It was him. The god of the tea shop, the good-looking rake who charmed women as easily as he dispensed advice on how to deceive them, was standing right in front of her. And he now had a name other than the one she’d given him in her mind. Not Adonis, but Lord Galbraith.

In itself, the discovery of his true identity wasn’t particularly shocking. One didn’t have to be in the newspaper trade to know that Rex Pierpont, Viscount Galbraith, only son of the Earl of Leyland, was one of the ton’s most notorious bachelors, well-known not only for his wild ways but also for his disdainful view of marriage. The fact that he would do all he could to assist another man in evading wedlock was not a surprise to Clara at all.

Nonetheless, it had never occurred to her that she might see the Adonis of the tea shop again. Only now, in hindsight, did she appreciate that his fine clothes and conversation should have warned her that an encounter such as this was possible. She could only guess that her own desperation and anger the other day had blinded her to other considerations.

Now, with their introduction hanging in the air, she felt transfixed, as if she’d been turned to a pillar of salt, or transformed into a tree stump, or debilitated by some other equally horrifying impediment. But though her body seemed frozen into immobility, her mind was racing.

Did he know who she was? Did he recognize her as the girl peeking at him between the palm fronds at Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium a few short days ago? She had been sure at the time that he hadn’t noticed her—because, after all, men almost never did—but what if she’d been mistaken?

She scanned his face, looking for any sign of recognition in his countenance. There was none, but that didn’t do much to alleviate her alarm, for she’d seen firsthand this man’s talent for duplicity. If he did recognize her, the fact would only matter if he also read Lady Truelove and if he’d read this afternoon’s edition. In that case, he would surely put two and two together. And that would be disastrous.

The fact that Lady Truelove’s identity was unknown provided a mystique that was a great part of her appeal. People were forever speculating about just which matron of high society was the real Lady Truelove. If Galbraith realized the truth and determined what she’d done, spite could motivate him to reveal her as the famous columnist. If that happened, the Weekly Gazette’s most successful feature would be compromised, perhaps ruined, and it would be her fault. Irene would be devastated by the loss of her most successful creation. She might even be disappointed in Clara for allowing it to happen.

That notion was unbearable, like a knife going into Clara’s chest.

“My aunt tells me your father is a man of business, Miss Deverill,” Galbraith said, forcing her out of these frantic contemplations and forcing her to gather her scattered wits. “Newspapers, I believe?”

Was he toying with her? “Yes,” she answered, a squeak of a word that made her grimace.

He didn’t seem to find such brevity satisfactory. He waited, watching her, his brows lifted as if he expected further elucidation.

“One newspaper,” she went on, striving not to sound like a panicked mouse this time. “The Weekly Gazette. Do you . . .” She paused, and gave a cough. “Do you . . . umm . . . ever read it?”

His expression became apologetic. “I’m afraid not. I don’t read the papers much.”

“Oh,” she breathed, relief washing over her, easing her apprehensions a little. “That’s good.”

He frowned in puzzlement at this seemingly nonsensical reply, and she rushed on, “I mean, so many men seem to just lounge about in their clubs all day, reading the papers, don’t they? It can’t be healthy.”

Even as she spoke, she appreciated how inane she sounded, and his polite, perfunctory smile confirmed her conclusion even before he replied.

“Quite,” he said.

Silence fell between them. He shifted his weight and glanced around, looking trapped and a bit uncomfortable, a reaction from men with which she was, sadly, quite familiar. But given what she knew of this man, and what she wanted to keep secret from him about herself, she felt none of the awkwardness she usually experienced in such encounters. Now that she could be reasonably sure he had not recognized her, all she wanted was to make some excuse to depart and return to her friends. He spoke, however, before she had the chance.

“My aunt has asked me to open the ball, Miss Deverill.”

Horns sounded from the orchestra as if to herald this pronouncement, and he held out his hand to her. “Will you honor me?”

Clara stared at him, dumbfounded. He was asking her to dance?

Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of charming princes with tawny gold hair and brilliant blue eyes, men so good-looking it took one’s breath away. As a young girl, she’d waltzed with imaginary partners like him in the privacy of her room, but those girlish imaginings had never materialized into reality, and on the rare occasions when she’d had the opportunity to dance, her partners had usually been young boys, old men, or the husbands of her friends. Now, with her first serious foray into good society, her silly girlhood dreams seemed to be coming true at last, but with an unexpected and ironic twist: Her Prince Charming wasn’t a prince at all. He was a cad.

