‘Do other women look spellbound, as if you’ve said something witty?’

‘Naturally.’

He took her gloved hand and felt it tremble within his palm. The dance started and they broke apart in time to the music.

‘Even when you haven’t said anything either inspiring or witty?’ she asked as they came together again.

‘Especially then.’

‘How tiresome for you.’

‘Why so?’

‘Well, it must make you feel as though you’re not a real person but just a viscount.’

He laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve been called “just a viscount”.’

‘I meant no offence.’

‘I know.’ And it was true, he thought, surprised by her perception. Few people saw him as a person, and women never did. He was a good catch, with a title, an estate, and ample income.

‘Now you’re much too serious,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to look as though I’ve also said something remarkably entertaining?’ She stepped under his raised arm. ‘Or does it not work both ways?’

Author Note

I am drawn to the slightly unusual character—the individual with quirks. I enjoyed Rilla for her character’s strength, her paranormal abilities and her love of invention. As an added bonus, I learned about many unsung female inventors.

Ada Lovelace collaborated with Charles Babbage and developed the first mechanical thinking-calculating machine. Sadly, she didn’t patent her work as it was considered socially inappropriate for women to be filing patents.

Margaret Knight designed and fought to keep the patent for the flat-bottomed paper bag. She won, by the way, despite a certain gentleman who claimed that a woman could not possibly have the mechanical knowledge required for such an invention.

Other inventions created by women include windscreen wipers, disposable nappies, the dishwasher and liquid paper.

For me, Rilla’s character is an acknowledgement of the contributions women have made, and still make— particularly when they step from the realms of what is considered ‘appropriate’.

No Conventional

Miss

Eleanor Webster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELEANOR WEBSTER loves high-heels and sun—which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences, including a nasty glue gun episode, have proved that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in psychology and holds an undergraduate degree in history. She loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.

No Conventional Miss is Eleanor Webster’s enchanting debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!

To the little girl who played with Barbie dolls, weaving stories of romance, adventure and intrigue.

To the mother who tirelessly made minuscule frocks and dress-up gowns, so wonderfully fostering all things imaginative.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Gibson Manor—1805

The child had been missing for three days.

Through the nursery windowpanes, Rilla watched the faint flickering of the men’s torches as they searched. Occasionally she heard their hoarse cries.

It was a wet spring. Heavy raindrops fell rhythmically off the shrubbery. A thick, obscuring mist hung low, tangling in the bare branches and turning the countryside a flat, featureless grey.

Rilla shivered and rested her head against the cool windowpane. She thought of Sophie. The little girl was new to the neighbourhood, a visitor and only five. Even at nine, Rilla would hate to be outside in this weather. And Rilla was strong and tall. She climbed trees, building perches in their upper branches and swinging from their limbs.

Oh, why did her head ache? Why did her limbs feel heavy as though weighted with huge sacks of flour?

Even the glow of twilight hurt and she squeezed her lids tight shut, pressing her palms to her eyes to cut out any vestige of light.

And then ‘it’ happened.

For ever after, Rilla said she slept and dreamed. There was, could be, no other explanation.

Except Rilla did not remember lying down. There was no rest, no comfortable drifting into slumber.

Instead, it felt as though she remained standing while everything about her changed and mutated: the whitewashed walls, the books, the rocking horse with its worn paint, the brick hearth, her grandmother’s ugly portrait and equally ugly embroidered sampler—gone.

Cold mist dampened her skin. Goosebumps prickled. Her breath came in harsh gulps. She stared into the fog’s whiteness, trying to make out indistinct forms and shadows.

Yes, she knew the place. It was the gamekeeper’s cottage, burned down years earlier and now a ruin, its blackened beams softened by ivy.

Sophie.

Sophie was here.

The knowledge came suddenly and completely, without doubt or question.

Sophie was trapped within the cellar, under the slate floor of the broken kitchen.

