The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries (4)

London
May 1819

Emily shivered and gathered her fur-edged pelisse more tightly about her flimsily clad body. Beyond the frosted window of the Nesfield carriage, London’s streets glimmered beneath the spring fog. As a child, she’d visited the city only once with her parents, leaving her with vague memories of pinnacled towers and jam tarts.

This week, however, London had left a more distinct impression. Hesitant young ladies and their preening mamas in a long succession of millinery and seamstress’s shops. Endless trips in the carriage through muddy, people-choked streets. And everywhere, the task of pretending she was Lady Dundee’s daughter newly come from Scotland.

Why had she ever thought Willow Crossing dull and uninspiring? How she missed the pale yellow wash of morning sun on their little garden, the patchwork of open fields, the neat lanes and walks. What she wouldn’t give for a glimpse of home.

Idly she rubbed a circle in the frost on the window so she could peer at the grand houses lining the streets. This was what she was—an onlooker, an outsider. No matter how Lady Dundee presented her, she’d never be part of this world.

Tonight the kind and forgiving moon was absent. There was only the feeble glow of oil lamps that transformed everyday objects into hulking shadows, serving to further lower her spirits. A long sigh crept out of her.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Lady Dundee said at her side.

“A little.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, child. After last night, the worst is over. You weathered the presentation at court with the proper amount of modesty. I couldn’t have been more pleased if you’d truly been my daughter.”

The praise warmed Emily. At first, she’d wanted to hate Lady Dundee, but that had soon proved impossible. Though the countess did say outrageous things, she was also friendly and engaging—the ideal companion. She was as different from her brother as sweet cherries from lemons.

Thankfully, Lord Nesfield rarely joined them. He and his sister had decided it would be better if he kept out of sight most of the time, especially since he and “Lady Emma” were supposedly at odds.

“Last night’s presentation at court was easy,” Emily said. “You told me when to walk, when to hand my card to the lord-in-waiting, when to curtsy, and when to withdraw. Even a mere rector’s daughter can manage such things. But tonight won’t be so orderly. There will be more chance for error.”

Lady Dundee drew up her long gloves. “Pish-posh. I’ve been watching you, my dear. You have the natural grace and confidence that comes from good breeding, unlike some of these chits pretending to gentility because their merchant fathers have the wherewithal to keep two carriages. You were raised with the moral precepts that underlie all civilized behavior.”

“Oh, yes, the moral precepts,” she said bitterly. “Like deceiving good people into thinking I’m someone I’m not.”

“Why did you agree to help us if you find it so distasteful?”

Emily cursed her quick tongue as she averted her gaze. “I’m doing it for Sophie, of course. What else?”

“What else indeed?”

She quickly changed the subject. “Don’t mind me. I’m merely anxious about this evening. There are conventions of behavior peculiar to your station that I fear I’ll omit in my ignorance.”

There’d been so much to learn—a thousand little nonsensical rules. Don’t say “my lady” and “my lord” too much, or you’ll sound like a servant. Never put your knife in your mouth. Apparently, although country manners allowed it, people of high society thought it gauche. Never overimbibe, for liquor’s effects lead to a woman’s ruin.

She and Lady Dundee had repeated the order of precedence in rank so many times that she had nightmares about some great bishop recoiling from her in disgust because she gave a mere viscount precedence over him. And who could have ever guessed that learning the newly touted waltz would be so difficult?

“Don’t concern yourself overmuch with the rules,” Lady Dundee told her. “I can always gloss over some error by explaining that you’re nervous. It’s only true vulgarity that I can’t hide, and I needn’t worry about that with you.” She patted Emily’s leg. “Indeed, I may have to prod you to be less refined. Remember your role: you’re my rebellious child. Otherwise, no man will believe you’d go against your mother and uncle to aid your cousin.”

Emily fidgeted restlessly in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position in the incredibly tight corset she’d been forced to wear, the one that pushed her breasts up so shamefully. She’d never worn a corset at home, nor gowns of such rich elegance. Right now, she’d trade them all for her sprigged muslin.

And discomfort made her cranky. “I’m still uncertain what you want me to do. Should I be forward? Flirtatious? Such things are not in my nature.”

“You can’t know what’s in your nature until it’s been tried, can you? If I understand Randolph correctly, you haven’t been much in society. You may find you enjoy flirting with men. I certainly enjoyed it in my day.”