It was so ridiculous that a laugh came bubbling up out of her before she could stop it.

His smile stayed in place, though it may have faltered a bit around his eyes. “Did I say something amusing?”

“No,” she choked, smothering her laughter at once. “I mean, yes, y . . . you did, obviously . . . but no . . . that is, I wasn’t laughing at you. I m . . . mean . . . I just . . . it was only . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she gave it up. There was no way to explain. And it wasn’t as if he would suffer much from her amusement at his expense, except perhaps a sting to his conceit, which to her mind, was no more than he deserved.

“Was that a yes, or a no?”

His question reminded her she hadn’t yet responded to his invitation, and he seemed of no mind to withdraw it. Hand still outstretched toward her, he continued to wait for her to reply.

She couldn’t think of any man she had less desire to dance with, and she grasped desperately for an excuse. “Oh, I had not . . . that is, I don’t really—”

“I beg you not to refuse me,” he cut in smoothly, “for if you do, I shall feel no end a fool.” His smile seemed to stiffen even as it widened. “Everyone’s watching us, you see.”

Oh, God. Her cheeks flamed with heat, for she hated being conspicuous, and she had to suppress the urge to glance around. He was probably exaggerating, but even a single pair of eyes seemed a pair too many.

Unfortunately, he had just conveyed upon her what anyone watching would regard as a great honor, and since she had not been engaged for this dance by another partner, there was no excuse possible.

“Thank you, yes,” she murmured and took his hand. As he led her onto the ballroom floor, she appreciated with a sinking feeling that even if no one had been watching them a moment ago, every pair of eyes in the room was certainly fixed on them now.

She paused with him at one end of the ballroom, waiting as other couples desiring to dance lined up along the edges of the dance floor, preparing to follow them in the Grand March. A few moments later, he glanced at her, gave a nod, and started forward.

Clara moved with him, acutely uncomfortable as they paraded across the ballroom floor under the scrutiny of over a hundred people. How ironic that she’d spent her entire youth wishing she could make a successful debut into society, and yet, once Fate had at last decided to grant her the chance to fulfill that seemingly impossible wish, all she wanted was to make a mad dash for the nearest door.

At the top of the room, they turned to face each other. He looked at her, and she looked at his white tie as he lifted their clasped hands. The other couples who had followed them ducked beneath the arch formed by their raised arms, then circled back around to line up along the edges of the dance floor, men on his side, women on hers.

When all the couples had gone through, Galbraith turned and so did she, and they started back across the room, other couples in their wake.

“Surely we must have a bit of conversation, Miss Deverill,” he said, breaking the silence between them.

“Must we?” The moment she said those words, she regretted them, for it wasn’t in her nature to be impolite. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, casting a sideways glance at him. “That s . . . sounded rude. It’s just that I’m not . . . I don’t . . . that is, c . . . conversation isn’t . . . my greatest talent.”

“I see.” In his extraordinary eyes was a hint of what might have been sympathy. Or pity.

She stiffened and looked away, wishing she hadn’t been so frank. “It’s only with strangers.”

They paused where they had started, turning to face each other, and as they waited for the other dancers to move into the proper formation, she felt impelled to underscore a lack of familiarity. “I don’t know you, you see.”

“A fact which is wholly my loss.”

Given what she knew of him, Clara was inclined to agree, but of course, she couldn’t say so. “Rather the opposite, I should think,” she said instead, forcing a laugh, trying to make light of this awkward situation. “Your invitation to dance was at your aunt’s behest, I’m sure.”

A kindlier man might have rushed to deny it. Galbraith did not. Instead, he studied her face for a moment, then his lashes lowered, the gold tips catching the light as he glanced down.

Heat rushed into Clara’s cheeks at once, for she knew what he was looking at, and she was quite aware that there wasn’t much to see. Resisting the urge to squirm, she lifted her chin a notch and endured it, reminding herself that she didn’t care two straws what a man like this thought of her or of her figure. But when his gaze returned to her face, something in his grave expression made her catch her breath just the same.

“You hide your lights under a bushel, Miss Deverill.”

“Do I?” she muttered, feeling a bit frantic as he leaned forward and took up her hand. “No wonder I can never find them.”