* * *

Rilla blinked. She was lying on the cold nursery floor, staring upwards at the whitewashed ceiling with its singular crack which looked like a lamb’s hind leg. She sat up. Tentatively she touched the cloth of her dress and twisted her fingers through the unruly tresses of her red hair.

Dry.

Her shoes were clean and dry also.

And yet...

In the distance, she heard the shouts of the men’s voices.

She jumped up, suddenly urgent. She must tell them. They did not know yet. They must know. Then they would find Sophie and save her.

Thank goodness.

And everything would change.

Chapter One

Lyngate Estate—1817

‘This sounds like yet another of your ill-advised schemes,’ said Paul Lindsey, Viscount Wyburn, with as much patience as he could muster.

‘Piffle,’ his stepmother retorted, shaking her grey ringlets. ‘It would be a crime to allow such delightful girls to languish in the country.’

‘But hardly incumbent upon you to rectify the situation.’ Paul stood by the mantel. His gaze drifted from the china figurines to the requisite pink, dimpled Cupids depicted across the drawing-room ceiling.

‘Who else will take them in hand? Their dear mother is dead, and Sir George has a predilection for horses and cards. Very sad.’ Lady Wyburn bent with apparent diligence over her needlework.

Turning, Paul sat across from his relative and studied her more closely. He drummed his fingers on the low rosewood table. Lady Wyburn was the only person on God’s earth he gave tuppence for, and he’d not allow some sticky-fingered squire to rob her blind.

‘Stepmother.’ He leaned forward on the ludicrously low sofa. ‘People tend to take advantage of you. If you recall, your young nephew—’

‘Not the same thing.’ She fluttered her hand in front of her face as though shooing a non-existent pest. ‘Rilla and her younger sister, Imogene, are charming. Imogene’s looks are exceptional and Rilla is refreshing. Not beautiful exactly, but exotic and interesting.’

‘Admirable attributes in a book or a flower.’

‘Don’t be flippant, dear.’ She waved her needlepoint, a colourful object of pinks and purples with no discernible pattern. ‘Anyway, Sir George hasn’t a clue how to find them suitable husbands and lacks the funds—’

‘And sees you as a lucrative prospect, I suppose.’ Paul shifted his legs, moving them away from the fire’s warmth, again drumming his fingers. He stopped. The noise irritated and revealed an emotional response he would not allow.

‘Nonsense. Sir George is an academic of repute. The only prospects that interest him involve ancient Greeks or Romans.’

‘Except for the occasional English racehorse. What about their dowries? Will you contribute to that charity?’ he questioned.

‘Dear Sir George would not agree. Besides, Rilla would create a rumpus. She is proud and not at all keen on marriage.’

‘That will be a change. Rilla? An unusual name.’

‘Short for Amaryllis.’

‘How unfortunate. Her mother was in a botanical mood, I presume.’ But the name was unforgettable. He’d heard it before.

Good God!

‘Not that girl who rode the pig through Lady Lockhart’s garden at that party we attended before I went to the Continent?’ he asked with dawning comprehension.

‘A goat, actually. And she was younger then.’

‘You plan to present this...um, young lady?’ A smile tugged at his mouth.

‘Rilla is much improved. And we all fall into scrapes in our youth.’

‘I do not remember riding stray barnyard animals.’

‘You were always a responsible youth. Besides, as I recall, you said it was the best part of the day.’

‘That was a long time ago.’ Paul stood and walked to the window, stifling a yawn.

‘You’re tired.’ Lady Wyburn spoke sharply. ‘You did not sleep well.’

Of course he had not slept well. He’d been at Wyburn, hadn’t he? He never slept well at his estate. Or within a ten-mile radius of that cursed lake.

He rolled his shoulders. ‘It is more likely the heat in this room and not my sleeping habits which make me yawn. Might we return to the subject of your neighbours?’

‘Delightful girls.’

‘Generally people you find delightful prove unscrupulous.’ He turned from the window with sudden decision. ‘I will pay my respects to the Gibsons this afternoon. I trust you will take note if I am dissatisfied with their character.’

‘I always listen to your insights. Ride over now, dear.’ Lady Wyburn waved a hand in the direction of the French window as if expecting him to leap through it on his mission.

