EMILIA STOOD TO ONE side of the candlelight-bathed foyer of Lady Peddington’s School. She studied the carved wood panels and endeavored to project serene confidence. She knew it was improper, perhaps even brazen, to lurk in the foyer in wait of a man, but she dared not enter the ballroom without her protector.

That he would arrive, she had no doubt. That afternoon, one of the school’s maids, Mary, had delivered a bouquet of pink gillyflowers to Emilia’s room. With the flowers was a note that read, Wear these in your hair tonight - SS. As she’d sent a sketch of herself, the flowers were an insult to her artistic skills, but one she would willingly swallow to have someone by her side to fend off another kiss from Viscount Dunreid.

Each time the school’s stone-faced butler opened the ornate front door to admit more gentlemen, hope coursed through her. Any one of them could be her savior, Sir Stirling James. Each time said gentleman walked past without slowing, her heart fell.

Had she missed him? Earlier, Emilia had glimpsed Viscount Dunreid as he ascended the steps and she ducked into the cloakroom once, much to the shock of the footmen. She hadn’t dared come out for several long moments, until multiple cloaks, hats and greatcoats had been stowed. Perhaps Sir Stirling had entered on the viscount’s heels?

Emilia patted the gillyflowers artfully arranged among her blond ringlets and suppressed a sigh. The influx of gentlemen had waned, and none had approached her yet. If she’d missed Sir Stirling, she would have to enter the ballroom to seek him. That risked Dunreid finding her first.

The butler stepped back from the small window he peered out and pulled open the door with a bow. In sauntered four more gentlemen. They handed coats, walking canes and hats to the footman, who handed them to another, to be placed in the cloakroom behind the artfully hidden door built into the paneling.

Hope sprang to life within her as the men turned to cross the foyer. Emilia dropped her gaze demurely to the inlaid floor in an attempt to be noticeable but not noticed. She didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention, after all.

She kept her gaze downcast as four pairs of polished shoes passed by. None slowed. None turned toward her. The gentlemen chatted amiable, obviously friends. Laughter drifted down the hall in their wake, followed by strands of music. The dancing had begun. Somewhere in the ballroom, her three dearest friends likely clustered together, wondering at her odd behavior of late and her absence.

A twinge of guilt stabbed at the thought of them, clad in their finest gowns, clustered near a wall in hopes a gentleman would ask them to dance. Her three friends hadn’t received flowers, and to inquire if they’d received some other assistance risked breaking her promise to Missus Millview. Unsure she could witness her friends’ despair at their lack of partners without confessing, she avoided them.

“Hiding from me, Miss Glasbarr?” a silken masculine voice said behind her.

Emilia stiffened. Dunreid. He’d found her. She remained facing the door. Perhaps her stiff posture and refusal to turn would discourage him.

He stepped up behind her, too close. His overly-musky cologne seared her nostrils. Heat from his body caused her skin to crawl, as if spiders tiptoed across her shoulders. She looked to the servants, but they’d gone still, gazes locked ahead. With a heartsick sensation, she realized they couldn’t stop the viscount, no matter how he elected to torment her.

“You’ve already given me far more sport than my last mistress.” He exhaled the words against the back of her neck with hot, sticky breath.

Emilia suppressed a shudder.

A gloved finger slid along her skin. “Such an elegant neck shouldn’t go unadorned, and won’t once you’re mine. My pockets are deep and I’m not stingy. I know how to reward a woman who pleases me.”

She stepped away to gain much needed space, then faced him. She tilted up her chin. “I shall never please ye, my lord.”

His smile was warped with condescension. “You already do.”

“No, some idea you have of me does, but I never shall.” She bit off the honorific he clearly didn’t deserve.

His gaze narrowed. He reached for her arm. Emilia stepped back. Dunreid’s expression went flat with displeasure. A long stride brought him to her, her wrist captured before she had time to retreat farther.

Behind her, the servants moved, but not to come to her aid. Rather, toward the foyer door, which she could hear the butler open. She prayed Sir Stirling would enter. She tugged against Dunreid. Her efforts only tightened his grip.

A look of condescension on his face, he yanked her toward him. “Don’t forget what I told you.” His voice was low, touched with vitriol. “No one else will have you. They won’t dare dance with you. You have no choice. It’s me, or no man.”

“Then I’ll die an old maid,” she hissed.

“Now, that would be a shame,” a man’s voice said.

Dunreid’s gaze snapped toward a spot over Emilia’s left shoulder. Dislike flickered in his eyes. He released her with a shove. Emilia stumbled back. Strong hands caught her by the waist and kept her upright. They dropped away as a man stepped up beside her.