He laughed, though Clara couldn’t understand why. “You have wit, I see,” he said as he began turning them in a circle, the first movement of the quadrille. “What a delightful discovery.”

“An odd one,” she replied as they switched hands and began turning in the opposite direction. “Since I have no idea what I just said that was funny.”

Still smiling a little, he lifted their clasped hands above their heads, entwining his arm with hers as his free hand clasped her free hand, holding it tightly between their bodies. “No,” he agreed, looking at her through the opening formed by their upraised arms, his smile fading away, his gaze roaming over her face as they turned in a circle. “I suspect you don’t.”

Entangled with him this way, his open stare on her face, his absurd compliment hanging in the air, she felt trapped and terribly vulnerable. Even through the layers of her clothing, she could feel his knuckles brushing against her belly, sending a jolt of panic through her entire body and impelling her to speak. “Do you flirt with every woman you meet, Lord Galbraith?”

He seemed surprised, though whether that was due to her question or the tartness of her voice as she’d asked it, Clara couldn’t be sure. “Not usually, no,” he answered. “Not with young ladies anyway. It’s a rule of mine.”

“I shouldn’t think a man like you had any rules,” she muttered, and immediately wished she could take the words back, for a little frown knit his brows, and his gaze narrowed speculatively.

The steps of the dance caused them to separate before he could reply, however, and as they moved through the next figure with other partners, Clara reminded herself that her best means of keeping her secret was to keep quiet, something she’d never had any trouble doing in her life before.

Galbraith, unfortunately, did not seem inclined to let her take refuge in silence. “‘A man like me.’” He echoed her words in a musing voice the moment the dance brought them together again. “What sort of man is that, exactly?” he asked, grasping her hand in his and moving them in a circle. “Your choice of words makes me curious.”

Oh, Lord, his curiosity was the last thing she needed.

“Come now, Miss Deverill,” he said when she remained silent. “Despite your declaration of reticence, you seem to have little trouble conveying what you think of me.” He gave a rueful smile as they changed hands and reversed direction. “Seems a bit unsporting to form a judgement so quickly. After all, we’ve only just been introduced. Unless I’m mistaken?” He paused, and though he was still smiling, Clara saw the sudden watchfulness in his gaze. “Have we met before?”

“Of course not,” she denied at once, and cursed herself for how unconvincing she sounded. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “At least, I don’t believe so. I don’t move in society much, so if we’d met, I’d remember it.”

“Then what have I done to earn your low opinion?”

The best thing was to deny any such view of his character, but something in Clara resisted giving him a lie that would spare his feelings, even if it was the safest thing to do. “You do have quite a scandalous reputation.”

“Yes, so my aunt often reminds me. And people do seem quite inclined to gossip.”

“Gossip?” She raised an eyebrow at his attempt to brush off his wild manner of living. “The newspapers talk about you all the time, Lord Galbraith. And I should know, since my family is in that trade.”

“So, it is your family’s livelihood that has inspired your low opinion of me? Well, I have a low opinion of newspapers, so we’re rather even there.”

That flicked her on the raw, due to his aspersion of her family’s means of earning a living, or his disregard for his own notorious reputation, she couldn’t have said. “Many seem to share my view.”

“I refuse to worry about what other people think of me.”

“You don’t even try to earn their good opinion?”

He grinned, demonstrating the truth of her accusation. “Why try to be good, when being bad has so many rewards? Besides,” he added with a shrug, “most women love a rake.”

That was more true than she liked to imagine. “Clearly, then, I’m not like most women,” she muttered.

“No,” he agreed, and unexpectedly, he pulled her close—closer than decorum allowed—as he lifted their joined hands overhead. “I’m beginning to believe you’re not.”

The implications in that soft reply sent her stomach plummeting, but Clara forced herself to hold his gaze. “You don’t deny what is said of you, then?”

“I am hardly in a position to deny it. I enjoy life, Miss Deverill, and I fail to see why I should be condemned for that.”

“In other words, you want people to think well of you whilst you do whatever you please?”

She rather hoped her words would sting, but he only laughed, shaking back his unruly hair and causing the tawny strands to glint in the light of the chandeliers overhead. “I suppose I do, yes.”

She thought of him in the tea shop, conspiring to help his friend do that very thing at an unknowing woman’s expense, and she couldn’t suppress a sound of derision. “Men and their cake,” she muttered.