Paul preferred a more conventional exit.

‘Goodbye, Stepmother,’ he said, kissing her cheek.

‘Enjoy yourself.’

‘As I would a visit to the tooth extractor,’ he muttered, striding from the room.

* * *

Miss Amaryllis Gibson sat on the wooden swing that hung from the lowest limb of the chestnut tree. She scuffed her feet. This was her favourite spot on the estate. She liked the view of their solid red-brick house. She enjoyed the ramshackle shapes of the dairy, wash house and stable. She even appreciated the smell, a sweet mix of soap, grass and horses.

But today, none of this helped. She poked the toe of her shabby black-buttoned boot into the earth.

She’d woken with one of her feelings.

Rilla hated her feelings. No, hatred would be a far preferable emotion. She feared them. They made goosebumps prickle her arms and her shoulders tense. She wanted to run or gallop, as though with enough speed she could escape from her own mind.

Pushing the swing higher, she breathed deeply. Her petticoats billowed as she stretched too-long legs, gaining height and speed. Loose strands of hair tickled her face and the fields blurred.

Briefly, her stomach lurched as she hung at the highest point, only to fly down in tumultuous descent. Momentum, it was called. Momentum fascinated her.

Many improper things fascinated Rilla: Roman aqueducts, force, gravity, Sir Isaac Newton’s theories and her mechanised butter churn. Unfortunately, no one appreciated such items, and her water-powered churn had only succeeded in flooding the dairy.

Rilla frowned. Of course, in London she’d have little time for her inventions. Proper ladies did not develop churns.

Or flood dairies.

Or have feelings.

Sliding to a stop, Rilla jumped from the swing. Even thinking about London bothered her. She had no desire for the city with its meaningless social niceties and the constant pressure to find a husband, which was, of course, the one thing she must not do.

How she’d always loved this tree. She liked its thick, sheltering canopy of green and the feeling of her own strength and invulnerability as she pulled herself, branch by branch, through its foliage. It was even the site of her first pulley. She could see it now, the wooden wheel and rope partially entangled within the twigs and leaves.

Could she? Just once more? After all, the rope should be removed for safety’s sake. With a thrill of forbidden pleasure, she looked about the still garden and drive.

Nothing and no one.

Stepping forward, she touched the trunk. The bark was rough under her fingertips. She inhaled. The air smelled wonderful, of wood, and earth, and mushrooms.

Scooping up the loose cloth of her skirt, she tucked it into the sash around her waist and grabbed the lowest branch. With strong, quick movements, she reached the pulley and, leaning forward, untangled the rope and tossed it to the ground below.

Done. She exhaled, allowing herself a moment to relax in this world of green light and dappled sun. A late-spring breeze touched her cheeks and the leaves rustled.

She would have stayed longer if she hadn’t heard the rhythmic clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. She stiffened. They seldom had guests, unless they were of the card-playing variety, but Father had given that up two months since.

Bending, she squinted through the leaves.

A gentleman approached along their rutted drive. He stopped his horse under her tree and dismounted with elegant, long-limbed grace. He was tall and lean with hair so dark it looked black.

Then it came.

The sensation was of loss and pain so intense her world spun. Branches and leaves joggled in a blur of green.

Rilla gulped for air.

The world turned dark, as though night had descended.

Dimly she saw a lake, ink black and spattered with raindrops. She was cold. So cold her fingers numbed and her grip loosened. She reached out, snatching a twig. She missed and, with a cry, fell through the sharp, splintering branches to the ground below.

She landed with a jarring jolt and gasped in shock and pain.

‘What—? Miss, are you all right?’ The voice came as from a distance.

She opened her eyes. Daylight reappeared.

A man bent over her, a man different than any she had met before. The straight dark brows, unyielding jaw and mouth gave her the confused impression of harsh strength. Briefly, his stark silhouette seemed mythical—Hades searching for Persephone.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked again. ‘Let me move the horse away.’

