Rex could not imagine how the girl could have vanished in the blink of an eye, but he knew she couldn’t have gone far, and any other time, he’d have willingly lingered for a more thorough search. Unfortunately, he had other obligations to fulfill, and wandering the corridors of the house in search of one cheeky girl wasn’t among them, a fact brought home to him with force the moment he reentered the ballroom.

Auntie Pet’s stern gaze honed on him at once, reminding him that he had at least half a dozen dances to go before he could return his attentions to the provoking Miss Deverill.

He glanced around for a suitable partner, and when he spied Lady Frances Chinden a few feet away, he approached her for the waltz. From his point of view, Lady Frances was a perfect choice. Her father had massive gambling debts, so Petunia would never approve of her as a possible future Countess of Galbraith. She was also distractingly pretty to look at and quite enjoyable company, but even Lady Frances’s considerable charms did not enable him to dismiss Clara Deverill from his thoughts. The girl’s face, lit with laughter at his expense, remained crystal clear in his mind even as he danced with another woman, the orange-blossom scent of her hair still lingered in his nostrils, and her words echoed in his ears more loudly than the strains of Strauss’s “Blue Danube.”

You can’t kiss me during the dance, Lord Galbraith . . . because the dance is over.

He pictured himself as he’d been a few minutes ago, dazed, stunned, even aroused—on a dance floor, he appreciated with chagrin, in full view of society. He’d been so occupied with delicious notions of kissing her that he hadn’t even realized the music had stopped and they were no longer dancing. No wonder she’d laughed at him.

Still, he did have an excuse. She might not be the sort a man noticed in a first cursory glance, true enough, but when she laughed, the transformation was a bit shattering. When Clara Deverill laughed, when she smiled, it lit up her face—hell, it lit up the room—and sent any notions that she was plain straight out the window.

She didn’t realize it herself, he suspected, or have any idea that she had a unique charm all her own. He’d have been happy to show her, but she’d never given him the chance. She’d been off like a shot the moment the dance was over, leaving him standing there like a chump and feeling like a prize idiot.

Where she’d gone still baffled him. She must have slipped into the ladies’ withdrawing room, though he couldn’t see how she’d managed to reach it in time. She must have run hell for leather.

But why? Without being unduly conceited, he knew he wasn’t the sort ladies usually ran from. So why such a desire to escape? Had she merely been flirting with him? Running away, expecting him to pursue as the next move in the game?

That didn’t quite square. She had not wanted to dance with him, that had been clear enough, and despite a few flirtatious words here and there, her manner toward him had been for the most part coolly indifferent, even disapproving.

Who was she to approve or disapprove of him? he wondered, a bit nettled. They’d only just met.

With that thought, he felt again the curious sense that he knew her somehow.

I can assure you, Lord Galbraith, that we have never actually met.

Well, that was that, he thought. But the more Rex tried to dismiss a nagging feeling of familiarity, the stronger it became. They must have met, and she was denying it for some reason. But why? To pay him out for some slight, perhaps? Had he offended her in some way?

Before he could explore that rather unsettling prospect, Lady Frances’s voice intruded on his thoughts.

“You seem preoccupied, Lord Galbraith.”

With an effort, Rex set aside his contemplations of his former dance partner and returned his attention to the one in his arms, hastily conjuring an excuse for his inattention. “My apologies, Lady Frances. I am preoccupied, I do confess. On my uncle’s behalf, I’m playing host this evening, and I’m not accustomed to the role. It’s giving me cause for anxiety.”

“There’s no need for that. You’re doing splendidly. The role of host suits you well.”

Like most men, Rex found praise an agreeable thing, but only if he deserved it, and in this case, he didn’t, since he’d been playing host for less than an hour. No, he thought, looking into Lady Frances’s pretty face, this was the meaningless sort of flattery debutantes seemed to feel was expected of them. Most debutantes, anyway.

You do have quite a scandalous reputation.

Rex muttered an oath.

“I beg your pardon?”

Lady Frances was staring at him, looking rather shocked, and for the second time, Rex forced his thoughts back to his present dance partner. But despite his best intentions, he occasionally found his gaze scanning the room for a glimpse of a willowy figure in white illusion and a crown of light brown hair. To no avail.

