‘Miss Manning, have you met the great hero of the day?’ Lady Alnworth said.

He turned to smile at Mary, and it took all her long years of careful diplomatic training to keep her own polite smile in place. A chivalric knight of old, only in a red coat instead of gleaming armour. On him, that uniform seemed—different. Exotic. Alluring.

‘How do you do, Miss Manning?’ he said, bowing over her hand.

His breath through her glove made her shiver. His hair was a golden brown, shimmering as if he spent much time in the sun. It gave him such a warmth she wanted to get close to. So very vital … burning with raw, energetic life.

Yes, she thought. No wonder all the young ladies of London were in love with him. If she wasn’t careful she would soon be one of them!

Author Note

I don’t know what last winter was like where you are, but here it was cold, grey and long! I am not a winter person—ever … So I definitely loved escaping to the warm beaches of Brazil, even if it was only in my imagination.

I also loved watching the romance of Mary and Sebastian unfold against the palm trees and real-life political intrigue of 1808 Rio. They started to feel like real friends—two people whose adventures I loved following every day. I was never sure where they would go, but I knew they definitely belonged together—two strong, kind-hearted, brave people, who are too honourable and stubborn for their own good! Maybe I was just feeling extra-romantic after my own wedding last summer! I hope you enjoy their adventures, too …

For more behind-the-book history and deleted scenes from The Demure Miss Manning be sure to visit me at ammandamccabe.com.

The Demure Miss Manning

Amanda McCabe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

AMANDA McCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, one dog and one cat.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Author Note

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

London—1805

‘I hear he is the handsomest thing ever seen!’

Mary Manning tried not to laugh at her friend Lady Louisa Smythe’s enthusiastic words. Instead, she smiled and nodded at the people they strolled past in the park, and adjusted her lace-trimmed parasol against the bright afternoon sun. Lady Louisa did tend to get so very excited over titbits of gossip, especially gossip about good-looking young men.

And a good-looking young man who was the newest hero of the war against Napoleon, after his valiant behaviour at the Battle of Caldiero—well, Mary was surprised she hadn’t swooned quite away with enthusiasm yet.

But Mary had to admit even she was intrigued by the tales of Lord Sebastian Barrett, third son of the Marquess of Howard and a captain in the Third Hussars, and his heroism. Just a tiny bit.

Lady Louisa took Mary’s arm as they turned along a winding, narrow river path. Mary automatically studied the people gathered there, strolling in pairs or laughing quartets, talking together by the sun-dappled water. Her father had worked in the diplomatic service for as long as she could remember, and she had been his hostess since her beautiful Portuguese mother died a few years ago.

Sixteen had been young to organise dinners and card parties where foreign envoys and their sophisticated wives could make alliances with the English representatives, especially in such dangerous wartime days, yet there had been no one else to do it. Mary had already learned much from watching her gracious mother, listening to her parents’ conversations, asking questions. She loved the work, loved having a purpose. Loved learning new things. With her father, she had seen Italy and Austria, lived in Russia for many months, only returning to England a few months ago.

Yet sometimes—well, sometimes she almost wished she could giggle and whisper like other young ladies, be carried away by the wild wings of flirtation and infatuation. Just for a moment. That was why she so enjoyed being friends with Lady Louisa.

‘The handsomest man ever?’ Mary said. She and Lady Louisa stopped in the shade of a copse of trees where they could watch the crowds flow past, the children sailing their toy boats on the water, the bright flutter of beribboned bonnets and silk parasols. ‘Better looking than the Prince de Ligne? You swore last week he had quite won your heart for ever.’

Louisa laughed merrily. ‘Oh, him! He is to marry some little German dumpling of a duchess, trying to get his lands back. He was a fine dancer, to be sure, but he is no hero like Lord Sebastian. There is just something about a man in uniform, don’t you think, Mary? A wonderful manly spirit.’

A naval officer in his blue coat and cocked hat strolled past just then, giving them a bow and a grin. Louisa giggled and fluttered her handkerchief at him.

Mary bit her lip to keep from smiling. It seemed any uniform would do, Army or Navy.

She thought of the stories she had heard of Lord Sebastian, how he fought off ten Frenchmen in hand-to-hand combat, had several horses shot from beneath him. She was sure they could not all be true, but she liked the tales anyway. Fairy stories had always appealed to her, ever since she was tiny and her mother would tell her Portuguese myths at bedtime. Ancient battles, knights, fair maidens.

Louisa leaned closer to whisper in Mary’s ear. ‘Though I am sure Lord Sebastian can be no more handsome than his brother Lord Henry. You should have no worries on that score.’

Mary looked at her friend, startled. How did Louisa know of Lord Henry and his vague sort of courtship? ‘Lord Henry Barrett?’

Louisa’s smile turned secretive. ‘Why, yes. For is he not a great admirer of yours?’

Mary felt her cheeks turn warm and not from the touch of the sun beyond the edge of her parasol. She looked away, staring hard at a child with a wildly waving hoop dashing past with his nurse in pursuit. ‘I wouldn’t say that. We have only met once or twice.’

‘No?’ Louisa already seemed distracted by a gentleman on horseback in the distance. ‘Are you quite sure? You two would surely be a most suited pair. My uncle says Lord Henry’s future in the diplomatic service seems assured. That he might even be sent to Russia soon, like your father.’

A most suited pair. So they would be. Lord Henry Barrett had become something of a protégé to her father in recent days. Sir William Manning never complained of having only a daughter, only Mary, but she knew he would have liked a son to follow in his career footsteps, whom he could guide and advise amid the powder keg of politics and wars and royal courts.

Her father had asked her to invite Lord Henry to some of their dinners lately, and often the two of them were talking afterward in the library for many hours. Much longer than Lord Henry had ever talked with Mary herself.

A promising young man indeed, Mary dearest, her father had said only that morning, as she prepared to go out walking with Louisa. Steady and calm, exactly what this country needs now.

Mary sighed as those words echoed in her mind. She twirled her parasol, thinking of Lord Henry Barrett. He was handsome enough, with golden hair and a careful, polite smile. The perfect diplomat, correct, poised, giving nothing away, barely even touching her hand in a dance.

A man somewhat like her father must have been, in fact, before he met her beautiful mother in Lisbon and brought her home to London. A man her father would surely like to see her matched with, so she could continue in what she was trained to do. To be a hostess and helpmate in foreign postings. A diplomat herself in all but title.

Mary knew that would be the best path in her life. The only path, really. All she knew.

Yes, Lord Henry Barrett would be a suitable match. Tales of his dashing, heroic Army brother were only that—thrilling fairy stories.

‘Lord Henry is amiable,’ Mary said carefully. ‘But I don’t know him well enough to say whether he admires me or not.’

‘Really? I am sure he must. You would be the perfect diplomat’s wife.’ Louisa idly tapped her folded fan against her pink-striped skirts, watching the passers-by as if she searched for another handsome face. ‘And he is the second son, after all, where Lord Sebastian is the third. He might succeed to an earldom one day.’

‘Louisa,’ Mary said with a laugh, ‘of all Lord Henry’s advantages, I would say that is most implausible. I have heard the wife of the eldest brother is expecting.’

‘Oh.’ Louisa gave a little pout. ‘How disappointing. I should have so liked to be bosom bow with a countess. You shall have to make do with being Lady Henry, I suppose. And perhaps I shall be Lady Sebastian! We could be sisters!’

Mary laughed even more. That was why she liked being friends with Louisa. All the people who came to her father’s house, as interesting as they were, were so very solemn. Louisa made her laugh. ‘You have not even met Lord Sebastian yet, Louisa. How can you know if you would like him enough to marry him?’

‘Because sometimes a lady just knows!’ Louisa seized Mary’s hand and pulled her along behind her back on to the pathway. ‘He sounds handsome and brave and dashing. Exactly what I should be looking for, don’t you think?’

Mary nodded. Were those not things every lady should look for? Except for sensible, useful ladies like herself, of course. She was supposed to look for someone she could help, a family she could fit into. Yet she couldn’t quite help envisioning a tall, lean, darkly handsome figure at the head of a great cavalry charge. The stuff of epic poems.

Louisa tugged her out past the park gates, chattering about a pretty bonnet she had glimpsed in a window and ‘quite coveted’. Carriages and fine horses clattered past in a great parade.

‘I think we are very near Lady Alnworth’s house,’ Louisa said. ‘We should call on her. She promised to lend me her amethyst bracelet to go with my lavender gown for the Seeton ball tomorrow night.’

Lady Alnworth was one of the greatest hostesses in London—and one of the most scandalous, at the centre of a dashing crowd. ‘I am not so sure, Louisa. My father will be home soon and wanting his dinner.’

‘It will only take a moment! Besides, you know that Lady Alnworth always has all the latest news. Perhaps she will know if Lord Sebastian will be at the ball tomorrow.’

Mary laughed. Perhaps Lady Alnworth was not the very most high-in-the-instep lady in town, but she was respectable enough. And news was always welcome. ‘Very well. Just for a moment.’

They made their way to Lady Alnworth’s house, a tall, bright-white structure at the edge of the park. As always, her doors were open to visitors and the clatter of talk and laughter flowed out into her lavishly decorated hall. It was a lively, fashionable, bright house and suddenly Mary was rather glad they had come.

