron who had spilled the contents of her wine glass on her exclaimed loudly. Several heads turned in their direction.

Amelia’s lips parted as she stared down at the stain spreading across the front of her dark blue skirts. Clamping her teeth together, she schooled her expression into one of bored serenity. She racked her brain for the woman’s name.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Everly. I have hundreds of gowns like it,” she exaggerated.

The flash of annoyance that crossed Lady Everly’s face was the only satisfaction Amelia was likely to get. Normally she did not flaunt her wealth, but reminding the ton she possessed it might help to shield her. At the least, it might silence some of the tongues whispering she killed her husband for his money, as he had none outside of what she had provided him.

Before Lady Everly could think of a reply, Amelia moved away. She retreated to the ladies’ withdrawing room, repairing her appearance as best she could.

Lingering, she took advantage of the relative emptiness of the inner chamber to shore up her emotional defenses. Amelia had been aware that these parties would be a trial of endurance. She’d thought herself prepared, but, in truth, she was barely coping. At times like these, she wondered why she was subjecting herself to the slights and slurs of society, despite Crispin’s opinion.

The viscount was adamant Martin would not want her to lock herself away. He faulted her for her solitary nature. Crispin insisted she needed to mix with others, assuring her once the ton grew accustomed to her presence they would stop entertaining such dark suspicions. She merely needed to brazen it out.

There was a logic to his advice, but given Crispin’s repeated offers of marriage, she wondered at his motive. She knew he did not love her…but he did need to marry and produce an heir. Under the circumstances, it was quite natural he would want to marry her.

In this light, forcing her social rehabilitation served a dual purpose. His was not a large estate, but his title was old and venerable. His future wife could not be a social pariah.

“Did you see her?” A loud nasal voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I saw what Lady Everly did. I could not believe it!”

“I can, and wonder she did not do worse. She is Mapleton’s cousin, after all.”

Amelia turned, pressing herself against the wall next to the doorframe. Who was Mapleton and why was Lady Everly tormenting her on his behalf?

Peeking through the opening, she spotted two females in white muslin. Both appeared very young. She would have pegged them as green girls in the midst of their first season if not for the venom spewing from their lips.

The taller hawk-nosed girl leaned down to her shorter rosy-cheeked companion. “Mapleton is planning on confronting her. He thinks it’s shameful she’s invited to all the functions. I can’t wait to see the look on her face!” A nasty giggle followed.

So Lady Everly’s attack would not be all she had to endure this night. And to think, the season is just beginning. How much of this would she be subjected to? Hadn’t losing Martin been bad enough?

Ignoring the tremor that ran through her, Amelia inhaled deeply and picked up her skirts. She counted to a beat of three and then glided past the two debutantes, nodding at them coolly as she passed. Their mouths dropped open and the shorter one gasped, but she didn’t stop to speak to them.

Amelia hoped Crispin had finished his dance with Miss Chisholm. They needed to leave. She was officially at the end of her tether.

The crowd prevented her from reaching the dance floor with any speed. By the time she reached the spot where Lady Everly had accosted her, sweat was trickling down her spine. She felt as if she had pushed her way through a hostile mob. The stares and sneers had followed her across the entire ballroom. Any minute now, they would start throwing their champagne glasses in lieu of stones.

Her composure hanging from a thread, Amelia scanned the dance floor for Crispin’s blond head. There were several men of that description, and she was having trouble identifying him. Her small stature worked against her there. Pivoting on her heel, she was turning to head toward the balcony when a hand grabbed her arm—the part bruised by Sir Clarence.

The unfamiliar black-haired man seemed to take satisfaction in her wince, although he had to be aware his hold was not tight enough to be painful.

“Madame, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mapleton,” he said coldly.

Smiling sweetly, she jerked her arm out his grip. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but you are a stranger to me, sir.”

The corner of his mouth curled up. “I was acquainted with your husband at Abingdon.”

Amelia hummed, her temper flaring. “Really? He spoke warmly of his schoolmates, but he never mentioned you.”

The skin above Mapleton’s snowy-white cravat began to redden. “We were friends.”

“Is that so? How odd. Your name is completely unfamiliar to me, and he spoke often of his friends from school.”

It was the truth. Martin had never mentioned anyone of that name or this man’s description.

The man shuffled his feet. “Yes, well, the fact remains I did attend school with him. I was in the year ahead,” he said, the self-righteous tone losing a little steam.

Mapleton was clearly annoyed at having his public set-down interrupted by little details, like having to explain who the hell he was.

“But you were not close friends,” Amelia asserted, cocking her head. “Or I would have received a note from you when he passed,” she added.

The skin above Mapleton’s cravat was a dull shade of purple now.

“Why would I write to a—”

“Nor did you write earlier to congratulate us on our marriage or I would have seen the letter,” she interrupted, snapping her fan open. “You see, I took care of all my husband’s correspondence and I never forget a name, so no, you were not very good friends at all, were you?”