It wasn’t until he had returned Lady Frances to her parents and started toward the refreshment table that his efforts seemed rewarded, and when he spied a tall, slender figure in white slipping onto the terrace, he wasted no time in going after her. When he reached the terrace, however, he discovered that the woman he’d been following was not Clara Deverill, but the slightly scandalous Lady Hunterby, who gave him a wicked smile just before she dashed down the steps and out into the gardens.

He moved to the balustrade, watching with a hint of envy as Lady Hunterby crossed the lawn toward the folly in one corner of the garden. A tryst, he couldn’t help but feel, was far more entertaining than dancing with women he had no interest in, or searching in vain for an aggravating girl who clearly had no interest in him.

“I took your advice.”

Rex turned at those words, glad of a distraction, and found Lionel Strange coming toward him across the terrace. “Lionel? What an agreeable surprise to see you. I had no idea you’d be at Auntie’s ball.”

The other man shrugged, but there was a curious tenseness in his demeanor that belied the nonchalant gesture. “I’m sometimes invited to these things. I suppose even your aunt Petunia finds it hard to scrounge up enough single men for a large ball.”

Rex noted the slight slur in Lionel’s words and his unsteady gait as he came across the terrace, and he felt a glimmer of surprise. Lionel was seldom drunk. “I’m sure that’s not why she asked you,” he said as the other man halted in front of him. “It’s probably because she knows we’re friends and I think quite highly of you.”

“We’re friends?” Lionel echoed, laughing a bit too loudly. “Are we, indeed?”

“Of course we are.”

“Then you have some damnable notions of friendship.”

Rex frowned, his surprise deepening into concern. Even on the rare occasions Lionel had indulged in alcoholic excess, Rex couldn’t recall him becoming belligerent or boorish. “I haven’t the least idea what you mean, but either way, I’m sure you weren’t invited just to balance the numbers. My aunt would never invite anyone of whom she didn’t have a good opinion. And you’re an MP, a man of position in your own right. It’s not as if you’re an insignificant nobody.”

“Perhaps, but we both know I’m not top drawer.” There was an unmistakable bitterness in the words. “Geraldine knows it, too, apparently.”

Rex’s frown deepened at the mention of Dina, and so did his concern. “What do you mean?”

“As I said, I took your advice. This very evening, as a matter of fact. Do you want to know the result?”

Rex wasn’t sure he did, given his friend’s obviously inebriated state, grim countenance, and bellicose manner, but a man couldn’t shirk when a friend was in difficulties. “I do want to know. Tell me what happened.”

Lionel shook his head, laughing a little, but there was no humor in it. “Exactly what I predicted. She agreed wholeheartedly with my suggestion that perhaps we should part, declared that I was right—that she in fact was too good for me. And then she left me flat.”

“What?” Rex blinked, a bit taken aback by this piece of news. Dina was, first and last, a flirt. It didn’t seem like her to walk away without leaving Lionel some means to pursue. “Did you go after her? Give her the speech I suggested?”

“Oh, yes.” Lionel’s expression got a bit grimmer. “But I barely got halfway through it before she stopped me, declaring that she knew I’d try something like this.”

“Something like what?”

“Lady Truelove had warned her to expect it, she said.”

Rex blinked, still utterly at sea. “Lady Who?”

“Lady Truelove. It’s an advice column. Dear Lady Truelove. God, Rex, surely you’ve heard of it. Don’t you ever read the papers?”

“You know I don’t.”

“People write to Lady Truelove with their romantic problems, and she advises them on what to do.”

Rex studied his friend’s angry face and began to wish the other man had sought advice from this Lady Truelove instead of him, but of course, it would never do to say so. Instead he tried to make sense of the situation at hand. “Geraldine wrote to an advice columnist in the paper?”

Even as he said it, he knew how absurd that notion was. Dina might be a flirt, but she was also discreet. She’d never do such a thing.