‘Is Lady Alnworth at home?’ Louisa asked the butler.

‘Indeed she is, Lady Louisa, Miss Manning,’ he answered with a bow. ‘A large party has just arrived before you, including the Duchess of Thwaite.’

Louisa’s eyes widened and even Mary was rather impressed. The duchess seldom came to town, choosing to keep her own almost-constant house party at Thwaite Park. Whenever she graced a London party, she trailed clouds of illustrious friends behind her. She usually only came to town for her annual ball.

‘The duchess is here?’ Mary asked.

‘Yes, with several guests, Miss Manning,’ the butler answered, solemnly but with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Heroic guests.’

‘Heroic?’ Louisa squealed. ‘Oh, Mary! What if it is Lord Sebastian, and maybe some of his Army friends? How very exciting. I knew it was a good idea to call on Lady Alnworth today.’

‘Louisa, surely it is not...’ Mary began, but Louisa was already dashing off towards the half-open drawing-room doors.

By the time Mary caught up to her, following at the polite pace long years at royal courts with her parents and strict governesses had taught her, Louisa was already at the group gathered around the tall, open windows that looked out on to the park. Mary paused to study them, to gauge the scene, as she would a painting. As she had always been taught to do.

The duchess was at the centre of the group, tall and dark-haired, dressed in the height of fashion in a green-and-black pelisse and tall-crowned green hat, with Lady Alnworth lounging on a brocade chaise beside her in a red classical robe. They looked very dramatic with Louisa, all blonde curls and satin ribbons, fluttering to greet her. A tea table laden with a gleaming silver service was laid before them and they were surrounded by laughing admirers vying for their attention.

Mary felt suddenly shy. She had been taught to be comfortable around different sorts of people, to talk to anyone in a polite fashion, but these people were more than polite—they were known as the wittiest group in London. She recognised Mr Nicholas Warren and Lord Paul Gilesworth, two of the most sought-after society bachelors, and Lord James Sackville, but not another man who stood half in the shadows of the window curtaining, looking out at the park.

‘Miss Manning,’ Lady Alnworth called. ‘Won’t you come in and help us settle a question? You are always so clever, so well read. Lord James here says Plato cannot be a pagan since he advocates the immortality of the soul, while Mr Warren claims that cannot be. I am terribly confused.’

‘I fear my reading is not so extensive as all that, Lady Alnworth. I have only read what Plato reported Socrates, his teacher, to have said,’ Mary said, making her way towards their hostess with her brightest smile. ‘I know little about...’

She suddenly noticed a movement from the man near the window, a flutter of colour that caught her attention. A man in a red uniform coat stepped forward, into a buttery blade of sunlight, and Mary faltered at the sight of him.

He was quite, quite beautiful, almost unreal, like something in a book suddenly sprung into vivid life. A chivalric knight of old, only in a red coat instead of gleaming armour. On him, that uniform seemed—different. Exotic. Alluring.

He was taller than most of the men she met in London, with enticingly broad shoulders and lean hips, long hips encased in pale breeches set off with tall, glossy black boots.

His hair was a gold-tinged brown, almost tawny, shimmering as if he spent much time in the sun. It gave him such an enticing glow, a warmth, she feared she wanted to get closer and closer to, as if he could melt every tiny sliver of ice around her. Of the loneliness that had seemed to close in around her since her mother died. That hair fell in unruly waves over his brow and the high, gild-trimmed collar of his coat, enticingly soft-looking.

He didn’t seem as if he really quite belonged in the gilded, brocaded drawing room, despite his immaculate uniform and a noble bearing. Mary imagined him on the deck of a pirate ship, riding through a stormy sea, or racing a wild horse madly across an open field.

Or maybe grabbing a sighing, melting lady up into his arms, kissing her passionately until she swooned.

Mary almost laughed aloud at her romantic fantasies. Obviously she was mistaken when she told Lady Alnworth that she hadn’t read so widely; she had been consuming too many poems lately. It was very unlike her. If this was the famous Lord Sebastian Barrett, his reputation was more than justified. He was quite perfectly handsome.

She thought of Lord Henry Barrett, the man everyone seemed to think she should marry, who was perfectly amiable and good-looking, and felt a bit sorry for him.

‘Lady Louisa, Miss Manning!’ the duchess cried. ‘I am so glad to see you both. Come, sit with us. You can assist us in this quarrel between Lord James and Mr Warren. But what we really want to do is get Lord Sebastian to tell us of his many adventures. Perhaps you shall have more luck.’

‘Oh, yes, you must tell us more, Lord Sebastian!’ Louisa cried. ‘How heroic of you to defend us all like that.’

‘Lady Louisa, I know you once met Lord Sebastian. Miss Manning, have you met the great hero of the day?’ Lady Alnworth said. ‘He has so long been away from London, sadly for us all. Much like yourself. Lord Sebastian Barrett, may I present Miss Mary Manning?’

He turned to smile at Mary and it took all her long years of careful diplomatic training to keep her own polite smile in place, to make him the regulation demure curtsy. Up close, his eyes were very, very green. As green as her mother’s treasured emerald earrings, deep and dark, set in a lean, sculpted face touched with the gold of the sun. Even in all her family’s travels, she had never met a man quite like this one before. So very vital, burning with raw, energetic life.

Yes, she thought wryly. No wonder all the young ladies of London were quite in love with him. If she wasn’t careful, she would soon be one of them.

But one thing Mary had learned above all was to be careful.

‘How do you do, Miss Manning,’ he said, bowing over her hand. His breath felt so warm through her glove, but somehow it made her shiver. ‘I believe I have heard of your father. Sir William Manning, the diplomat who was lately in St Petersburg?’

‘Oh, yes, he is my father,’ Mary said, feeling quite pleased he had heard of her family in some way. ‘We’ve only been back in London for a few months. He is waiting for his next post.’

Lord Sebastian’s handsome face looked very solemn suddenly, like a grey cloud sliding over the sun. ‘My friend Mr Denny says he and his wife could never have escaped from France last year without Sir William’s help. He could not say enough fine things about your father.’

Mary couldn’t help but smile at hearing her father’s praises. She well remembered the long nights he had gone sleepless while trying to help every British citizen he could. ‘He would be pleased to hear that your friend is well now, but I know he would claim he only did his duty for England. As you do, Lord Sebastian. We do hear such talk of your heroics.’

An embarrassed look flashed across his handsome face and he glanced away. He laughed and it was as smooth and warm as his fine looks. ‘I did nothing but laze around in the Spanish sun, I promise, Miss Manning. It’s people like you and your father who are the heroes of our country, digging your way through Russian ice and snow to win friends for England.’

Mary had to laugh, too, charmed by how he seemed to want to run away from his heroic reputation rather than revel in it, as any other man surely would. ‘It was indeed—interesting in Russia, Lord Sebastian. I am glad to be back in London now.’

‘I should very much like to hear more about your experiences there, Miss Manning.’

‘Would you truly?’ Mary said, surprised. ‘I promise it was really quite dull.’

‘I always love hearing about other lands. My favourite book as child was Thousand and One Nights. Do you know it?’

‘Of course! It was my favourite, too,’ Mary said. Lord Sebastian, despite his fine looks and great popularity, was not so frightening after all. It felt as though she already knew him, that she could tell him of some of her secret hopes. Her thirst for adventure. ‘I fear I made my nanny read it to me over and over until she was quite sick of it.’

‘What are you two talking of so intently?’ Lady Alnworth called. ‘You must share it with all of us, I insist!’

Mary glanced at their hostess, suddenly startled to realise she and Lord Sebastian had been standing beside the half-open window, talking quietly together for too long. It was most unlike her to lose sight of even a second of impropriety. She felt her cheeks turn warm and quickly smiled to cover her blushes.

Lady Alnworth and Louisa sat with two of the other men, Mr Warren and Lord Paul Gilesworth, two of the most well-known rakes in town. They all looked at her with eyes wide with interest.

‘I fear I was the one monopolising Miss Manning,’ Lord Sebastian said with a charming smile. ‘I was asking about her time in Russia.’

‘Oh, it must have been horrid, all that dreadful snow!’ the duchess cried, with a quick agreement from Lady Alnworth. ‘Surely there are far more amusing things going on right here in London.’

‘Perhaps we could speak more about your travels later, Miss Manning?’ Lord Sebastian whispered in her ear before she could move away.

He wanted to talk more to her? Mary could only nod, frozen with something terribly like excitement and—and pleasure. It was most frightening. He led her back to the group, and soon they were all deep in a conversation about the newest play at Covent Garden. But Mary was always much too aware of Lord Sebastian sitting across from her, of his warm laughter and emerald-green eyes. The way the duchess kept sliding her hand over his arm.

Mary knew she was going to have to be very careful indeed. One careless step and her cautious, contented life could come tumbling down—right into those strong arms.

Chapter Two

‘That Lady Louisa Smythe is a rare beauty,’ Lord Paul Gilesworth said with a laugh. He gestured to the footman for a bottle of port as they settled into armchairs by the fireplace of their club in St James’s, after leaving Lady Alnworth’s tea. ‘Also a rare flirt, it seems. What do you all think?’

Nicholas Warren laughed. ‘I think her father guards her like a chest of gold. You’d have far better luck with Lady Alnworth herself, Gilesworth.’