“But you’re more flamboyant than I. And Papa always says—”

“Forget your father and his strictures. Do what you want, Emily: enjoy yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“You might be surprised.” When Emily shot her a skeptical glance, she grinned. “It’s more common than you think for people to enjoy pretending to be what they aren’t. You attended Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire. Didn’t you notice how people become different creatures when they don costumes? How they feel free to be wild?”

She thought of her wanton response to Lord Blackmore. “I did.”

Lady Dundee covered Emily’s hand with her plump one. “It’s a common response, and this is no different. Half the members of good society live a pretense every day. One more young woman acting a part won’t bother a soul, and it might save Sophie from a disastrous future.” She smiled. “Lady Emma is your masquerade, merely an amusement. It doesn’t change Emily Fairchild. And it hurts no one.”

“I-I shall try. Although if someone engages me in a battle of wits, I’m not sure I’ll be very convincing.”

“Speak the first thing that comes into your head, and you’ll be fine. That’s what I do. Everyone’s so busy trying to impress one another that honesty generally takes them by surprise.”

“Be honest in my dishonesty?”

“Something like that.” Lady Dundee squeezed her hand, then released it.

Emily straightened her long gloves. Well, at least she needn’t worry about seeing Lord Blackmore tonight. Lady Dundee had made it quite clear that this was a marriage mart, and if ever a man was set on avoiding marriage, it was him.

Ever since they’d arrived in London, she’d dreaded the day she would cross his path. It was foolish, of course, he probably wouldn’t even recognize her. Still, she worried.

But he wouldn’t be around tonight, thank heavens.

The carriage slowed, and Emily glanced out the window. Goodness gracious, there was an ocean of coaches out there. This must be what was called “a crush.”

Wonderful. Nothing like having a huge audience to witness one’s humiliation.

Now they were approaching the front of the mansion, where liveried footmen awaited each guest’s arrival. Crippling fear overtook her.

Reaching up to fluff the corkscrew curls surrounding Emily’s face, Lady Dundee said reassuringly, “You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, I’ll be at your side as much as I can, so don’t hesitate to ask questions if you’re confused about anything.” Lady Dundee lowered her voice as the carriage halted. “Remember, you’re in masquerade. You’re Lady Emma Campbell, daughter of a respectable Scottish laird from a venerable old family. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

Lady Emma Campbell. It still sounded strange to her ears. They’d considered letting Emily use her own Christian name, but hadn’t wanted anyone closely acquainted with Lord Nesfield to wonder at the coincidence that his niece and the daughter of his rector had the same one. Emma was at least similar enough to Emily’s real name to prevent her from growing confused.

So now she was Lady Emma, miraculously transformed overnight from a common nobody to a lady of the realm. But it was all fruitless, she thought, as she and Lady Dundee descended from the carriage. She would fool no one. They could dress her in the rarest satin and put pearls in her hair. They could teach her the waltz and the language of the fan. But they couldn’t make her into an earl’s daughter, no matter how hard they tried. One day she’d be found out—she had no doubt of that.

Pray heaven that she finished her task before it happened.

 

With casual unconcern for the sleeves of his cash-mere cutaway, Jordan leaned out the window of his carriage and called up to his coachman, Watkins, “What the devil is taking so long?”

“Sorry, milord, but there’s a cart o’erturned in the lane. It’ll take ten minutes at least for them to clear it.”

Jordan jerked out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

“I suppose we’re very late,” his friend George Pollock remarked from across the carriage.

“Yes. Thanks to you and your vanity.” He tucked his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “I should have left you to hire a hack instead of waiting while you dithered over which waistcoat to wear. And how many cravats did you ruin before you could tie one to your satisfaction? Ten? Fifteen?”

“Probably twenty,” Pollock said blithely. Wetting one finger, he used it to smooth a wayward lock of his blond hair into place. “What good is having money if you can’t spend it on cravats?”

“You should have spent it getting your deuced carriage repaired, so I didn’t have to wait for you.”

“Relax, old chap. Since when do you care if we’re late to a marriage mart? You’re not looking for a wife.”

“No, but Ian is. God knows why he has this urge to marry, but I promised to help him. I was supposed to reach Merrington’s before Lord Nesfield and his daughter Sophie leave, and since it’s nearly eleven already, that’s unlikely, isn’t it?”