The steps of the dance again separated them, and Clara decided that since he seemed determined to have conversation for the entire dance, the best thing was to turn that conversation to innocuous topics, but when they came together again, he gave her no opportunity to do so.

“I take it,” he said, picking up her hand and the thread of their earlier conversation, “you believe all men just want to have our cake and eat it, too?”

“Not all men.”

He laughed softly, his gaze roaming over her face as he lifted their joined hands overhead. “Well, well,” he murmured, “with every look and every word, the little lamb with the big brown eyes proves she’s not as defenseless as she first appears.”

Clara felt a spark of frustration at his description, though it was one she supposed she ought to be accustomed to by now. When one had forgettable looks, a shy and quiet disposition, and a beautiful, supremely confident elder sister, one was often simultaneously indulged and dismissed. Still, it grated on her to be referred to as some sort of helpless, dependent creature.

“Is that what I am?” she asked as they turned, their gazes locked within the circle of their arms. “A little lamb?” She opened her eyes deliberately wide. “And I’m lost in the woods, I suppose, and you’ll come save me?”

“Save you? I doubt it.” His gaze lowered, pausing at her lips. “Ravish you would be a sight more likely.”

Clara’s heart gave a panicked thud, slamming into her ribs with such force that it broke her concentration. She trod on his foot, lost her balance, and would have stumbled, but he caught her, letting go of the hand at her waist to wrap his arm around her back. Above their heads, his fingers tightened over hers to keep them both in the pose as she found her feet again.

“Careful,” he cautioned, then his arm slid away, his hand freed hers, and he was gone.

The change to other partners was a welcome respite, but as she moved through the steps, the imprint of his arm was like a steel band against her back, and his words were echoing in her ears more loudly than the music.

Ravish you would be a sight more likely.

Heavens, no man had ever expressed the desire to ravish her before. What a pity, she thought, aggrieved, that the first one who did was a man she didn’t even like.

But was it such a pity? He was so good-looking that it almost hurt to look at him, and had she liked him, had she cared about earning his good opinion, she’d probably have been too tongue-tied to ever hold a word of conversation with him. With this man, however, it was different. Despite his looks, his true character was clear, and since she didn’t care a jot what he thought of her, she had a certain degree of power over the situation that she otherwise wouldn’t have possessed. No wonder she was being so uncharacteristically forthright this evening. Why shouldn’t she be? With him, she could say anything, and what did it matter?

“You caution me to be careful, Lord Galbraith,” she said as they came together again and clasped hands. “But I cannot help wondering what I am to be careful of? The steps of the dance?” she added, emboldened in a way she’d never been before. “Or you?”

He raised a brow, and no wonder. From a little lamb like her, such words were bound to be unexpected.

“Oh, me, definitely,” he answered. “I’m far more dangerous to you than a mere quadrille. If this were a mazurka, now, that might be different.”

She laughed, disarmed by that bit of wit in spite of herself. “I doubt I’m in any danger from you.”

“On the contrary,” he countered as they switched hands and reversed direction. “You are in very great danger, my lamb.” He pulled her a fraction closer. “Make no mistake.”

Clara’s throat went dry, and as they turned slowly on the ballroom floor, staring at each other through the circle of their upraised arms, she felt her newfound sense of power slipping.

He seemed to perceive the change. His smile faded away, his gaze roamed over her face as if committing all her features to memory, and her heart began thudding hard in her chest. She feared the sensations he evoked in her were due not to her fear of recognition, but to something else entirely, something she’d never experienced in her life before. Worse, she knew what it was.

This was what Elsie Clark had felt that afternoon in the tea shop. This was how it felt to be caught in the sights of a devastatingly handsome man. He was looking at her as if she was the only thing in the world that existed, as if nothing that had come before or would ever come after was more important than she was. A rake’s version of the siren song.

It wasn’t real, and yet, even as she reminded herself of that, heat curled in her belly.

Thankfully, the steps of the dance again forced them apart, and by the time they came together for the last figure of the quadrille, Clara had regained her composure. “I thought you said you don’t flirt with young ladies. You make it a rule, you said.”

“So I did. But rules . . .” He paused, a faint smile on his lips. “Rules, they say, are made to be broken.”

“You have certainly broken a few.”

He laughed as he lifted their hands overhead. “I have indeed,” he said, studying her through the circle of their arms. “But you haven’t, I suspect.”