‘Do you think so?’ Gilesworth said, his expression turning speculative. ‘Depends on what you want the fillies for, I suppose. Brood mare or racehorse? And what of the Duchess of Thwaite? She would be a bit of a challenge.’

Sebastian watched as the servants poured out the blood-red wine into fine cut-crystal goblets, half-listening as his friends debated the merits of various ladies in London. He felt as he had ever since he returned to England—distant from everything that went on around him, as if it was happening in a dream.

The concerns of London society, the concerns that had once been his as well, seemed as insubstantial and inconsequential as the bubbles in a glass of champagne. The beauties of various débutantes, who had lost what in which card games, who took which famous actress as his mistress—it all meant nothing at all after what he had seen. What he had done in battle.

He took a long drink of the fine, satin-smooth wine, and studied the faces of his old friends, as detached as if he looked at paintings in a gallery. Nicholas Warren was all right; a kind-hearted, harmless sort of chap, headed for the diplomatic service like Sebastian’s brother Henry. But Gilesworth and Lord James, who had seemed like such fun companions when they were at school, now had concerns that seemed no deeper than the cut of their coats and the legs of the dancing girls at Covent Garden. It was rather wearying.

Sebastian couldn’t help but remember the men he had seen fall in battle. Good, brave men, who lived to the fullest, yet died fearlessly for their country. He had drunk with them, too, sat up late into the night joking and laughing, gone searching for beautiful women to seek comfort in their arms for a few moments. Faced the deepest instants of life and death with them.

Yet somehow, it had felt so very different with his fellow officers. Life had taken on a rare, shining edge there on the eve of battle. A height of feeling he had never known.

And now those friends were gone, and Sebastian felt as if he had plunged into a dark tunnel where there was no point of light to guide him. Much to his shock, he was hailed as a hero here in London. Welcomed warmly into every drawing room, begged for his ‘stories’. Even his father, who had long bemoaned how ‘useless’ his youngest son was, such a wastrel, seemed proud.

It made Sebastian feel the greatest fraud and he was puzzled that no one else seemed to see it. He was alive and all those good men were dead in the gore of the battlefield.

Surely there was nothing right about that?

But no one here seemed to understand anything. They went on blithely with their lives as if nothing else mattered. As if the world outside their little island wasn’t exploding into pieces.

Sebastian no longer felt he belonged in London. No longer belonged in his own skin. Lord Sebastian Barrett—who was that? With his fellow officers, he had felt he found himself, his true self, at last. For so long, his whole life really, he had felt the tug between what he felt inside and what his family thought. Once he was in the Army, he could just—be. Here, there was only a cold numbness, that terrible distance. He found he would do anything, try anything, to be warm again.

The only time he had felt anything since he came home was when Miss Mary Manning had smiled up at him today in Lady Alnworth’s drawing room. Miss Manning wasn’t flashing and flirtatious like her friend Lady Louisa, to be sure, but there was such a quiet, dignified beauty to her. A solemn, deep perception in her grey eyes that he hadn’t found in anyone else in London. They all swirled on with their merriment, never stopping to look.

Yet Mary Manning seemed to look. Her very stillness seemed to be a refuge, no matter how brief. He had wanted to sit with her, talk to her more. Maybe even tell her something of what had happened to him.

But he remembered all too well that his father had declared Miss Manning would be a suitable bride for Sebastian’s brother Henry. The perfect, intellectual son, destined to carry on the Barretts’ great tradition in the diplomatic service. Sebastian had thought nothing of it when he heard his father and Henry talking about Mary Manning. After all, he did not know her and his thoughts and nightmares were still all of the battlefield. He didn’t care who his brother married. Surely they would be the perfect, dignified couple, a credit to the Barretts and to England.

It was obvious Henry cared little for Miss Manning beyond who her father was, the famous and well-respected Sir William Manning. That was how all their family’s marriages were conducted.

Yet now Sebastian had met Mary Manning. And she was most unexpected.

He took a deep drink of his wine, draining the glass. The footmen quickly refilled it. So, the brief moment of quiet Sebastian had found in Mary’s pale grey eyes had been all too brief. The desperate search for distraction went on.

He studied the faces of his friends again, sweet Nicholas Warren and Lord James who would always follow him anywhere. But Paul Gilesworth—he always knew where the most trouble was to be found. He revelled in it. He would surely know of something that would make Sebastian forget the great waste of his life for a time.

‘So, no Lady Louisa Smythe,’ Gilesworth was saying with a laugh. It seemed Sebastian had missed more of the listing of various ladies’ attributes. ‘She would surely be easy enough to lead astray, but the trouble with her father afterward wouldn’t be worth it. I for one have no intention of ending in parson’s mousetrap before I’m forty.’

‘But that’s the trouble with every young lady in London,’ Lord James said with a sigh. ‘Their papas are most vigilant.’

Gilesworth gave a sly laugh. ‘Not all of them, surely.’

‘For respectable young ladies, it must be,’ Nicholas said earnestly. ‘That is how it should be. But demi-reps...’

‘Where is the challenge in that? Or even in flirtatious young misses like Lady Louisa,’ Gilesworth said, his lips twisting.

A challenge. Surely that was what Sebastian needed now. He gestured for more wine as he turned that intriguing thought over in his head. Every day in the Army was a challenge. In London, there was only ever that numbness.

‘What do you mean, Gilesworth?’ Sebastian said. The others turned to him with startled looks on their faces, as if they had rather forgotten he was there. ‘What of a challenge could there be in London?’

Gilesworth’s eyes narrowed. He looked as if he had some scheme going in his mind, sharpening his features, and it roused Sebastian’s own instincts for trouble. ‘You talked rather quietly with Miss Mary Manning today, Barrett.’

Sebastian saw again Mary Manning in his mind, her sweet smile, the gentle touch of her hand on his arm. ‘So I did. She was rather unusually intelligent. What of it?’

‘A lady like her would probably be something of a challenge.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nicholas said. He was beginning to look rather alarmed, which Sebastian was sure must be an interesting sign.

‘Miss Manning is no flirt, despite her friendship with Lady Louisa,’ Gilesworth said. ‘She has not been long back in London, due to her father’s work, but no one ever has a word of criticism for her. She is pretty, polite, calm, a fine hostess for her father. She couldn’t put a dainty slipper wrong.’

Sebastian saw where Gilesworth was going and it made him scowl. He drank down the last of his wine, letting the hazy distance of the alcohol add to his own cold numbness. ‘So, in other words, she is exactly what she should be?’

Lord James gave a snort. ‘Are any of us what we should be?’

‘Exactly,’ Gilesworth said. ‘Surely no one is perfect inside—even a quiet lady like Miss Manning. She must have a few wild thoughts running through that pretty head.’

Sebastian stared down into the ruby dregs of his glass, but he didn’t see the wine. He saw Mary Manning’s face, the way she smiled at him, so shy and trusting.

Wild thoughts in her head? Oh, how he would like to know what those were! Sebastian almost laughed to imagine Mary Manning going wild, her skirts frothing around her slender legs, her laughter ringing out like music.

And then suddenly he wasn’t laughing any longer. The thought of her breaking free, taking him by the hand and drawing him with her into the sunshine, made him feel sad—and also, strangely, hopeful.

‘All the ladies seem to talk of nothing but your heroics of late, Barrett,’ Gilesworth said. ‘Even Miss Manning seemed most fascinated by you today. If anyone could break through such cool perfection, surely it would be you.’

Sebastian shook his head. ‘My brother is the one who is interested in Miss Manning.’

Gilesworth and Lord James laughed, as Nicholas watched them, wide-eyed. ‘Your brother Lord Henry is surely not interested in anything besides his own career. He is as cool-headed as Miss Manning herself. No, I would wager if anyone could break through to the perfect Miss Manning, it would be you.’

‘A wager?’ Lord James cried. ‘Oh, marvellous. I haven’t heard an interesting wager in ages.’

Sebastian studied Gilesworth carefully. He didn’t quite trust his friend’s smile, but he found himself intrigued rather against his will. ‘I may be wickedly bored, but I do not wager on a lady’s reputation.’

Gilesworth waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘No one is suggesting we ruin a lady’s fair name! Only that we provide her—and ourselves—with a bit of fun. It has been a most dull Season. Surely even Miss Manning deserves a laugh before she retreats into a blameless life as Lady Henry? If she does become Lady Henry in the end, which I doubt.’

‘Then what are you suggesting?’ Sebastian said in a hard voice.

Gilesworth leaned over the table. ‘Just this—fifty guineas says you won’t be able to steal a kiss from Miss Manning at the Duchess of Thwaite’s ball.’

‘Fifty guineas?’ Nicholas gasped.

Sebastian did not look away from Gilesworth. ‘I told you. I won’t ruin a lady’s reputation.’ Not even to break that terrible coldness around him.

Not even if he was tempted by the thought of kissing Miss Manning. And he was tempted. Far more than he cared to admit. Surely the touch of her lips, so sweet and innocent, could make him feel alive again?

‘No one would know but us, Barrett,’ Gilesworth said. ‘And Miss Manning, of course. Give her a thrilling memory. If indeed there is something of fire under her pretty ice, which I am not at all sure of.’

Sebastian sat back in his chair, turning his empty glass around in his hand. There was such a stew of feelings seething inside of him: boredom, desire, intrigue. It was the first spark of warm life he had felt in too long. And yet surely it could not be right.