Ian Lennard, the Viscount St. Clair, was Jordan’s closest friend, and rarely asked favors of anyone. It galled Jordan to fail him now because of Pollock’s ridiculous vanity.

“St. Clair won’t mind if you’re late,” Pollock said. “He’s not that desperate. If you don’t arrive in time, he’ll merely try his scheme on her at the next ball.”

“It doesn’t matter. I said I’d be there, and I will. I keep my promises.”

The carriage shuddered forward, and the sound of the horse’s hooves clopping over cobblestones filled the air. Jordan relaxed a fraction.

“That’s not what’s irritating you, and you know it,” Pollock retorted as he flicked a minute speck of dust off his gloves. “You don’t like having your schedule upset, that’s all. Everything must go precisely according to your plan, or you lose patience.”

“Anyone would lose patience with a dandy like you,” Jordan snapped.

His friend frowned. “I’m not a dandy, but I do believe that being well dressed is the mark of a good gentleman. Besides, I like dressing well. That’s the trouble with you, Blackmore. You don’t know how to relax and enjoy life.”

“Yes, I’m a dull fellow, aren’t I?”

“If the shoe fits…” When Jordan scowled at him, Pollock tugged on his impossibly high cravat, then went on in a mulish tone. “You must admit you can be a blasted machine sometimes. Your life is consumed with running your estates efficiently and running things in Parliament. Everything’s orderly; everything’s part of some plan.”

“That’s not true.” But it was. He did like an orderly life. God knows he’d put up with enough disorder as a child without having to endure it as an adult. So yes, he hated it when things went wrong simply because some fool didn’t behave in a logical or timely manner.

But that wasn’t what had Pollock miffed. The man was merely peeved at being called a dandy.

“Then there’s the way you treat your women,” Pollock went on bitterly. “I’ve never seen a man who can take a mistress, then cut her off without a thought because she erred by falling in love with him. And they all fall in love with you, blast you. They don’t realize your charm is merely a means to an end. They think you care. You always make them pant for you, then toss them out into the cold when they want more than sex from the arrangement.”

Now Pollock was hitting a little too close for comfort. “You’re still angry at me about Julia, aren’t you?”

“She’s my friend.”

“Your mistress, you mean. If I hadn’t ‘cut her off without a thought,’ you wouldn’t have the benefit of her company now.”

Pollock glanced away. “Actually, she and I have parted ways.”

That caught Jordan by surprise. “Already?”

“I grew tired of competing with you for her affections.”

Jordan winced. His parting from Julia had been particularly messy. “That isn’t my fault. She and I had a very clear arrangement: mutual satisfaction of each other’s physical needs and no more. I can’t help it if she changed her expectations. I never did.”

For a moment, the air was thick with Pollock’s irritatingly sullen silence, punctuated only by the rattling of the carriage wheels on stone. Ever since Julia, their friendship had been a bit strained, though Jordan didn’t know what he could do about it. He wasn’t the one suffering from romantic whims.

Pollock sighed. “I don’t understand you. Love isn’t something you turn off and on like a damned spigot. You can’t control it as you control your financial affairs. Haven’t you ever wanted to lose yourself to love?”

“Now that’s a dreadful thought. Relinquish everything for a fickle emotion? Not a chance. What kind of fool abandons reason, good sense, and, yes, control, for the dubious pleasure of being in love?”

Only once in his life had he come even close to losing control because of a woman. Strange how he still remembered that night in the carriage with a certain Miss Emily Fairchild. What kind of madness had possessed him? It must have been the full moon, as she’d said. That was the only possible explanation for why he’d nearly seduced the wrong sort of woman.

He’d paid for it later, too. His stepsister Sara had plagued him relentlessly with questions until he’d deliberately picked a fight with her devil of a husband to take her mind off matchmaking. A pity it hadn’t taken his mind off Emily’s lavender-scented hair and lithe, enticing body. Or her fascinating way of making statements that took him completely by surprise. Women rarely took him by surprise.

At least their encounter had been brief, and the illusion that he’d found the only female in England who could totally bewitch him had finally passed. No doubt if he met Miss Emily Fairchild again during the light of day—and he wouldn’t—he’d find her ordinary and distinctly unbewitching.