“She says not. But it hardly matters either way. The letter described a situation so much like her own that she decided to take the advice Lady Truelove had offered the correspondent. It was Providence, Dina said.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Oh, but I am. The letter, from some woman calling herself ‘Bewildered in Belgravia’, claimed that the man she loved had led her to expect marriage, but that he was now expressing reluctance to actually marry her.”

“Well, that is rather a common tale, I daresay—”

“Just like us, Dina said. She said it was as if Lady Truelove was talking straight to her. After reading the column for myself, I could see why she came to that conclusion.”

“Nonetheless, it is just a coincidence.”

“The correspondent comes from a much higher station than the man she loves. She is a widow of the aristocracy, while he is merely middle class. They have each declared their love for the other. They meet in secret and their families know nothing of their amour. They’ve been together a month. That’s quite a string of coincidences, wouldn’t you say?”

“But what other explanation could there be?”

“That is what I’ve been asking myself. Lady Truelove advised her correspondent that the man in question was a rotter, a scoundrel who was clearly out to take advantage of her in the most reprehensible way possible.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking this personally? Really, Lionel, it’s not as if this woman is referring to you.”

“You think not?”

“How could she be? She doesn’t know you.”

“Perhaps she does, even if I don’t know her. She told the girl,” he went on before Rex could respond to that rather enigmatic remark, “that the man would try to get ’round her somehow, that he would work his wiles on her and attempt to persuade her to continue this liaison.”

“Well, of course any man who found himself in such an agreeable situation would want it to continue for as long as possible. You certainly do. But as I’ve said, Dina’s far too discreet to air her private concerns to a newspaper columnist.”

“She is discreet,” Lionel agreed, and his expression hardened even more. “Which brings me to you.”

Rex stiffened, suddenly wary, not liking the resentful way his friend was glaring at him. “Just what are you implying, Lionel?”

Instead of answering, his friend reached into the breast pocket of his evening jacket, pulled out a cutting from a newspaper, and unfolded it. “Allow me to share with you Lady Truelove’s assessment of the situation and the advice she offered.”

Looking down at the page in his gloved fingers, he began to read. “‘I doubt that simple procrastination is the explanation for this man’s lack of action. My dear young lady, it is clear, I am sorry to say, that honorable marriage is not in his plans at all. To be blunt, he is using you in the most dishonorable way a man can do. Should you question his motives, I daresay he will attempt to make his reluctance to wed you sound honorable, even noble. He may declare that he cannot marry you because you are too far above his station, and that he hasn’t the means to support you in the way you’ve been accustomed.’”

“Any man would feel the need to underscore a vast difference in station between himself and his lady love,” Rex pointed out. “To marry with such differences between them would be precipitate and unwise.”

“‘He will say that you deserve more than he can provide,’” Lionel went on, ignoring Rex’s point altogether, “‘and that you are too good for the likes of him. He might make a token effort to break things off. He might say that he does not want to do this because he’s wild about you, that he can’t eat or sleep for wanting you, that your time together has been the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to him.’”

At this exact repetition of his own words from the other day, Rex gave a laugh borne of pure astonishment. “But how would—”

“‘Do not be fooled,’” Lionel interrupted. “‘Such a speech as this is not intended for the honorable purpose of ending what can only be regarded as an unsavory connection. Quite the opposite. Every word he speaks shall be designed to work on you, my dear, to play on your affections and bind you to him even more tightly than before. Following this attempt to break things off, I have no doubt that he will plead with you to continue as you are a bit longer. He might even throw himself on your mercy, expressing his willingness to settle for the merest crumbs of your affection—’”

“What the hell?” Rex snatched the newspaper cutting from his friend’s fingertips and scanned the entire column from top to bottom, and as he read the words of his own speech, a picture formed in his mind’s eye—a picture of that little tea shop in Holborn, a spray of palm fronds, and a pair of dark brown eyes looking at him with disapproval, and he suddenly knew just why Clara Deverill seemed so familiar.

“Because of this column, Dina has broken with me completely,” Lionel said, his voice rising. “She’s told me to leave her alone and never contact her again. This is all your fault.”