Maybe he was the rake London society had proclaimed him to be after all.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall endeavour to kiss the lady just once at the duchess’s ball.’

Yet even as he shook hands with Gilesworth to make their devil’s bargain, he knew something momentous was going to happen.

Whether for good or ill, he could not say. He only knew Mary Manning had suddenly made him feel alive again.

Chapter Three

Mary watched her reflection in the mirror as her maid put the last touches on her coiffure for the Duchess of Thwaite’s ball. Usually, she saw none of the elaborate process of braiding and pinning. There were too many other things to go over in her mind. The people her father wanted her to talk to at the party; remembering everyone’s names; organising their own dinner parties and who would require return calls and invitations later.

She knew the maids knew their jobs and trusted them to make her look presentable. She knew that she herself could always be called ‘presentable’. Pretty enough, always suitably dressed, knowledgeable enough of fashion. She had always been taught to be appropriate.

But she was certainly no stylish beauty like Lady Louisa, or like her own mother. Maria Manning, with her dark Portuguese eyes and musical laugh, had always dazzled everyone. Mary knew she didn’t have it in her power to be like that, so she did all she could otherwise. Studied, watched her manners, tried to be helpful.

But tonight she found herself peering into the looking glass as the maid twined a wreath of pink-and-white rosebuds through the braids of her glossy brown hair. She felt so unaccountably nervous tonight, almost unable to sit still. Her thoughts wouldn’t stay put on her duties for the duchess’s ball, but kept darting all around like shimmering summer butterflies. And she knew exactly why she felt so flighty tonight.

Lord Sebastian Barrett.

Just thinking his name made her want to laugh aloud. Mary found she couldn’t quite quell her confusion, that feeling of warm, bubbling anticipation mixed with the twinge of fear. Would he be there that night? She knew Lady Alnworth had said he would. The duchess’s ball was the event of the Season, and Lord Sebastian was the hero of London at the moment. Surely she would see him there.

Yet if he were there, what would she do? What if he talked to her—or didn’t talk to her? He was so very handsome, so very sought after, he could certainly have his pick of feminine company.

She remembered the way he had smiled at her in Lady Alnworth’s drawing room, the easy way they had talked together. When she was actually with him, there hadn’t been this fear. It was only now, thinking about him in the silence of her own room, that she felt so uncertain about everything. And Mary hated being unsure of what to feel, what to do.

She closed her eyes and remembered that morning, when she had gone to take the air with Lady Louisa in the Smythe carriage at the park and she had glimpsed Lord Sebastian in the distance. He had looked so distracted and solemn on his horse, dressed in dark riding clothes, and she had wanted to go to him.

Yet he had seemed somehow to want to remain unobtrusive. He did not wear his dashing regimentals and was alone at the park at a quiet hour. He seemed so distant, as if his thoughts were not on the present moment at all. She hadn’t even had the heart to point him out to Louisa.

She had been thrilled at the unexpected sight of him and had longed to call out to him, yet something about his very stillness, his solitary state, had held her back. But then he looked up and saw her, and a smile touched his face. There was only time for him to nod and tip his hat to her, and for her to raise her hand in answer. Then he was lost to sight.

It was that look on his face at that moment that haunted Mary now. That expression of stark—loneliness. It was a feeling she knew very well.

‘What do you think, Miss Manning?’ the maid said, pulling Mary from her daydreams.

She opened her eyes to look again into the looking glass. She was quite startled by what she saw.

The maid had tried something new with her hair, a twist of braids and curls with the roses and a few pearl pins, and it seemed quite transformative. Her cheeks seemed pinker, her eyes shining.

‘You are quite a marvel,’ she told the maid, twisting her head to get another view. ‘I don’t look like myself at all.’

The girl laughed. ‘Of course you do, Miss Manning! You just look extra-happy today, if I can be so bold to say so. It must be a very grand ball you’re going to tonight.’

‘It is indeed grand,’ Mary said, but she knew very well it wasn’t the prospect of the ball that made her cheeks so pink. She had been to magnificent courtly festivities in St Petersburg, all gilt and pageantry, and they had never filled her with such a tingling excitement of anticipation. It was Lord Sebastian.

There. She had quite admitted it to herself. She was excited to see Lord Sebastian.

Mary laughed, feeling rather giddy.

‘Come on, miss, let’s get you into your gown now,’ the maid said.

Mary nodded, and pushed herself back from her dressing table. Her gaze caught on the miniature portrait of her mother she kept there on a gold stand. Maria Manning had been a true beauty, with a pale oval face and laughing dark eyes, her black hair twined atop her head beneath the intricate lace of her mantilla. Maria’s smile seemed to urge her daughter to go dance at the ball, to be bold for the first time in her life. To follow in her mother’s passionate Iberian footsteps.

Mary remembered the story of her parents’ meeting, of how her father had seen her mother at a ball and they had fallen instantly in love. Mary had always loved hearing those tales and deep down in her most secret heart she had wondered how such a love must feel. As she grew up and saw more of the world, she had known how rare feelings like that really were. She had known she would never find such a thing for herself and would have to be content with a match made of friendship. With a useful, contented marriage.

Now—now it felt almost as if the sun had burst out from behind grey clouds, all surprising and brilliant and glorious. A man like Sebastian Barrett was in the world!

Surely even if he never spoke to her again, that would be enough to give her hope.

But she did hope he would talk to her.

Mary smiled back at her mother and hurried over to let the maid help her into her gown. It was a new creation, straight from the most sought-after modiste in London. Lady Louisa had been quite envious when she heard Mary was to have her new gown in time for the Thwaite ball, but for Mary it had been only one more correct thing to do. She had to look right as her father’s hostess.

But now she was very glad she had the new dress. It was much lighter than the heavily embroidered court gowns she had had to wear in St Petersburg, a fluttering, pale-pink silk trimmed with white lace frills and tiny satin rosebuds. The short, puffed sleeves barely skimmed the edges of her shoulders and white satin ribbons fluttered at the high waist. There was even a matching pair of pink-silk slippers, trimmed at the toes with more roses.

Mary couldn’t resist a little spin to make the skirts froth up, making the maid laugh. She felt as light and pink and rosy as the gown itself.

She just hoped Lord Sebastian would like it.

* * *

‘Mary! Mary, over here!’ Lady Louisa called out. Mary glimpsed her friend waving over the heads of the throng crowding into the hall of the Duchess of Thwaite’s house, waiting to make their way up the stairs to the ballroom.

Mary waved back, but she couldn’t yet push her way through the people pressed around her. Her father held her arm as they had alighted from the carriage, but he was soon called away by some of his diplomatic colleagues. Louisa reached Mary first and drew her behind her to the stairs.

‘It’s all so exciting, Mary,’ Lady Louisa cried, fluffing up her pale-yellow skirts and her bouncing blonde curls. ‘I saw Lord Andrewson and his sister go into the ballroom. He sent me flowers earlier, so surely he will ask me to dance! He is so very handsome. Who do you want to dance with the very most?’

Mary felt her cheeks turn warm and she looked away. ‘Oh—I hardly know.’

But she needn’t have feared she would give away her own wild hopes, for Louisa was quickly on to something else, commenting on the gowns of the ladies in the hall below them. Mary only had to smile and nod in reply, which gave her time to peer over the gilded railings to the people just crowding in through the front doors, studying the faces of the newcomers.

Everyone in London society hoped for an invitation to the Thwaite ball and everyone seemed to have appeared for it. The newest, loveliest gowns and finest jewels shimmered in the candlelight. But there was no brilliant flash of a red coat among them. Mary turned away, her smile sinking with a touch of disappointment.

At last they could push their way through the open doors into the duchess’s famous ballroom, one of the largest in London. The duchess was also known for having the finest florists and musicians. The long, rectangular room, all gold and white, with a domed ceiling painted with a scene of frolicking gods and cupids against an azure sky, was beautifully decorated with loops of ivy entwined with white roses and gold ribbons. More ivy wreaths hung on the gold silk-covered walls. Tall glass doors that led on to an open terrace were invitingly ajar.

From a gallery high above, covered with more greenery and roses, an orchestra tuned up for the dancing. Couples made their way on to the patterned parquet floor, laughing and flirting. The sound of happy chatter rose and tangled all around them, so it was impossible to make out a coherent word.

Mary went up on her toes, trying to study the crowd, but just as on the stairs the press and movement were too much to make out anything more than a vivid, shifting kaleidoscope of whites, pinks, blues and yellows, mixed with the dark tones of the men’s tailored coats.

She caught a glimpse of her father, standing across the room with the prime minister and a clutch of other politicians. Their faces looked most solemn in the middle of all the merriment. Mary knew he wouldn’t need her for some time.

Lady Louisa was quickly claimed for the first dance by her coveted Lord Andrewson. Mary made her way to one of the small gilt-and-satin chairs lined up along the walls, finding a place to sit amid the gossiping chaperons. From there, she had a view of the ballroom doors, where all the new arrivals had to stop.

She was quickly beginning to feel rather foolish, though, waiting for a man who might not even appear.

The musicians launched into the first dance. Mary opened and closed her lace fan, trying to concentrate on the dancers, the beautiful swirl of the ladies’ pastel gowns and flashing jewels, the men’s fine coats. She tried to distract herself and think of things besides Sebastian Barrett, as she should do at a ball. But nothing quite seemed to work. She felt most unaccountably—fidgety.