“I’ll never understand your cynical view of marriage, Blackmore,” Pollock said, “but obviously St. Clair chose you well for his scheme. Any other man might be tempted to steal a winsome little thing like Lady Sophie after dancing with her. But not you—the lord with the granite heart.”

“Mock me if you will, but I’m well pleased with my granite heart. It doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t fester, and it can’t be wounded.”

“Yes, but it can break if someone hits it with a hammer. One day a woman will come along who shatters it into a million pieces. And I, for one, can’t wait to see it.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” Jordan said, growing bored with this subject. “And it won’t happen tonight. I’m dancing with Sophie merely to oblige Ian. He thinks it’ll prompt Lord Nesfield to accept his suit and thus get Sophie out of my foul clutches. Ian assured me I’d be done quickly. Good God, I hope so. These affairs are tedious.”

“I don’t mind them. But then I can appreciate a good party. You can’t.”

Pollock’s insistence on making him sound like a cold bastard began to irritate Jordan. “And I’m not looking for a wife to enhance my standing in society. You are.”

Pollock glared at him. “Is that an allusion to my lack of a title or connections? To the fact that my father was in trade? My word, you’re pompous. You can have any woman you want, so you lord it over the rest of us.”

The vehemence in Pollock’s voice startled him. “That’s not true. Any number of merchant’s daughters would happily lead you to the altar.”

“I don’t want a merchant’s daughter. As you so crudely put it, I want someone who can increase my standing in society.”

“Why? You already move in exalted circles.”

“Yes, but I want a woman who can be the jewel in my crown, a woman so stunning that my position is secured forever. And preferably someone who can love me despite my faults.”

Jordan couldn’t restrain his laughter. “You think to find it at Merrington’s? With a lot of simpering virgins and scheming mamas?”

“Perhaps.” Pollock fingered the cravat he’d spent so much time torturing into a Mathematique. “Before St. Clair set his sights on Lady Sophie, I’d planned to try for her myself.” He scowled. “Then St. Clair came along and captured her fancy. He isn’t even in love with her. He just wants a docile wife, God knows why.”

Yes, that was curious. Jordan himself had wondered why Ian seemed so bent on marrying these days. “I wouldn’t envy him his conquest of Sophie, if I were you. She’s tolerably pretty and good-natured, but her father’s a bastard. I fear Ian will rue the day he marries into that man’s family.”

The carriage drew up in front of Merrington’s, and Jordan checked his watch. They’d made good time; the girl might still be here. If so, he’d give it an hour. That should be sufficient time to enrage Lord Nesfield and promote Ian’s suit. Then he could go to his club and be done with this nonsense.

The two of them left the carriage and entered Merrington’s handsome town house in silence. The place was all got up in spring flowers and ribbons, enough of them to make a man ill. When they reached the ballroom, Jordan paused to survey the scene. As usual, Merrington’s ball resembled a ship’s hold full of doves and crows, cooing and cawing and taking wing whenever they liked. White-gowned women swirled down the lines of dancers accompanied by their black-tailed companions, whose cinched waists, tight knee-breeches, and brilliant-colored waistcoats enhanced their birdlike appearance.

Hovering on the sidelines, he scanned the crowd for Ian or even Lady Sophie. But despite the glow of a thousand candles and Argand lamps, he saw nothing but flashes of fans and trains and white slippers.

Then he and Pollock were surrounded by Pollock’s friends, all of them bachelors attending the ball in search of mates. A few moments of pleasantries ensued, but they soon gave way to earnest comparisons of the young women’s attributes. Jordan wanted to laugh at the lot of them. What romantic drivel these young pups spouted! If they had to have wives, at least they should choose them sensibly.

That’s what he would do when the need for an heir became overwhelming. He would find some experienced woman—a widowed marchioness or some such—with taste and good judgment, who could preside over his household without a lot of fuss. A businesslike marriage. Sensible. No emotional entanglements.

The one thing he would not do is marry some chit out of the schoolroom who would expect him to dote on her every word and indulge her whims. Like the tittering young women the men around him were discussing.

Impatient with their talk, Jordan turned to Pollock. “Have you spotted Ian yet?”

“Just now. He’s at the top of the set.” Pollock nodded toward the dance floor.