She thought of what she’d done with Lady Truelove. “You’d be surprised,” she muttered.

“Would I? You intrigue me, Miss Deverill.” He pulled her closer, his fingers tightening around hers, his knuckles brushing against her belly. “Perhaps we should break some rules together?”

“Which ones did you have in mind?”

That provocative question came tumbling out of her mouth without any thought, and in its aftermath, she cursed her sudden propensity to be a flirt.

Thankfully, the music stopped before he could reply, and Clara was profoundly relieved. She pulled back, expected he would let her hands go and offer his arm to escort her back to her place, but to her astonishment, he didn’t let her go. He didn’t even move.

“Several ideas are going through my head, I confess,” he murmured, answering her question. His vivid blue gaze lowered to her mouth. “A kiss during a dance would break quite a few rules, wouldn’t it?”

Clara imagined it, his arms around her and his mouth claiming hers, but though it was just a flash through her mind, her knees suddenly felt like jelly, even as her feminine pride railed against the notion that she could be conquered so easily.

“Many rules, I should think,” she agreed, pulling her hands free and heaving a sigh of feigned disappointment. “But it’s quite impossible.”

“Is it?” He stirred, moving closer. His head bent down a fraction. “Why?”

She began to laugh. “Because the dance is over.”

He blinked as if that were the last thing he’d expected. “What?”

Noting his blank expression, she realized he’d been so caught up in her that he hadn’t even noticed the end of the dance. She laughed, exhilaration rising inside her like a sudden burst of fireworks, overriding everything else this man had made her feel. She had her own siren song, it seemed. Who’d ever have thought that?

He glanced about as if working to come to his senses, and she took that opportunity to turn away and start for the nearest door. It was a breach of good manners, for it deprived him of the opportunity to return her to her place, but Clara didn’t care. For the first time in her life, she’d said the perfect thing at the perfect moment, and she didn’t want to spoil such an unexpected triumph by talking with him any further.

But when she glanced over her shoulder, she found that her escape was not to be so easy. He was in pursuit. Why he should be, she couldn’t imagine, but there was an unmistakable half smile on his lips and a determined cast to his countenance that made Clara quicken her steps.

She had the advantage on him, for his momentary daze had enabled her to put a good twenty feet of distance and half a dozen couples between them. But once she left the ballroom, those advantages would evaporate. Her vague, half-formed intent had been to duck into the ladies’ withdrawing room, but only now did she realize she’d never ascertained where it was and she had no time to go looking, for he was on her very heels. And even if she could spare a moment to find out that information, there was no one to whom she could put the question because when she stepped into the corridor, she found it was empty.

Cursing her sudden and most uncharacteristic impulse to be a flirt, Clara glanced around. Ahead of her was the main corridor that led to the foyer, a vast expanse with no side doors and no hiding places. To her left and right, the ballroom wall was flanked by large marble statues, and she saw only one possible means to evade him.

She turned to the right, running for all she was worth down the corridor, but she’d barely managed a dozen steps before she heard the door to the ballroom open, and she veered sideways, catching the glint of his tawny hair out of the corner of her eye just before she slid between two statues. She drew in her breath and stiffened her spine, hoping her body was slender enough and her skirt narrow enough to sufficiently conceal her from view.

Voices and music floated to her down the corridor, and then the door closed again, muffling the sounds of the ball going on in the room behind her. She didn’t know if he’d gone back inside or not, but there was no way to find out, for she didn’t dare move. She waited, listening, hardly daring to breathe.

“What the devil?” she heard him mutter. “How does a girl just vanish into thin air?”

Clara bit her lip, smiling to herself. How, indeed.

The grandfather clock by the stairs began to sound the hour and as the twelfth chime died away, a sudden chuckle of laughter echoed to her along the corridor.

“Midnight, eh?” He laughed again. “Well, then, Cinderella, it seems I must bid you good-night.”

Her smile widened into a grin. She didn’t like him, nor did she have the desire for his company, but nonetheless, it was exciting to be caught up in a real-life fairy tale—to be, for the first time, the lovely ingénue who captured the interest of the handsomest man at the ball. Even if he was a cad.

The door to the ballroom opened and closed again, but Clara continued to wait, counting a full thirty seconds before she dared to emerge from between the statues.

Thankfully, the corridor was empty.