Mapleton’s entire face was purple now. Around them, heads turned. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the man raised a finger and waved it in her face.

He opened his mouth to speak—or shout—but he snapped it shut when someone collided with him.

“Amelia, here is the punch you asked for. Oh, sorry Mapleton. Didn’t see you there,” Crispin said hurriedly as he upended a glass of fruit punch all over the man’s bright yellow waistcoat.

Apparently, Crispin had decided to take a page out of Lady Everly’s book. Mapleton sputtered, his hands going to the damage. The viscount took advantage of his distraction to whisk her away. However, their escape was blocked by the crush of people who’d gathered close to witness her humiliation firsthand.

The strains of a waltz almost drowned out Mapleton’s vicious swear. Crispin continued to smile as if nothing was amiss. He bent and loudly asked her to partner him on the dance floor.

“No,” a deep voice interrupted. “This dance is mine.”

Amelia whirled and looked up. Her heart leapt at the sight of Gideon, his golden-brown head haloed by the candlelight.

She blinked and smiled, finding it necessary to remind herself Gideon was not an avenging angel coming to her rescue.

Although he resembles one. Compared to the other men in the room, his clothing was cut plainly and severely. His black coat and pants set off a crisp white shirt. A single pin adorned his breast, but with his height and the breadth of his shoulders, bright colors or more jewelry would have been overwhelming.

Gideon stood a full head taller than Mapleton, but he didn’t need to use his superior size or strength to intervene. One cold glare was sufficient to stop Mapleton in his tracks.

Cutting in front of Crispin, Gideon swept her onto the dance floor before either man could react.

The people blocking the floor were forced to move in the face of the earl’s authority. He guided her through the throng until enough space was cleared for them to dance. After a few turns, other couples joined them.

It no longer mattered that everyone was staring at them. She was in Gideon’s arms. She held on tight, the familiar lines of his face blurring with her tears.

He tsked. “Here now, we’ll have none of that,” he murmured, his thumb caressing her waist in a small show of comfort.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” He seemed amused. “From what I could see, you were doing a credible job of defending yourself.” He whirled her through a tight turn before continuing. “But I’m sorry you were subjected to that scene with Mapleton and his busybody of a cousin, Lady Everly, in the first place. Had I been closer, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

He trailed off, suddenly distracted. “Or this…”

Amelia glanced down. Somehow during one of the turns, her sleeve had shifted, revealing the dark line of bruises Sir Clarence’s grip had left on her white skin.

For an instant, rage burned in Gideon’s deep brown eyes, but it was gone the next second.

Amelia blinked, confused. If she hadn’t been studying him so closely, she would have missed the flash of emotion. Now his face was a mask, one so perfectly controlled most others wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss.

However, she was not most others. “Gideon?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive.

It was not fear she was feeling. She could not possibly be afraid of him, but she was suddenly unsure. The youth she had known was open, guileless. Gideon had changed.

“Who did that to you?” he asked softly, his head tilted to indicate her bruises.

Amelia racked her mind. Though Gideon and Sir Clarence did not precisely enjoy an amicable relationship there was no sense in borrowing trouble. “Mapleton took my arm just now.”

“No.”

Gideon’s tone was low and his face remained impassive, but she sensed his frustration with her answer. “Those marks are old. Several days at least.”

When she didn’t reply, he increased the pressure of his hold on her, not enough to hurt her but to hold her more securely. Already giddy and emotionally exhausted, it took active restraint to keep from collapsing into his arms.

“It’s nothing. Old business.” Amelia’s smile was careless, masking her misgiving and discomfort at having to dissemble with him—the one person she wanted most to confide in.

Instead, she let her pleasure in his company warm her expression, leaning closer to him. “Gideon, I really must thank you for dancing with me again.”

“Again?” He frowned.

She beamed at him. “Don’t you remember? We danced a few times that summer Martin was studying with Fontaine, the French dancing master.”

The memory must have surfaced because his expression lightened. “Oh, yes.”

His eyes narrowed, a devilish twinkle in his eye. “Although I seem to recall you hid when the man would come around.”

“Well…you and Martin were taking turns crushing my toes. I hid to preserve my ability to walk. I’m pleased to see your skill has considerably improved since then.”

His lips twitched. “Hmm, yes. I forget exactly when it was, but there came a point when I decided dancing was a useful skill to have.”

Amelia laughed. “It was probably when you realized all those village girls expected you to partner with them at those local assemblies…”

Though he smiled in response, his expression was distant. “Actually, I believe it was much later.”

“In any case, I am grateful,” she rasped, looking down to avoid his too-perceptive gaze.

“It’s just a waltz, cousin.”

It was much more…and he knew it. By coming to her rescue and sharing a dance with her, he was publicly declaring his belief in her innocence. As one of Martin’s closest relations, the gesture could not be disregarded or ignored.