“Ian is dancing? You must be joking. He hates to dance. Though I suppose he’ll do what he must to secure Lady Sophie.”

“Lady Sophie?” one of the others remarked. “Haven’t you heard? Lady Sophie’s very ill, and no one knows when she’ll be able to leave the sick-room.”

“You must be mistaken,” Jordan said. “I heard she’d left town briefly last week, but St. Clair told me yesterday she was back. He planned to call on the family today.”

“She may be back, but she’s not out and about. St. Clair is dancing with her cousin. For the second time, I should add.”

“Deuce take it.” So Lady Sophie wasn’t even here, and he needn’t have come after all. Well, he’d stay just long enough to torment Ian for missing his shot at Nesfield’s girl, then leave for his club.

It took only half a minute to pick his friend out of the throng of dancers, for Ian was hard to miss. Unlike the blond, fair, and short Pollock, Ian had the coffee-colored skin of a gypsy and stood easily a head above most other men. Among the fair geldings of English society, he was certainly a dark horse.

As for his dance partner…Well, well. Ian always managed to snag the pretty ones, didn’t he? Jordan couldn’t make out her face from where he stood, but her hair was the rich, dark gold of late sunset, and the figure a randy young man’s dream, even draped in pure white satin. Of course, he wasn’t young or randy, not for these sweet darlings. He preferred women in scarlet…or black bombazine.

Good God, where had that come from? That was the second time he’d thought of Emily tonight. Matchmaking was polluting the spring air, that’s all. It was bound to affect him a little.

The dance ended, and Jordan threaded his way through the crowd toward Ian, casting a warning look at the one bold matron who approached him with a simpering daughter in tow. She stopped in her tracks, thank God. Smart woman.

He should never have come. All these harpies would get the wrong idea about his attendance at a marriage mart and descend on him en masse. After talking to Ian, he’d have to beat a hasty retreat.

The closer he got to the couple, the more interested he became in the woman on Ian’s arm. For a girl at her coming out, she was much too graceful. No awkwardness in the way she walked, no hint of uncertainty in her manner. Her back was to him, and a very shapely back it was, too—not to mention the exceedingly attractive derriere. And there was all that glorious hair, swept up into a chignon and studded with pearls above her long, elegant neck.

He could swear he’d seen that neck before, and all that hair, too. But that was absurd, of course. He’d never even heard of Lady Sophie’s cousin, much less seen her attractions before tonight.

Then the couple stopped at the edge of the dance floor, and the woman turned toward her companion, putting her face in profile.

Devil take it. He had seen her before! The profile was achingly familiar. Last time it had been muted by moonlight and covered by a mask, but he could swear it was the same face…the same delicate nose and modest smile.

No, it couldn’t be. How could she be in London at a ball like this, dressed in expensive white satin and pearls? He was imagining things. This woman merely shared some of Emily’s features. And he couldn’t be sure about the face, after all. He’d seen it for only a few moments in the darkness.

Still, this woman had the same height and the same figure, the same way of ducking her head when she smiled and that same swanlike bend in her neck. She even had the same color hair, though it was dressed more extravagantly. His heart thudded loudly, and he quickened his steps. It couldn’t be her. But it was—he couldn’t be mistaken.

What on earth was she doing here? “Emily?” he said hoarsely as he reached them. “Emily, is it really you?”

The woman faced him, a startled expression on her face. A flash of recognition seemed to touch those emerald eyes before it disappeared completely, replaced by a cold look of censure. “I beg your pardon, sir. Do I know you?”

Jordan couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d hit him in the face with her reticule.

“My God, Jordan,” Ian cut in. “At least wait until I introduce you before you call the lady by her Christian name.” He looked from Jordan to the woman, both of whom were staring at each other. “You two don’t know each other, do you?”

“We do,” Jordan asserted at the same time she said hotly, “Certainly not.”

Jordan gaped at her. How could she pretend not to recognize him?

Ian said with distinct amusement in his voice, “Since there seems to be some confusion on the matter, I’d better perform the introductions. Lady Emma, may I present Jordan Willis, the Earl of Blackmore. Jordan, this is Lady Emma Campbell, the Earl of Dundee’s daughter and Lord Nesfield’s niece.” In an aside to the woman, he added, “Don’t let his rudeness give you the wrong impression. When he puts his mind to it, he can charm the moon out of the sky.”