Heart pounding, Emilia glanced at her savior askance, almost afraid to take her eyes from Dunreid, lest he put his hands on her again. Was this finally Sir Stirling James, come to save her? She certainly hoped so.

He was taller than Dunreid by several inches, and lean. Even out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his sculpted features, the impression of stone made stronger by the rigid set of his jaw. The cut of his dark hair, shorter than was fashionable, suited him. In every other way, from the gleaming diamond pin in his cravat to his perfectly tailored black tailcoat, he was impeccably modish.

Dunreid pulled his lips into the semblance of a smile. “Banbrook, how good to see you. Come to find a young lady to jilt you? Again.”

Banbrook? Jilt him again? Not Sir Stirling, then.

“Not this time, Dunreid.” Mister Banbrook’s voice was as hard as his countenance. “I’ve simply come to thwart you.”

He spoke in a cultured English accent. Not from Edinburgh, then, Emilia realized, as she would have when he first spoke, had she not been fixated on Dunreid. She didn’t have much experience with Englishmen, but he displayed more temper than one expected of them.

“Thwart me?” Dunreid snorted. “As if you could. Put us before a hundred women, and I’ll be chosen over you a hundred times. Why do you set yourself a challenge you will surely lose?”

Emilia could hear the Englishman grind his teeth. “I will not win or lose, merely safeguard this young woman from your advances.”

Dunreid raised his thick brows. “We shall see about that.” He held out a hand to Emilia. “Miss Glasbarr, come dance with me.”

She shook her head. “I will not. Not now, not ever.”

Though she expected anger, Dunreid appeared amused. “So you say, but you’ll soon realize that a man with my class and title can offer you so much more than the likes of Mister Banbrook here. More than you ever dreamed of while whiling away nights in your maidenly bower.” He dropped his gaze to her décolletage.

Emilia brought a hand to her chest and suddenly wished her gown had a higher neckline. Her face burned hot, but she kept her chin up. “I said never, my lord, and I mean never.”

Dunreid shrugged. He dropped his hand and turned his amused look back on Mister Banbrook. “Good luck with this one. She’s got even more fire than Cinthia. Too much spirit for the likes of you.” His grin turned malicious. “Be a good chap and keep her entertained until I’m ready for her—just as you did Cinthia. You’re practiced at that.” He turned and strolled away.

Emilia stared after him. What did his vicious words mean? If she recalled properly, Lady Cinthia was the viscount’s wife. Did this Mister Banbrook know her?

Emilia turned to her savior to ask him, but one glimpse stopped her words. He stood taut as a bowstring, hands balled into fists. His expression was murderous as he watched Dunreid’s retreating form. Though rather handsome, Mister Banbrook was also more than a touch frightening.

She looked around. With the viscount’s exit, they were alone in the ornately paneled foyer, save for the inscrutable servants. Maybe Sir Stirling would still come. Maybe she needed to be saved from two men, for Mister Banbrook looked near violence.

“Shall we consider that a formal introduction, then?” Mister Banbrook asked in a neutral tone.

Emilia shifted her attention back to him. Candlelight flickered across a strong jaw. The eyes regarding her were deep grey, and calm. She blinked, almost convinced she’d imagined his rage of moments ago.

He offered a rueful smile. “I apologize for letting Dunreid aggravate me. I don’t suppose unbridled hatred makes for the best first impression.” He bowed, movements smoothly elegant. “I’m Banbrook. A mutual friend sent me to look after you at this dance, and the next two, if you’ll still have me.”

“Sir—” She broke off and cast a quick look around. The servants hadn’t stood up for her against Dunreid, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t heart, and wouldn’t gossip. “That is, he is no’ coming? He sent you?” Though she’d never met Sir Stirling, she felt oddly bereft.

Mister Banbrook gestured in the direction of the ballroom. “A schoolgirl dance isn’t the sort of place you’re likely to find him.”

“Is it the sort of place I’m likely to find you, Mister Banbrook?”

A startled look crossed his face. He chuckled and the final vestiges of coldness melted from his features. “No, not especially, Miss Glasbarr, but I’m here now, and I would be honored to take a turn about the room with you and introduce you to any gentlemen here I know. That is, the respectable ones.” He offered his arm.

As she had no better option, Emilia lightly rested her hand on his coat sleeve, aware of the hard strength beneath the soft fabric. Sir Stirling hadn’t come, or even sent her a man to marry. Instead, he’d sent Mister Banbrook, who seemed to have his own, quite antagonistic, relationship with Viscount Dunreid. Was Mister Banbrook even there to help her, or had he arrived with his own agenda?