The prosaic words shattered the illusion.

‘I’m fine, I think.’ She sat up.

He crouched beside her, putting out his hand. ‘Can you stand? Let me help.’

His grasp was strong, his fingers long and firm. Her stomach tightened and she felt a pulse of something akin to fear, yet not. Their gazes met and she felt a narrowing of focus that made the horse, the tree and the solid brick outline of their house inconsequential.

She jerked back, scrambling to stand. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

‘Lord Wyburn. I came to visit Sir George Gibson.’ He stepped back, watching her closely. ‘You are Miss Gibson?’

Of course, Lady Wyburn had mentioned an overprotective stepson. But Rilla hadn’t imagined...

‘Sorry, I thought—’ She paused, inhaled, making a conscious effort to collect herself. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Wyburn.’

‘And you.’

Her stomach tightened again, likely a natural reaction. The last thing she needed was for Father to get riled up or on his high horse. He’d hated the idea of accepting charity and she still worried he might gamble in some last-ditch effort to secure funds.

‘Miss Gibson, are you still dazed from your fall?’

‘No, not at all.’ Rilla jerked her attention back to her visitor. ‘I will get Thomas for your horse.’

‘Your father is in?’

‘Um—yes,’ she said and whistled for Thomas.

The lad responded promptly, his eyes irritatingly wide at the sight of Wyburn and his mount. Bending, she picked up the remnants of her pulley and handed this also to the lad.

With the horse under Thomas’s care, Rilla smoothed her dress, which she belatedly realised was still partially tucked up, and nodded towards the house.

‘This way, my lord.’

* * *

Paul walked alongside Miss Gibson, covertly assessing her as they neared the residence. Her fall from the tree had dishevelled her gown and dirtied her face, yet she exhibited no embarrassment.

Indeed, had he been feeling charitable instead of irritated by his errand, he might have found her calm assurance impressive. She walked briskly, with confident strides. Everything about her tall physique spoke of energy and practicality of purpose which was good, he supposed. He had no tolerance for female moods. But he did not favour hoydens either.

The house proved a pleasant building of Tudor origin with brick walls half-hidden in wisteria and punctuated by mullioned windows. But the family’s poverty could not be missed. He saw it in the overgrown shrubbery, the peeling strips of paint dangling from window frames and the haphazard appearance of loosened slates.

The girl pushed open the door and Paul blinked as he stepped into the dimness of the hall after the brightness outside. No servant greeted them, nor did the girl seem to expect one. Instead, she took his hat and then removed her bonnet.

He watched, briefly fascinated as her red hair escaped in a wild cascade of colour. Paul didn’t know if it was beautiful or ugly and, strangely, it didn’t matter. It had such life, such vibrancy.

The goat girl all grown up.

‘I’ll announce you to my father,’ she said. ‘He’s in the study. May I bring refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’

He dragged his gaze from her hair. ‘Tea would be fine.’

‘I’ll go to Father.’

Paul nodded, looking about the entrance. Sun shone through an octagonal window, forming a patchwork of golden squares on a threadbare runner. Floor wax, flowers and dog hair scented the air in a not-unpleasant combination. Indeed, there was something cosy, almost comfortable about the place.

A load of codswallop! He would do better to concentrate on Lady Wyburn’s financial interests and not on the unlikely delights of floor wax.

Glancing up, he found Miss Gibson had not yet withdrawn, but studied him, her head to one side and eyebrows drawn together. She inhaled deeply. The bodice of her gown stretched tightly.

Her figure was not flat.

‘Miss Gibson, was there something else?’ He met her gaze. Her eyes, he noted, were an unusual grey-green and fringed with dark lashes in contrast to her fiery hair.

‘I...trust you will not upset my father.’ For the first time, she seemed uncertain.

‘It is not my intent. Is Sir George distressed by social calls?’

Perhaps he was an eccentric academic, comfortable only with dry texts. And card games.

‘No, but—’ She frowned, and then squared her shoulders. ‘You have come to discuss Lady Wyburn’s plans for my sister and myself, and I want to make sure you are under no misapprehension about us.’