Despite his friend’s raised voice, Rex paid little heed, for in his mind, his aunt Petunia’s information was echoing far more loudly than Lionel’s angry words.

Her father’s family is in trade—newspapers, I believe.

His gaze moved to the masthead at the top of the sheet in his hand.

The Weekly Gazette.

“What cheek,” he cried, his temper rising as he realized what must have occurred. “What damnable cheek.”

“God, Rex, I thought you were a discreet chap, I really did. I thought I could trust you to keep my confidence.”

The implications of that caught his attention, and he looked up. “What? Lionel, surely you don’t think—”

“But seeing you dancing with the Deverill girl,” Lionel cut in furiously, “made me realize that my trust has been misplaced.”

Rex could not reply, for anger was rising within him. That minx, he thought, his hand tightening around the sheet of newsprint, crumpling Lady Truelove’s column in his fist. That clever, eavesdropping, opportunistic little minx.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain what must have happened. “Lionel, I didn’t tell this girl anything. It’s clear that she—”

“Don’t,” his friend snapped, cutting off explanations. “Don’t even try to justify yourself.” He jabbed at the paper balled in Rex’s fist. “Her father is the publisher, you realize that?”

Rex set his jaw, beginning to share his friend’s grim mood. “I have appreciated that point, yes.”

“I’ve always thought you knew so much about women.” Lionel gave another laugh. “But this one’s made quite a fool of you, hasn’t she? How long has she been pumping you for information on her columnist’s behalf? How many of our other friends have seen their private affairs used as newspaper fodder, I wonder?”

“For God’s sake, I just met the girl less than an hour ago, and besides, I would never—”

“And when next week’s column features another supposedly fictitious offering that depicts the exact situation of another of our friends, that will be coincidence, too?” He shook his head and laughed again. “I’d never have thought you could lose your head over any girl, but I’ve been proved wrong now, it seems.”

“I have never lost my head over a girl in my life,” Rex assured him. “And your fear for our friends is misplaced. I intend to see to it that this is the only time such a thing will happen—”

“It’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think? Because of you and your lack of discretion,” he added, his voice rising to a shout, “I’ve lost Dina for good!”

A movement past his friend’s shoulder caught Rex’s attention, and he spied Lord and Lady Flinders strolling out onto the terrace. “If discretion is what you’re after, old boy,” he murmured, “I suggest you keep your voice down. We’re no longer alone out here.”

Lionel cast an impatient glance over his shoulder, then looked at Rex again. “Damn it, man,” he said, making no effort to follow Rex’s advice or keep his temper in check, “is that all you can say after what you’ve done? After you’ve betrayed my confidence this way?”

“Lionel, listen to me,” he said quietly, trying to employ reason in the face of his friend’s anger and inebriation. “As I told you, I just met the Deverill girl this evening. And I would never tell anyone—”

“You lying bastard.”

Quick as lightning, Lionel’s fist came up, slamming into the side of his face before he had the chance to duck. Pain shimmered through the entire left side of his face and knocked him back a step, but when he saw Lionel’s other fist coming for an uppercut to his jaw, he blocked the move, knocking the other man’s arm sideways. He didn’t want to fight, especially not at Auntie’s ball, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice.

He hit back hard, landing two quick blows before his friend could strike again. And since he had no desire to be attacked a second time, he pressed his advantage, tackling Lionel and sending both of them stumbling across the terrace, a move that sent Lord and Lady Flinders scrambling to stay out of the fray, along with several other guests who’d come out to see what the commotion was about. Among those guests, unfortunately, was Auntie Pet, who stopped just outside the doorway to the ballroom, looking so aghast and appalled that the sight of her face stopped him in his tracks.

The blow came out of nowhere, striking with such force that stars shot across his vision like flashing sparks. He felt himself falling backward, pain exploded inside his skull, and his only thought before everything went dark was that he really needed to stop giving people advice.

The black eye wasn’t so bad—a barely noticeable blotch, his valet assured him. The concussion, however, was another matter. The morning after the ball, Rex discovered that the world had the inclination to spin violently every time he sat up, and his body had developed a most inconvenient tendency to heave the contents of his stomach.