She glanced at a tall, ornate clock against the far wall and realised it really was quite early. Many partygoers wouldn’t have even finished their dinners yet. She saw Louisa whirl past and gave her a little wave.

Just beyond the dance floor, Mary caught a glimpse of Sebastian Barrett’s friends, the ones he had been with at Lady Alnworth’s: Lord Paul Gilesworth, Lord James Sackville and Mr Nicholas Warren. Much to her surprise, they were watching her in return. Gilesworth even had a quizzing glass to his eye.

Somehow, that regard made her shiver. She felt quite exposed, as if she was wandering in a cold wood alone late at night. She waved her fan harder and looked away, only peeking back once quickly.

Gilesworth was laughing, while Mr Warren shook his head, frowning. Mary realised she rather liked Mr Warren, he seemed sweet, like a puppy dog. But she did not like Lord Paul Gilesworth, his smile never reached his eyes. She couldn’t imagine why either of them would watch her.

When she looked their way again, they had vanished into the crowd and there were only the laughing dancers. She felt quite relieved.

The dance ended, and Lord Andrewson left Louisa in the empty chair next to Mary’s, promising to fetch them punch and return directly.

‘What a crush it is tonight!’ Louisa cried, snapping open her own painted-silk fan. ‘I can scarcely breathe. I vow my slippers will be in shreds by the end of the evening.’

Mary smiled at her. ‘But surely Lord Andrewson is quite the fine dancer.’

Louisa laughed. ‘He rather is! But you must dance, too, Mary, the music is too merry not to.’ She turned her head to study the room. ‘What of Mr Domnhall? Oh, no, he is such a bore—he would put you to sleep even in the middle of a reel, talking of the fishing at his estate in Scotland. Or Lord Sackville? He is rather handsome...’

‘Lord Sebastian Barrett,’ the duchess’s butler suddenly announced. The ballroom doors opened again, and Sebastian Barrett appeared at last. Mary’s hand tightened on the carved-ivory sticks of her fan.

He wore his regimentals again, brilliant red-and-gold braid. His hair, that golden-shot-brown that seemed so intriguingly changeable, gleamed like new guineas in the light of the hundreds of candles. It seemed as if time slowed and sped up all at once, the music and laughter becoming a muted blur as Mary watched him. All the light in that dazzling room seemed to gather directly on him, leaving all else in shadow.

He had a mysterious little half-smile as he studied the room before him. His bright, sea-green gaze slid over the assembly—and landed right on Mary. She was so startled she had no time to look away, or even disguise what she was feeling. That sudden rush of pure, molten excitement at seeing him again after all her hopes and fears, the warm giddiness that took hold of her—she feared it was all written on her face.

And after all those years of carefully learning to control her feelings. To always be perfectly, politely smiling. It was most absurd.

The duchess hurried over to greet him, the diamond-sparkled plumes of her elaborate headdress waving, and he was quickly surrounded by the crowd. Mary looked down at the floor and snapped open her fan again.

‘Or perhaps you were wise not to dance yet, Mary dear,’ Louisa said. ‘Not when there are suddenly far more—interesting partners now available.’

Mary glanced up at her friend in surprise. Were her thoughts now so apparent to everyone? ‘Louisa, I hardly think someone like Lord Sebastian Barrett would have any shortage of dance partners.’

‘La, who said anything about Lord Sebastian?’ Louisa cried. ‘Yet you had such a look on your face when he came in and I would vow he looked right at you. He could do no better for a dinner partner and you, my friend, are much prettier than you ever give yourself credit for. Now, come with me.’

Mary had not an instant to protest as Louisa took her arm and bustled her away from the dowagers’ chairs. She pulled Mary through the heavy press of the crowd, so quickly there was no time to look at the people they pushed past. They nearly stumbled over one lady’s train and Mary stammered an apology.

‘Ah, Lord Sebastian! Surely you remember us. We met at Lady Alnworth’s,’ Louisa cried. Mary whipped her head back around to find they had landed right in front of Lord Sebastian. The duchess watched them with an astonished look on her face, her gloved hand on the red sleeve of her prized guest, the heroic Lord Sebastian. But Mary barely noticed the social nuances she was usually so carefully attuned to. She could only see him.

‘Lady Louisa, Miss Manning,’ he said with a bow. ‘How very good to see you again. I was hoping you would be here tonight.’

‘Were you?’ Mary blurted out, then bit her lip.

He smiled down at her, his eyes shimmering. ‘Indeed. I enjoyed our talk at Lady Alnworth’s. I did glimpse you both at the park, but did not want to interrupt your conversation. Such fine weather this morning.’

Weather? It seemed such a mundane thing to speak of after all Mary’s daydreams of his handsome face, his voice, his smile. Yet she was glad of the familiar chatter. It gave her time to compose herself. She surreptitiously smoothed her skirt and gave him a careful smile.

After a few more pleasantries about the warm days and the loveliness of the party, the duchess was reluctantly distracted by even more new arrivals and Louisa tugged on Mary’s hand.

‘Lord Sebastian, I fear dear Miss Manning was just saying the ballroom is so very crowded she feels rather faint,’ Louisa said. ‘We were just on our way to seek some fresh air, but I fear I must repair my torn hem.’

Mary looked frantically at Louisa, trying to shake her head in protest. Whatever was her friend trying to do? Her face felt flaming warm all over again. But Louisa just smiled.

‘If Miss Manning feels faint, I would be happy to escort her to the terrace for a moment. I am not so fond of crowds myself,’ Lord Sebastian said, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. It made him look even more handsome.

‘Lord Sebastian, really, you must not—’ Mary began, breaking off on a gasp as Louisa’s grip tightened.

‘So very kind, Lord Sebastian!’ Louisa said merrily. ‘I will join you both in just a moment.’

Louisa spun away and Lord Sebastian held out his red-clad arm to Mary.

She accepted, feeling caught up once again in a hazy, sparkling dream, and let him escort her to the half-open doors of the terrace. She was afraid to look at the people around them, afraid to look up at all, almost fearing it would all vanish.

She was also afraid he had been caught by Louisa’s machinations, that he had a thousand places where he would rather be. Yet he gave no sign of resentment at all, no indication he wanted to leave her in the nearest corner at the first chance. He held tight to her arm, smiling solicitously as if he did indeed think she might faint. He talked in a low, deep voice of more light things such as the weather and the music, things she only had to make blessedly short answers to.

She glanced at him secretly from the corner of her eye, examining his sharply chiselled profile. There was no sign of what she thought she had glimpsed at Lady Alnsworth’s, that stark second of loneliness, and then in that brief glimpse at the park. That raw, burning solitariness she herself hid so deep inside.

They slipped through the doors on to the terrace. It was an unusual space in a London house, a wide marble walkway with carved stone balustrades looking down on to a manicured garden. Down there, Chinese lanterns strung along the trees gleamed on flower beds and pale classical statues.

Along the terrace itself, potted plants created intimate little pathways, with chairs tucked behind their leafy shelter, perfect for quiet conversations. A few other couples strolled there, pale glimpses between the dark green.

The hush after the roar of the ballroom was almost deafening.

‘If I had my own house, I would make a space much like this,’ Lord Sebastian said, his voice quiet, with a rather musing tone, as if he was somewhere far away.

Mary glanced up at him, startled to see how serious he looked as he studied the garden. ‘Your own house, Lord Sebastian?’

He looked down at her, a half-smile on his lips. ‘I could hardly add it to my father’s house. He would consider a terrace a great frivolity.’

‘I sometimes think about what I would like to have in my own home, as well. I have never really had one, we move about so much. No one asks what colours one might like in lodgings! But some day...’

‘Some day a real home of one’s own would be nice.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

They stopped at the end of the terrace, where two marble balustrades met and a set of stone steps led down to the garden. The corner was sheltered by a thick bank of potted palms. It was quiet there, no sound but the faint echo of music and laughter from the ballroom, the whisper of a breeze through the trees.

Mary could almost imagine they were alone there. It was disconcerting, making her shiver with nervousness—yet it was also rather alluringly lovely. In the crowded ballroom, she had felt so alone, as she often did at large parties. Here, with just him, she didn’t feel alone at all.

‘A terrace like this could be so lovely for a luncheon party on a warm day. Or maybe a small dance party in the moonlight for just a few friends,’ she said, watching the way the breeze danced on the flowers.

‘A home where one’s true friends could gather would be a wondrous thing indeed. I have lived in camp tents so much of late, that—’ He broke off with a rueful laugh. ‘Forgive me, Miss Manning, I must be so boring. I get carried away with my own thoughts far too often these days.’

‘I’m not bored at all,’ Mary said. Rather, she was most fascinated by this tiny glimpse of the man behind the heroic Lord Sebastian Barrett. A man who might long for a real home just as she did.

‘Once, while we were camped at a field in the middle of nowhere, I saw a constellation of stars I had never noticed before,’ he said. ‘Like a diamond necklace, all sparkling against the darkness. It was wondrous.’

He looked up into the sky and Mary did the same. The darkness was just as it always was in London—hazy, with only a few very bold stars managing to peek through. Yet she could imagine what he had once seen in that field. A dazzling sparkle of lights blazing their way across a black-velvet sky, before the unimaginable carnage of a battlefield.