‘I am not prone to misapprehensions and I believe my business is with your father.’

‘Lady Wyburn mentioned that you worry about her and I want you to know that you need not. We intend to pay back—’

‘Miss Gibson, this discussion is hardly proper.’

The girl needed a set-down or she’d not survive her own come-out.

Surprisingly, she laughed. ‘We left propriety when I fell out of the tree. It is only that I’d prefer you did not worry my father about such matters. I can answer any questions you might have.’

She spoke earnestly, the love and worry for her father evident in her gaze.

He was not unmoved. ‘I will keep that in mind.’

She nodded, twisting a fiery ringlet of hair about her finger. ‘I also wanted you to know that I...we care greatly for Lady Wyburn.’

‘I also care for her ladyship, Miss Gibson.’

‘Then we are of perfect accord.’

Their gazes met. Hers was like an ocean with depth and movement. She spoke softly but with firmness, and he felt again that peculiar mix of irritation and admiration.

He also found he believed her.

‘Good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Now that we have clarified our mutual admiration for my stepmother, might we proceed, provided I agree not to unduly distress your father?’

‘Of course. This way, my lord. Follow me.’

Good Lord, her tone was positively chivvying. Again Paul wanted to smile. He hadn’t been chivvied since nursery days and never with success.

Miss Gibson led him down the hall and pushed open a dark, wood-panelled door. Sir George’s study was small and full of books piled not only on shelves, but in haphazard stacks on the floor and desk. A fire crackled but did not draw properly and smoke hung in blue-grey wisps, scenting the air. A clock ticked, the steady, methodical beat of an old timepiece.

‘Father, may I present Lord Wyburn? He is Lady Wyburn’s stepson,’ Miss Gibson said.

Sir George sat at a desk in the far corner. He wore a shabby, ill-fitting nankeen jacket and appeared small, although that might have been the effect of the books and papers piled about him.

‘A timely interruption.’ He stood, running his hand across his balding head and looking at Paul over gilt-framed half-spectacles. ‘Just managed to finish a particularly difficult passage. But most edifying, most edifying. Now what can I do for you, my lord? I’d wager you want to reassure yourself that I have no evil intent, eh? Not likely to run off with the family silver?’

Paul’s eyebrows rose. Sir George’s sharp eyes, mobile face and the quick movements of his hands gave the impression of considerable energy coiled within his small frame.

Moreover, the Gibson family had breached, in one afternoon, more rules of etiquette than he’d experienced in years of Continental travel.

‘I wouldn’t be quite so blunt,’ he said.

‘I would. I would. No point beating about the bush, I always say. Time’s too precious. And I don’t blame you in the slightest. Lady Wyburn’s much too generous. Much too generous. Do take a seat and I’ll answer any question you care to pose. Fire away while Rilla fetches tea.’

With a wry smile, Paul sat.

* * *

Grabbing the copper kettle, Rilla hurried from the kitchen into the scullery and pumped, the handle whining as icy droplets splattered over her hands.

Bother. She was shaking. Even visits from her father’s gambling gentlemen had not left her so...so...discombobulated.

Of course, it was that vision. It was the sight of that rain-spattered lake.

No, it was the man also—his dark good looks, that feeling of sadness which seemed a part of him and the way he made all else dwindle to unimportance.

Rilla picked up her mother’s rosebud cup. She ran her finger across its rim. The gilt had worn off and the china was so fragile as to be translucent.

It would have been better if Imogene had met him. She had poise and would not be scrabbling up trees—

Imogene!

Rilla gulped. She’d quite forgotten her younger sister. She put down the cup, hurrying to the staircase that led to the bedchambers upstairs.

‘Imogene! The viscount’s here!’

Imogene flung open her door with unaccustomed haste. The scent of rose water spilled from the room as she stepped on to the hall landing. ‘The viscount? Lord Wyburn? Here? What’s he like?’

‘Judgemental and unhappy.’

Imogene started, her blue eyes widening. ‘He said so?’