It took another forty-eight hours before he was on his feet again, and by that time, the barely noticeable blotch beneath his eye had quadrupled in size and turned a lurid shade of purple.

“God, Cartwright,” he muttered to his valet as he stared into the mirror. “I look like an apache. Any woman sees me coming, she’ll clutch her handbag and cross the street.”

“I think you exaggerate, sir.” The valet set aside the razor and reached for a towel. “Mrs. Snell has prepared breakfast, if you’re feeling up to it?”

He was famished, he realized in some surprise, but before he could offer his valet an affirmative reply to the question of breakfast, there was a tap on the door, and his butler, Whistler, entered the bedroom.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but Lady Petunia is downstairs.”

“Again?” Rex lowered the mirror in his hand. “That’s three times since the ball.”

“Four, my lord. She seems quite anxious to speak with you.”

“Dear Auntie Pet,” he murmured, smiling. “She’s obviously concerned about me.”

The butler gave a discreet cough. “I wouldn’t quite say that, my lord.”

Rex stiffened. His memories of the other night were still a bit vague, but one image was suddenly clear as glass in his mind: Auntie Pet, standing by the doorway to the ballroom, staring at him in horror. Any inclination to smile vanished at once, and he turned in his chair, facing Whistler directly. “What did she say? Tell me her exact words.”

“When I explained that you were still in no condition to receive callers due to your injuries, she said . . .” Whistler paused, giving Rex a pained, apologetic look. “She said that in her opinion, any injuries you sustained were no more than you deserved. Given that you had taken to offending young ladies on the dance floor and—”

“The girl dashed off,” Rex interjected, stung. “Then she vanished into thin air. What was I supposed to do? Hunt her down all about the house?”

“She also mentioned something about neglecting your duties as host.”

“Well, I was knocked unconscious,” he pointed out, even though it was hardly necessary to defend himself to his own butler.

“Yes, she mentioned that as well, my lord.”

“Oh, did she?”

“Her description, I believe, was that you had taken to brawling at her balls like a Limehouse longshoreman.”

Rex grimaced, his foggy memories of the other night becoming clearer with every word his butler spoke.

“She has expressed the wish to discuss with you the matter of your recent conduct.” Whistler’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Do you wish to receive her?”

He ought to, he supposed. Let her call him on the carpet and have it over. After all, the fight was probably his worst offense, and it wasn’t as if that had been his fault. Lionel had struck first, and Auntie would surely agree that any chap had the right to defend himself. Once he explained—

He broke off that train of thought to reconsider. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if he really could explain, for he couldn’t betray Lionel’s confidences. As for the grievance Auntie had against him regarding Miss Deverill, he certainly couldn’t tell Petunia it was his naughty suggestion about kissing the girl that had spurred her to depart the dance floor. And, he thought, lifting the mirror in his hand for another look, his battered face would hardly help him to regain his aunt’s goodwill.

He handed the mirror to Cartwright and returned his attention to his butler. “You did explain to Lady Petunia just how serious my injuries are?”

“I said you had concussion, my lord, and would probably be unwell for several more days.”

With that, Rex decided the best thing to do was to let things lie and allow Auntie’s temper to cool. In the meantime, he could perhaps fashion a palatable way to explain the fight without having to reveal anything about Lionel’s secret affair with Lady Geraldine Throckmorton. As for the rest . . .

His gaze moved to the crumpled sheet of newsprint on his dressing table as more memories of the other night came back to him. “Tell my aunt that my head injury—my massive head injury—still prevents me from receiving visitors,” he said, turning to the butler. “I will call on her when I’m fighting fit. When I’m feeling better,” he amended as Whistler raised an eyebrow.

“Very good, sir.”

The butler departed, and Rex reached for the wadded-up newspaper cutting He’d pay Auntie a visit in a day or two and find a way to make amends, and in the meantime, he’d see Lionel, try to patch things up there. As for Miss Clara Deverill . . .

Rex set his jaw grimly as he smoothed out the scrap of paper in his fingers. Where she was concerned, he had no intention of making amends or patching things up. Quite the contrary. When it came to her, he was itching for a fight.