‘Do you ever dream of what it might be like to float up there among the stars, all untethered from—everything,’ she said fancifully. She was surprised at herself, at her sudden dreams. ‘To just—be.’

He looked down at her. He looked surprised, too, his smile so very real this time. He slowly nodded. ‘Of course. Especially here in London.’

‘Here?’ she asked. ‘Not on campaign?’

His smile turned lopsided, his eyes distant. ‘It sounds strange, I know. But with my regiment, I knew what was expected of me, what I was meant to do and how to do it well. I knew what was thought of me, what I thought of the world around me. Here—here I seem to know so little. It’s London that has become the alien world.’

Mary nodded. It was how she had felt for so long, ever since they came back to London, that she no longer knew where her place was. ‘I have never been in battle, thankfully, but it’s been a long time since I lived in London. My father and I have been our own small world for so long, the one thing I take from place to place, and it’s hard to know quite what to do now. I know I am English, that this is meant to be my home, yet—’

She broke off, unsure of what she was saying. These were thoughts she had kept pressed down so hard, not even daring to think them to herself. Her father had enough to worry about—what with losing her beloved mother and the vital importance of his work, he couldn’t worry about her, too.

Yet the strangeness of being back in England, the lonely moments—how could anyone understand?

But it seemed that, of all people, the handsome Sebastian Barrett did understand. His smile widened, a gorgeous white flash in the shadows, and he nodded. ‘It’s as if everyone here was speaking a foreign language, one I can only decipher on the surface and speak well enough to play my part passably.’

Mary was fascinated. He was the hero of society! How could he be lost? Yet she could see the dark gleam in his eye. ‘What part is that, Lord Sebastian?’

He leaned his forearms on the marble balustrade and stared out at the dark garden. ‘Oh, we all have our parts here, don’t you agree, Miss Manning? Most people have played them so long they can’t even look past them any longer. They have become what they are meant to be. When I was with my regiment, I felt that sense of rightness, that sense that I knew my duty and could carry it out well. It was a feeling everyone should have at some time in their lives, even though it might mean others then carry far too many expectations. But some of us do wonder what it would be like to float among the stars and just be, as you say.’

‘Free to find our real selves?’ Mary thought that a most astonishing, and delightful, idea. She longed to know more of his life in the Army, more of what that feeling of ‘rightness’ could entail.

‘What would you do, then, Miss Manning?’

She studied him in the half-light, the sculpted angles of his handsome face, then glanced back up at the sky. ‘I hardly know. I have worked for my family for so long.’

‘So you would be a diplomat, like your father?’

Mary laughed. ‘There are certainly things I do like about my father’s work. Doing good for one’s country, seeking peace, seeing fascinating places, meeting different people—I do like those. But there is one thing I wish was different.’

‘And what is that?’

Mary smiled up at him. Could he be truly interested in her own musings, her own inner thoughts? He looked back down at her, his smile vanished. ‘A real home. We have moved about so much, I can’t even remember what a place that was truly my own would be like.’

‘A cottage in the woods?’

‘Perhaps,’ she answered with a laugh. ‘A half-timbered cottage, with a little rose garden, perhaps a cat on the front steps. Or maybe a shining white castle on a mountaintop. A place for a large family.’

‘A family,’ he murmured and Mary was sure she saw a strange shadow cross his face.

‘What would you want, Lord Sebastian?’

He laughed, that shadow gone before she was even sure she saw it. ‘A castle on a mountain sounds rather ideal. A place far from my family.’

Mary was suddenly reminded he was Lord Henry Barrett’s brother, and she shivered guiltily. ‘Are you not happy to be back with your family now?’

‘As happy as most people are with their families, I would imagine, Miss Manning. I am very glad of the friends and parties I have found in London, the distractions.’

Mary stared out into the garden. ‘Diversion, yes. You don’t have to stay out here with me, Lord Sebastian. I know many people will want to talk to you tonight.’

He gave her another smile, one so sweet, so alluring, it made her fall back against the chilly stone balustrade, unsure her legs would hold her upright now.

‘But I like it better here, talking to one person,’ he said. ‘You are most unexpected, Miss Manning.’

‘Me? Unexpected?’ she said, surprised. He was certainly the one who was unexpected—and even more intriguing than he had been before. There seemed to be so much hidden behind his dashing façade. ‘On the contrary, Lord Sebastian. I am most ordinary.’

‘Ordinary is certainly the very last thing you are.’ He reached for her hand, holding it gently between his fingers, as if it was a delicate, precious piece of glass. ‘Is it so unbelievable that I would rather be out here talking to you, watching the stars with you, than be packed into a crowded ballroom?’

Mary couldn’t stop staring at his hand on hers. His was so strong, sun-browned and scarred, against her white glove. ‘Yes,’ she blurted.

He laughed and raised her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. His mouth was warm and surprisingly soft through her thin glove, making her shiver. He looked so golden in the moonlight, so like a dream.

‘How little you do know me, Miss Manning,’ he said. Something like a flash of sadness, regret, passed over his face.

‘I don’t know you at all, surely, Lord Sebastian.’ And now she wanted to—all too much.

‘I feel as if I no longer know myself at all. I have done some wretched things, I fear,’ he said, pressing her palm to his cheek.

‘Wretched?’ Mary whispered. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

He shook his head. ‘I wish I could tell you—and I hope you never know. Yet I think you should see something...’

His expression looked so very far away, Mary was overwhelmed with the feeling of a bittersweet melancholy. She only knew she wanted to make him feel better, soothe whatever pain it was that seemed to burrow inside of him, beyond that golden beauty.

She didn’t know what else to do, so she went up on tiptoe and kissed him. She knew little of kissing outside of books, so her touch was soft, tentative, full of the hope she could distract him. But his lips parted under hers as his breath caught in surprise and the taste of him filled her with a warm rush of delight.

His hands closed over her shoulders and at first she feared he might push her away. Then he groaned, a hungry, wild sound deep in his throat, and his arms came around her in a hard embrace. He dragged her closer to his hard, warm chest and she went most willingly.

His mouth hardened on hers, his tongue tracing the soft curve of her lips before plunging inside to taste her deeply, hungrily. She wanted so much, more of him. She had never felt like that before, as if she soared up into the stars in truth.

She felt him press her back against the balustrade, his open mouth sliding from hers to trace her jaw, her arched neck. He touched the sensitive little spot behind her ear lightly with the tip of his tongue, making her laugh.

How wondrous kissing was! Why had she not known that before? Or was it only him that made it so wonderful? She reached up to twine her fingers in his hair and pulled him up to kiss her lips again. He went most eagerly, his kisses catching fire with a need that made her own burn even hotter.

‘Mary,’ he whispered against her skin and the one word was so full of deep hidden meaning.

She pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to be nearer and nearer. Wanting so much of—she knew not what. She had fallen into the stars.

‘Oh, bravo, Sebastian! That was quick work indeed.’

The sudden sound of a gleeful voice felt like a shower of cold water raining down on the golden sunshine of that kiss. Mary stumbled back from Sebastian and would have fallen over the balustrade if he hadn’t still held on to her arm. She physically ached, as if she had taken a sudden and sharp tumble.

She peered past his shoulder to find three men watching them—Lord Paul Gilesworth, Nicholas Warren and Lord James Sackville, who had been with Sebastian at Lady Alnworth’s house. It was Giles who had spoken and he watched them with a most repulsive, artificial smile. Mr Warren, to his dubious credit, looked red-faced and appalled, while Lord James laughed.

Mary shook her head. This was surely a nightmare. It simply had to be. Only a moment before, she had felt more burningly alive than ever before. Now she felt cold, distant from the whole scene before her, as if she watched it in a play.

What had seemed such a sparkling, wondrous fairy tale had become something strange and ugly. She closed her eyes and prayed for delivery from that bad dream. She felt his hand on her arm and even it was not like before. Now it felt like a shackle.

When she opened her eyes, it was all still there. The men looking at her, Gilesworth looking horribly triumphant. She was trapped, frozen. After so many years of being proper, being careful, she had made one small misstep and been caught. It was a horrible feeling.

She waited for Sebastian to say something, for the appalling embarrassment to vanish, but that one terrible instant seemed to stretch on and on.

Then Gilesworth’s words, all his words, crashed into her mind.

Quick work indeed.

Could that mean—was it really possible? Had Sebastian meant to seduce her into kissing him, for the amusement of his friends?

She swung around to look at him, horrified. He stared back at her, his face wary, unreadable. The man who had talked to her of the stars, who had listened to her confidences and kissed her so sweetly, had vanished.

‘Is...is it...’ she stammered. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say. Every word she ever knew had fled from her mind. She felt her cheeks flame with red-hot shame, yet at the same time she was frozen. She could only stare up at Sebastian. She couldn’t see his eyes in the shadows.

‘You should be quite proud, Miss Manning, to have gained the attention of such a hero as our Lord Sebastian,’ Gilesworth said smugly. ‘We weren’t sure the two of you really had it in you to be so bold. But I see that for fifty guineas...’

Fifty guineas? Were they paying Sebastian to kiss her?

Fool, fool, her mind screamed at her. She had never felt so silly, so stupid before in her life.

‘Mary, no, please...’ Sebastian began, his voice rough and hoarse.