As they walked together down the short corridor, she tried to stifle her unease. Though the expression felt a bit strained, she maintained a polite smile when they entered the ballroom. Heads turned. Men and women alike whispered behind gloved hands and lace fans. Emilia had no notion if the murmurs were directed at her or Mister Banbrook. He showed no concerned, and angled them toward the center of the vast chamber, where a dance had just ended. Couples left the dancefloor, the women a bouquet of pastels, the men a montage from gaudy to drab. New couples surged forward to fill the space.

“Perhaps, to set the example, I should dance with you before we take a turn about the room?” Mister Banbrook asked with casual politeness.

“I should enjoy that,” Emilia replied, her stomach a nervousness knot.

He gave a sharp nod and escorted her to her place in line, then took up the position opposite her. The musicians struck the first notes to an adapted country reel. Emilia’s smile widened into real happiness. The dance was one she knew well, and enjoyed. Much livelier than most choices, the variation was also considerably more fun, and offered no time for chatter. Given the tall, foreboding form across from her, Emilia felt not talking might be a good circumstance.

When the musicians struck the proper note, she skipped forward in time to the beat. She and Mister Banbrook met in the center and clasped hands. They executed a turn, giving her just enough time to notice his strong grip, not limpid like some gentlemen’s, and returned to their corners to permit the next couple to pass. Emilia linked arms with the man to her left. He spun her about slightly out of time, the over-long tails of his mustard-colored coat trailing along behind him.

The next gentleman who took her arm wore a more somber green, and a slightly leering expression, though his step was surer. She was relieved the dance took her back to Mister Banbrook for another turn in the center, between the rows of dancers. His smile was cheerful. His gaze never once dropped below her face.

Several more turns switched up the roles, so she met the leering green-clad gentleman in the center, and linked arms with Mister Banbrook in the line. He swung her about with such vigor she would have laughed had she not just completed finishing school. Ladies did not laugh in public.

She wished she might, though. She thoroughly enjoyed the delightful partner Mister Banbrook made. As the dance progressed, Emilia couldn’t help but admire the fine form he cut. Tall, upright and lean, his superbly tailored black a sharp contrast to other men’s popinjay ensembles. He was a skilled dancer, and even seemed to be enjoying himself, if his expression could be believed.

Too soon, the obligations of the set freed them. Emilia took Mister Banbrook’s proffered arm and permitted him to escorted her to the fringes of the crowd. With a sharp turn, he began their circuit about the crowded ballroom. Emilia glanced at him askance, and found his expression once again serious. She couldn’t help but miss the joy the dance had called forth.

“It will help, I believe, if you tell me what you desire in a gentleman,” Mister Banbrook murmured in a low tone. “That is, assuming you know?”

“Oh, aye. I know quite well.” But to tell him, a man and a new acquaintance, seemed odd. Still, long-held dreams of the perfect gentleman filled her thoughts, and his request was reasonable under the circumstances. “I shouldn’t care overly about his looks, or his income, really.” She offered an apologetic look. “I realize that does little to narrow the field.”

“You mean, you’ll settle for any toad with pockets to let?” He didn’t sound convinced.

Emilia’s face heated. “Well, no. I mean, he needn’t be terribly well put together, like you, or very wealthy, like the viscount, but I would be lying if I said I want a ghastly husband or one who’s too below hatches. I should like very much to live in the city, you see, and realize that takes funds.” She locked her gaze on the inlaid floor. Had she just called Mister Banbrook handsome?

“Ah, so you wish to be a socialite, to put your training to good use? I suppose a title is preferable?” His tone was light, yet somehow edged.

Emilia darted another glance his way, but his face was a mask in the wash of candlelight. Unsure how to construe his expression, she could only answer without prevarication. “Oh no, I shouldn’t like a title, or anyone too wealthy. It seems to me being at the center of things would be a great deal of work, and would not permit time for anything truly enjoyable.”

“For most women, being at the center of things is what’s truly enjoyable,” he countered in that same tone.

Here she was on surer footing. “Well then, most women are wrong. What’s truly enjoyable is art, and music, and theater. I should like to listen to concerts and go to exhibits, and travel to London to visit the British Museum. Perhaps go even farther someday, to the Continent.”

“In the pursuit of music and art?” Another glance showed his brow creased in surprise.

“Is that so difficult to believe?” she asked. Worry touched her. “Or is it so difficult to find a man who will want those things? At home, they say Edinburgh is a place of great culture. When I came here from the countryside, I thought I would find gentlemen who appreciate that.”

“There’s very little gentlemen appreciate outside of horseflesh, gambling and—” He grimaced. “Let’s leave it at horseflesh and gambling.” He turned his head and scanned the room. “Well, Miss Glasbarr, you ask much, but I’ll see what I can do.”