Ian’s humor was lost on Jordan, especially when the mention of his full name and title didn’t produce a reaction from her. Lady Emma? Who the devil was Lady Emma? It had to be a mistake. This wasn’t the Earl of Dundee’s daughter; this was Emily Fairchild, the rector’s daughter. He was sure of it.

But it had been dark that night in the carriage, and he had seen her face only briefly in the moonlight. Could he be wrong?

Either way, he couldn’t just stand here gawking at her. He gave a sketchy bow, then said, “I’m sorry, Lady Emma, for accosting you so boldly.” He forced a contrition he didn’t feel into his voice. “My only excuse is that I mistook you for someone else. Please forgive my error.”

The woman arched her eyebrows in wary disapproval. “Someone else? Pray tell me who this Emily woman is.” Her tone grew coy. “Don’t disappoint me, Lord Blackmore, or I swear I’ll never forgive you. Please tell me she’s an exotic princess from the South Seas. Or even an opera singer. I’ll be insulted if it’s anyone less interesting.”

It was Emily’s voice, Emily’s lips…Emily’s blond hair. But not Emily’s manner. And yet…“Then I’m doomed to remain unforgiven. She’s a rector’s daughter.” He added, very deliberately, “Her name is Emily Fairchild.”

He watched for any reaction and fancied he saw a faint tinge of a blush spread over her cheeks.

If so, it was quickly gone, for she smiled archly and said in a haughty voice, “A rector’s daughter? Indeed, you are doomed. I could never countenance being mistaken for a common rector’s daughter. No, no, I can’t forgive you at all.”

Ian was watching Jordan with narrowed eyes, but Jordan paid no attention whatsoever to his friend. “Then I must make amends. May I have this dance, Lady Emma? I can think of no other way to atone for my horrible error.”

Her smile slipped. Good, he’d flustered her.

But she recovered her composure with amazing speed. Tucking her hand in the crook of Ian’s elbow, she said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lord Blackmore. I promised the next waltz to Lord St. Clair, and they’re playing the waltz now.”

For the love of God, she was refusing to dance with him. The brazen chit! What had happened to her? He flashed Ian a quelling glance. “You don’t mind crying off, do you, old friend?”

With a chuckle, Ian quickly disentangled himself from the woman. “I absolve you of your commitment, Lady Emma. Even another dance in your delightful company can’t compare to watching my friend dance the waltz at a marriage mart for probably the first time in his life.”

A look of outrage spread over her face as Jordan held out his hand. She glowered at Ian, then Jordan. “But we have barely been introduced! You can’t do this! It’s not at all proper!”

Emily had protested his lack of propriety that night in the carriage, too. Jordan smiled, feeling more sure of himself now. He ignored her protest and cupped his hand about the slender waist that felt so painfully familiar. Surely he’d held this waist before and seen those same tender lips quiver as they were doing now.

Taking her small hand, he placed it on his shoulder and repeated the same words he’d said that night, in a voice meant only for her ears, “As if I care about propriety.”

If she remembered, she showed no sign of it. “Oh, but I care,” she spat back, “especially when a rude man attempts to forgo it.”

He tightened his hold on her when she tried to wriggle out of his embrace. “Sorry, my dear, but this rude man shall have his waltz, and you will follow along. Everyone’s watching, and if you refuse me, your name will be on every gossip’s tongue tomorrow.”

Her name would be on every gossip’s tongue regardless. Already he could feel the hush that had fallen on the crowd the moment he’d taken her in his arms. Ian wasn’t the only person keenly interested in observing the Earl of Blackmore break his own rules about dancing with innocents. It had been this very effect Ian had been hoping for with Sophie. And with any luck it would prod Emily into telling him the truth.

He could tell when she became aware of the eyes on them. Her hand in his trembled, though her shoulders remained stubbornly set.

“I see we understand each other,” he said smoothly.

He just had time to see her pretty eyes narrow in mutinous resentment before the music began, and he whirled her off into the waltz. Casting her a grim, triumphant smile, he tugged her almost indecently close.

When her response was to step forcefully on his foot in the next turn, he had to laugh. If she thought she could brazen this out with him, she was mad. One way or another, he would find out what was going on. And no amount of petty attacks and dissembling on her part would prevent it.