But Mary couldn’t bear to hear him say anything, for him to make excuses or, far worse, laugh at her. She felt like the sky, so beautiful with those shimmering stars, was crashing atop her.

She shook her head and pulled her arm free of his touch. What had felt so warm, so safe, now felt like ice. She couldn’t bear to be near him a moment longer, to face the laughter of his friends. She spun around and ran towards the doors into the ballroom, hardly knowing where she was going. She heard Gilesworth’s laughter chasing her.

Only when she saw the bright lights, the blur of the spinning dancers, did she realise she was in no fit state to face a crowd. Even if word of that kiss, that horrid bet, spread, she would have to hold her head up in a dignified play-act. She veered around to the side of the house and found a footman to direct her to the ladies’ retiring room.

It was thankfully quiet in the small sitting room. Mary ducked behind a screen to take a deep breath, to close her eyes and try to slow down her racing thoughts. As she smoothed her hair and straightened her skirt, she heard the door open and other ladies’ gowns rustling into the room amid a cloud of laughter. She had to compose herself, then find her father and go home immediately.

The most handsome rogue in London. Mary bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud in a rather bitter fashion. They were utterly right, on both counts. Sebastian Barrett was devilishly handsome—and a terrible rogue, with no concern for ladies’ feelings. Mary was sure she should have realised that, should have realised that his attentions were all a terrible jest. Men like him had no interest in women like her.

She would never forget that again.

* * *

‘Mary!’ Sebastian called, but she was already gone, vanished into the darkness of the evening like a fluttering pink butterfly. His own head felt cursedly clouded, hazy with the unexpected delight of that kiss, and he wasn’t fast enough to catch her. He had started to tell her the truth, had wanted to tell her, and yet it all came much too late.

Gilesworth caught Sebastian’s arm as he started after her, and tossed a heavy purse of clanking coins at his chest. Sebastian let them fall to the terrace stones as he stared into Gilesworth’s smirking face.

How had he ever befriended such a man, even in his desperation to forget battle? He had let boredom draw him into a vile scheme and now he bitterly rued the day.

All he could see was Mary’s face, pale and shocked in the moonlight as she ran away from him. For one perfect moment, as he held her slender, trembling body in his arms, he had forgotten the men he had lost in battle, forgotten his family and London society, and the terrible, numb aimlessness of life. She made him forget, made things seem new and bright again.

It was something he hadn’t expected at all, something startling. That awakening to sensation again, with the soft touch of her lips, the faint scent of her sweet rose perfume. And it had been shattered all too quickly, snatched away, and he had little but himself to blame. He had taken Gilesworth’s ridiculous wager, and now he had wounded the sweetest lady he had ever met.

He reached out and grabbed Gilesworth by the front of his immaculate evening coat, erasing the man’s hideous smirk.

‘You will never speak of this to anyone,’ Sebastian said, in a low, steady voice. He wouldn’t let his burning anger overwhelm him now; he had to help Mary however he could and stemming any gossip was only the first step. ‘If I even hear that you have so much as uttered Miss Manning’s name, I shall make you sorry you were ever born.’

Gilesworth’s self-satisfied smirk vanished, replaced by fear barely masked by a scowl. ‘Now, listen here, Barrett. It was all just a bit of fun, and you—’

‘It is in no way a “bit of fun”, and I was a bloody, foxed fool to ever involve myself in such a vile scheme,’ Sebastian said. Inside, the dark flood of self-disgust threatened to drown him, but outwardly he stayed cold and calm. It was the hard lesson of battle. ‘But it is over now. You will leave Miss Manning in peace. Is that understood?’

He swept a cold glance over all of them. Lord James swallowed hard and nodded, and Nicholas Warren looked red-faced and appalled. Gilesworth scowled, as if he would argue and force Sebastian to challenge him to a duel or something equally ridiculous, but when Sebastian’s fist tightened in the twist of his coat, he sullenly agreed.

Sebastian pushed the man away and hurried to the house to find Mary. She was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom, and her friend Lady Louisa said she thought Mary had already summoned her carriage to return home.

Her smile turned teasing as she looked up at him. ‘But I am sure if she knew you were looking for her, she would never have left so quickly.’

Sebastian knew he had to neutralise any gossip now, even with Mary’s friends. He smiled back at her, a careless, casual smile. ‘I had hoped for a dance with Miss Manning, but I see I was too slow. At the next ball, then.’

He bowed and left her, even though she looked as if she wanted to say something more to him. He found a footman near the duchess’s staircase and the servant verified Lady Louisa’s words, that Miss Manning had called for her carriage and departed in rather a hurry. Sebastian rushed to the street outside, but there was no glimpse of the departing Manning carriage, even in the distance.

He would have to go to her home in the morning, at a proper hour, and make his apologies. He could only hope she would forgive him.

Chapter Four

‘Oh, Miss Manning! Thank heavens you’re here,’ Mary’s maid cried, leaping out of her seat in the hall of the Manning house as Mary stepped inside. The floor was piled with crates and trunks. ‘Your father has been asking for you most urgently.’

‘My father?’ Surprise and worry jolted Mary out of the dismal reflections that had been running through her head ever since she had left the duchess’s ball. She had thought it was rather odd that her father would leave the ball early and send the carriage back for her, but she had been too busy chastising herself for ever trusting Sebastian Barrett.

She quickly handed her shawl to the maid and followed the butler down the corridor to her father’s library.

She found her father standing in the midst of more crates, sorting his books and papers as more of the servants hurried around him taking paintings from the walls and draping the furniture in canvas covers. Candles were lit everywhere, casting a flicker over all the frantic activity. She noticed how tired her father looked and now concern replaced the hurt and embarrassment.

Mary was bewildered. It was nearly the middle of the night—what could be happening?

‘Papa? What is going on?’ Mary asked, making her way between the uneven stacks of crates. She caught sight of herself in the looking glass on the wall, just before a footman threw a cloth over it. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks overly pink.

Luckily, her father did not seem to notice. He shoved a stack of books into her hands and vaguely gestured at one of the boxes.

‘I am very glad you’re here, Mary,’ he said. ‘There is not an instant to lose! We must leave in the morning. I’ve instructed the maids to start packing your gowns.’

‘In the morning!’ Mary cried, even more confused. Had he found out about what happened at the ball, that she had disgraced herself? ‘Papa, whatever do you mean? Where are we going? Surely it is not so bad yet we must flee from gossip...’

‘Gossip?’ Her father turned to peer at her closer, his arms full of more papers. ‘Is there gossip about Portugal? How very odd. The prime minister said haste and secrecy were of utmost importance, but I wouldn’t have thought London society would care. Not yet.’

‘Portugal?’ Mary’s head was spinning. ‘Perhaps we should slow down for a moment, so you can tell me what exactly is happening. A half-hour ago I was at a ball...’ Kissing Sebastian Barrett, but her father didn’t need to know that. ‘Now you say we must pack and be gone by morning.’

Her father gave a wry laugh and leaned down to give her cheek a quick kiss. ‘You are quite right, my dear. It is all quite odd, but surely you have become rather accustomed to that in this strange life of ours.’

Mary nodded. Strange things had always happened in her life. New nurseries, new nannies, balls, receptions, new customs, new manners. She had been able to weather them all, thanks to her parents’ example. But now she had no idea how to manage her own feelings. Her own mistakes.

Her father took her hand and led her to a quiet spot near one of the windows, away from the rush and noise of the footmen carrying away the crates. ‘I spoke to the prime minister tonight and he says it is most vital that I be in Portugal as soon as possible. The Portuguese have been trying to maintain neutrality between England and France, but Napoleon’s diplomats have been making very threatening noises to Dom Joao. Lord Strangford has been made Britain’s representative to the royal court there, but the prime minister wants someone with a great knowledge of the country to join him and advise him.’

‘As you do, because of Mama,’ Mary said. She thought of the short time they had been in Portugal when she was a child, the sun and light of it, her mother’s laughter. Surely it could be a refuge of sorts, somewhere far from England where she would make no more romantic mistakes.

‘As I do, yes. It will be a great challenge, I confess, perhaps the greatest I have faced in my career.’ Her father sighed, his face a bit weary. He reached out and gently touched Mary’s cheek. ‘I am sorry, my dear. We have barely settled in London and now I must drag you away again. Perhaps you would rather stay here, maybe with your friend Lady Louisa?’

‘Oh, no, Papa,’ Mary cried. ‘I want to go with you, of course. I should love to see Portugal again and you will need someone to make sure you eat properly.’

He laughed. ‘And I confess I would be most lonely without you. But I can’t help but wonder—are you quite all right?’

Mary was afraid the events at the ball could somehow show on her face and the last thing her father needed was more worries. ‘Of course, Papa. I must be a bit tired after the dancing.’

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but the butler called him away with a question about the packing. Mary hurried out of the library and upstairs to her chamber, past several servants carrying out more trunks.

She paused at the window on the landing to peer out at the night. The sky was just beginning to lighten at the edges, a pale grey that would see them gone blessedly soon. Against her will, a vision of Sebastian Barrett flashed through her mind. Those jewel-green eyes, that had seemed so sad just before he kissed her. The rush of hot, burning pain when she realised she was only a joke to him.