Though Gideon was new to his title, he was a powerful man. Not only was he a major landholder, but if what Crispin said was true, Gideon also possessed a dangerous reputation. Few in the ton would dare cross him. From what she’d just witnessed, the anger so quickly and efficiently hidden—it was starting to dawn on her he might have earned that reputation.

“Amelia, you know you can tell me anything. I will keep your confidence.”

Her lips parted, the temptation to do that overwhelming. But the weight of all her secrets was too much. She closed her mouth.

Gideon reluctantly released her as the song ended. “Perhaps in time,” he murmured, surprising her with a surfeit of patience he hadn’t possessed as a youth.

He bowed and offered his arm, walking her off the dance floor. “Incidentally, Martin did mention Mapleton to me once. It was while he was still at school.”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

He bent to whisper conspiratorially. “Martin said he was a self-satisfied prig that secretly picked his nose when he thought no one was looking.”

Her levity returning, Amelia giggled, watching Crispin out of the corner of her eye as he rushed to join them.

“Regrettably, we must leave,” the viscount announced breathlessly as he reached their side. “I promised to make an appearance at the Duquesne ball,” he added with a reasonable facsimile of regret and a charming grin.

“Of course.” Gideon inclined his head, his inflection as correct and unconcerned as Crispin’s. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Still marveling over Gideon’s new air of self-mastery, Amelia waved goodbye, allowing herself to be ushered away. But once they were inside Crispin’s carriage, she pleaded exhaustion and asked to be taken home instead.

“It has been an eventful night,” Crispin agreed with bright eyes, directing his driver to change course.

For the remainder of the drive, he marveled at Gideon’s chivalrous behavior, prattling on about how she now had the upper hand in the ton thanks to the earl. His gratitude was not enough, however, to stop the admonishments about taking the man into her confidence.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t forsaken all caution, my friend,” she assured him before bidding him good night.

Amelia walked to her door slowly, feigning fatigue. In truth, she felt energized, her heart and mind fully occupied. She opened her door and dismissed her butler.

“Will you want the fire in your room, ma’am?” he asked before retiring.

“No, thank you, Adolfo. Go on to bed,” she said, sending him on his way.

He bowed and headed for the servants’ quarters.

Too restless to retire to her room, she made her way to her private parlor. She crossed the room to open the windows, still humming the tune of tonight’s waltz.

That’s odd.

Amelia straightened, examining the glass panes of the open casement. She traced her finger over the surface. Though the house was relatively new, the glass in the panes looked different from when she’d seen them last. Now it had waves and ripples in it, the kind found in the windows of much older manor houses.

It was as if the glass had melted somehow. Amelia frowned. In her father’s old texts, she’d read that glass was melted sand, and though it appeared solid, it still had some of the attributes of a liquid. Over prolonged periods of time, glass revealed its liquid nature, by warping and running…except this morning, the glass had been clear. This house was only about a decade old. Nor had the window glass been exposed to a fire.

Perhaps she had drunk too much champagne at the ball. Rubbing her head, she debated on ringing for tea, but the hour was late and the staff had all gone to sleep. Instead, she pulled a favorite novel off a nearby shelf and settled on her settee to read.

It was all a pretense, however. Amelia could not even be honest with herself. All she wanted was to close her eyes and pretend she was still dancing with Gideon. Perhaps if she relived that moment in her mind she could create an imprint of the sensation, a treasured memory she could take out and examine when she was in her dotage.

Absently, she reached out to set the book on the adjoining table, laughing over her own clumsiness when the book tumbled to the floor. She bent and picked it up, frowning as she set it on the wooden surface.

Someone had moved the table. No. Someone had moved her settee. It was no longer in the same alignment with the fireplace.

Amelia stood and examined the furniture. There were no marks in the rug showing the settee had been moved. Which meant the rug had been moved as well. The Aubusson carpet was quite large, extending more than half the length of the room. It would have taken several servants to shift it.

She pivoted on her heel, taking in the whole room. It wasn’t just the settee or the carpet. Her desk, the sofa, and all the end tables had also been moved. Even the smaller objects had shifted. Vases, books, pens. Their locations were the same in most cases, but they were now off by less than an inch.

Either the maids had been overzealous with their dusting, or…The door. The door was also in a different place.

Apprehension prickled her skin. How was this possible?

It had to be her imagination. A doorway couldn’t move. But she knew the dimensions of this room like the lines of her own hand. The entrance had been several inches to the left, slightly off center from the decorative flower in the molding above. Now the edge of the doorjamb was aligned with that flower.

Wait. The heavy shelf in the corner could not have moved. It was built into the wall. But her eyes did not deceive her. It, too, had been repositioned. She could see the gap next to it—and it was growing before her eyes.

Amelia inhaled sharply, trying desperately to get enough air into her lungs. The room was no longer static. It appeared to swell, the walls ballooning out, furniture scraping the floor as it expanded.

She tried to scream, but no sound came out. There was no air in her lungs. Her fear was literally choking her.

The last thing Amelia remembered was the pattern of the carpet as it rose to meet her face.