She pushed the memory away and rushed on towards her room. It felt horribly like running away, but she was very glad of the sudden departure to Portugal. There, she wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Lord Sebastian, facing what her foolish infatuation had led her into.

And, hundreds of miles away, she wouldn’t have to face being led into temptation by him all over again...

* * *

Sebastian knocked on the Mannings’ door again and listened to the hollow echo inside. He stepped back on the walkway and peered up at the house, his hat in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. It looked as if all the windows were shuttered, the doors locked.

His heart sank. Where could they be? Surely it had only been last night he saw Mary at the ball and everything went so disastrously wrong. He had gone back to his lodgings and drank rather too much wine after he lost her in the crowd, but surely he had not lost that much time?

Even the wine hadn’t been able to give him sleep. Just like so many other nights since he came back to England, he sat awake into the dawn hours, yet last night it wasn’t the haunting thoughts of battle that kept him up. It was the memory of Miss Manning’s eyes, the way she looked up at him just before she kissed him, so full of wonder that she made him feel it, too. Made the night seem new.

And the shadow in those same eyes when she realised the truth. When she realised the damnable cad he had somehow become.

The truth of what he had done, his appallingly ungentlemanly behaviour, had shocked him out of his hazy, pain-filled memories as nothing else could. He hated what he had become, how near he had come to hurting a sweet lady like Mary Manning.

As soon as he had pulled back the curtains to let the light of day wash over his aching head and carry away the cobwebs of the night, he had known what he had to do. He had to go to Miss Manning immediately, apologise and beg for her forgiveness.

Ask her to help him somehow find his way back into the world. After that kiss, the warm newness of it, he was sure she was the only one who could help him. And he had to erase those shadows he had created in her sweet, beautiful eyes.

But how could he make amends if he couldn’t find her?

He knocked on the door again, only to be greeted with the same—no answer. Some of his eager certainty turned chilly.

The downstairs servants’ door to the house next door opened and a maid appeared on the front steps with a bucket and scrub brush. She gave him a curious glance.

‘Looking for the Mannings, are you, sir?’ she asked.

He gave her a relieved smile. ‘Yes, indeed. Though it seems I must come back later, since the door knocker is off.’

‘Won’t do you any good, sir, as I think they left this morning.’

‘Left? For good?’

‘Oh, yes. Carts came and hauled off boxes and trunks before it was even light outside. That happened to the last people who lived there, too, but they ran off from the debt collectors. My master says the Mannings were just sent off to a new posting.’ She gave a doubtful frown under the frills of her cap.

Off to a new posting. Already? How could that be? Sebastian felt the heat of an urgent need to find Miss Manning right away, before she left for good.

He knew of one person who always seemed to know what was happening with the Foreign Office—his father. Sebastian quickly thanked the maid and hurried back to his phaeton, set on going to his parents’ house in Portman Square immediately. His father would be certain Sebastian had messed something up, again, and indeed he had.

But then he had to find Miss Manning.

* * *

‘It is good you are here, Sebastian,’ his father said, barely looking up from the papers scattered across his desk as Sebastian knocked at his library door.

Sebastian was surprised and brought up short on his urgent errand. His father was seldom happy to see him at the family domicile. Even after he had returned from the battlefield and his father admitted that Sebastian’s Army life had been a credit to their family after all, his father had spoken of little but his own work at the Foreign Office. ‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. Henry has been ill this week and there is much work to be done. Several people have been sent to new, vital postings and I must see that these messages go to them immediately. You can deliver some of them, surely? Find out from Henry if he has messages to send, as well.’

Sebastian was even more startled. ‘You want my help, Father?’

His father looked up, blinking behind his spectacles, almost as if he just realised Sebastian was there. ‘You’re here, so of course you’ll do. I told you, Henry is ill and your eldest brother is still in the country looking after the estate. You can make yourself useful, for once.’

Sebastian laughed wryly. That was all he could do, really, when it came to his family. Laugh—and go his own way. His world had been designated the dust and roar of battle long ago, far from the darker world of his father and Henry, the world of diplomacy.

The world of Miss Manning and her father.

He remembered his true errand at his father’s library, to find out what had happened to the Mannings, and he brushed away his irritation. ‘So your diplomatic friends are being shuffled off to new ports, are they?’

His father glared at him. ‘You have never shown an interest in them before.’

Sebastian shrugged. He had to keep up his careless façade; he could never let his father see that something mattered to him, especially if that something was a respectable young lady. ‘These are interesting times, are they not? One never knows when the Army will be called out next. I met your friends the Mannings at the Alnworth ball.’

‘Did you indeed? Sir William has been sent to Lisbon. That idiot Prince Joao has been wavering in his alliance and must be brought back most firmly to England’s side. The loss of Portuguese New World ports at this time would be disastrous. Sir William is the man for the job.’

‘To Portugal?’ Sebastian said, his mind racing. Mary Manning would be well on her journey now—too far out of the reach of his apologies. He had to find her somehow.

His father waved him away and turned back to his papers. ‘I must finish this. Go see your brother and be on your way, Sebastian.’

Sebastian hardly noticed his father’s curt dismissal, so accustomed was he to this behaviour. He thought perhaps Henry would know more of Miss Manning. They were rumoured to maybe make a match of it, after all, and Henry seemed much more the sort of man Sir William would want for his daughter—on the surface, anyway.

He left his father’s library and made his way up the stairs to the corridor where Henry had his rooms. On the staircase, he was suddenly caught by the painted eyes of the ancestral portraits hung on the red-painted walls. A long line of them, all the way back to a Barrett who represented Charles I in Venice, who served England so well behind the scenes. Who excelled at saving their country time and again.

When he was a child, he always thought they seemed to sniff at him disapprovingly. They didn’t seem to have changed much over the years.

He dashed past them and knocked on Henry’s sitting-room door. ‘Come in!’ Henry ordered, and when he saw it was his brother rather than a servant, he merely added, ‘Oh. It is you.’

‘Your brother, home from the wars,’ Sebastian answered lightly. ‘Father is sending off messengers hither and yon, he wanted to see if you had anything to add.’

‘Just a moment, then.’ Henry turned back to his desk. Like their father, he was tall and slim, with curling hair and spectacles over his faraway blue eyes. But Sebastian noticed suddenly that Henry also seemed pale, a warm wrap closely tucked around his shoulders despite the sunny day. Sebastian wondered with a worried pang if his brother was indeed ill, but he knew Henry would welcome no such queries.

‘Father says all your diplomatic friends are scattering across the Continent, gathering in reluctant allies,’ Sebastian said.

‘I doubt he would put it quite like that,’ Henry muttered. ‘But, yes. We must all do our duty now.’

‘He said Sir William Manning has been sent to Portugal.’

‘It is of vital importance now.’

‘So it seems. But I heard a rumour you might miss Sir William’s daughter when she is gone.’

Henry gave a humourless laugh. ‘Miss Mary Manning? I had thought of her, of course. Our fathers have long known each other and she knows what a life such as ours entails. She wouldn’t be too tiresome.’

Sebastian felt a flare of anger on the lovely Miss Mary’s behalf—only to push it away, knowing he had no right. He was the one she should rightfully be furious with, of course. ‘I saw her at the ball last night. She was very pretty.’

‘She is all right, but that hardly matters, does it? I must find a suitable bride one day and she is one of the ladies who would be suitable. But right now I cannot think of such things.’ Henry glanced up from his letter. ‘Nor should you. Duty is paramount right now, Seb.’

‘You needn’t lecture me about duty, Henry. I have served England with my own blood and will again.’

Henry studied him closely. ‘We all do what we can, I suppose. Here, give these letters to Father. And I hope you are not tempted to add a little line to Miss Manning. Ladies like that are not for such as you, Brother. Besides, perhaps she will be better off in Portugal. I hear her own mother was from Lisbon.’

‘Oh, believe me, I know that she is not for me very well indeed.’ Sebastian took the letter from his brother, looking into Henry’s cold blue eyes, and turned on his heel to leave the room. His brother had long been studious, long been focused on following their father’s footsteps, but when had be become so very distant? So hardened to people like Miss Manning, seeing only her ‘usefulness’?

Then again—Sebastian knew he himself had been no better. Surely his brother was right. Now was not the time to chase Miss Manning and make her listen to his poor excuses. She had her own family to think of now, her own work, and he had his.

Perhaps only through his work could he one day make her see how sorry he was and how he would work to erase that one night. If only he could some day see her again.

* * *

‘Sebastian!’ Sebastian heard Nicholas Warren call from across the street as he stepped out of his father’s house. He glanced over to find his friend hurrying between the carriages and horses, his hat threatening to fly away in the breeze, and the sight actually made him start to smile. Nicholas often had that effect on people.

But his brief smile faded as he saw Nicholas’s face. His friend was usually quick to smile, yet today he looked solemn as a funeral, and Sebastian was reminded sharply of that disagreeable scene at the ball—as if he could forget it. He would never forget the darkness that came into Mary Manning’s bright eyes.

‘Were you calling on your father?’ Nicholas asked. He glanced up at the Barrett house, looking as if the bricks and stone could suddenly sprout teeth and bite him. Most of Sebastian’s friends seemed to have that reaction.

‘Yes, duty done for the day. I was on my way back to my lodgings.’ Sebastian almost suggested they go to the club for a claret, but then he remembered too clearly what had happened the last time they were there.

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