Rilla wished she hadn’t spoken. ‘No,’ she admitted after pause.

‘Then why do think he is unhappy?’

Rilla hesitated. She rubbed her hands unnecessarily across the fabric of her gown. ‘I—um—felt it.’

‘Felt? No.’ Imogene’s voice was high with strain. ‘It has been years almost.’

Eleven months.

‘It was nothing. I am making too much of it, honestly,’ Rilla said, hating to see her sister’s worry. ‘It was my imagination. And I’m quite well now.’

‘You’re still pale.’

‘From my fall, I’m sure.’

‘You fell? Are you hurt?’ Imogene’s voice rose again, threaded with anxiety as she noticed a pink scratch on Rilla’s forearm.

Rilla followed her gaze. ‘It’s nothing. Look, you go and charm him. Convince him that we are not hoydens while I make tea.’

‘And you’ll not dwell on—on feelings?’

‘I will concentrate entirely on the tea. You go. The gentlemen are in the study.’

‘You couldn’t lure Father out to the drawing room?’ Imogene asked as they started back down the stairs.

‘I didn’t even try.’

Halfway down, they heard the kitchen door open. Mrs Marriot must be back. The housekeeper always visited her sister every Thursday.

‘Good,’ Imogene said. ‘Let her make tea while you tidy yourself.’

Instinctively, Rilla touched her unmanageable hair. She’d never liked red hair. Witch hair. That is what the village children had called it.

She nodded, returning upstairs without comment. She cared nothing for beauty. The last thing she wanted was to attract a man.

But she must look sane. Above all else, she must look sane.

Chapter Two

Rilla entered the study anxiously, but everyone seemed congenial. Imogene sat ensconced in the window seat. Their father had pulled his chair from behind the desk and was discussing the antiquities. The viscount, who had risen at her entrance, was smiling and not, at present, asking anyone pointed questions about the cost of a London début.

‘Refreshments will be here shortly,’ she said, a little breathlessly.

Her father nodded. ‘Good, good. Make yourself comfy, m’dear. I was relating an anecdote from my most recent translation.’

He waved the papers in his hand and dust motes sparkled, dancing in a shaft of light.

The only vacant seat was on the sofa beside Lord Wyburn. Rilla hesitated. She caught his eye, but found his expression unreadable.

She swallowed and stared fixedly at the brocade upholstery. Her father waved the papers with an agitated motion. ‘Do sit, m’dear.’

Rilla sat. The viscount sat. The cushioning creaked. She had ample room and yet she felt conscious of his nearness—his muscled thighs, his fingers splayed across the worsted cloth of his trousers, even the heat of his body.

This was irrational. Several inches separated them. It was, therefore, scientifically impossible to detect warmth, except perhaps in the event of a raging fever.

Generally, scientific analysis comforted her mind. Today it proved useless.

Gracious, his legs were long. His feet stretched almost to the hearth. And muscular. Although she’d best forget his legs and attend to the conversation unless she wanted to seem a complete ninny.

They were discussing antiquities, naturally. Her father seldom participated in conversations on any other subject.

‘I travelled to Athens last year,’ Lord Wyburn said.

‘Aha!’ Sir George pulled his chair forward with a scrape of its legs. ‘And what, sir, is your opinion of Lord Elgin’s decision to remove the marbles from Greece and bring them to England, eh?’

‘It was wrong,’ the viscount answered easily.

‘But,’ Rilla blurted because she could not help it, ‘if he had not, the marbles would have been destroyed!’

The viscount shifted, turning towards her and, in so doing, narrowed the gap between them. ‘Indeed, Miss Gibson, but was it not a crime to take them from Greece? To do business with the Turks and bring them here?’

Their gazes met. Again, Rilla had a disconcerting feeling that all else in the room had shrunk, diminishing and fading to unimportance.

She had thought his eyes a dark, opaque brown and now realised they weren’t. Their colour was hazel, flecked with gold and green.

‘A lesser crime than to do nothing and allow their destruction,’ she said, with effort.

‘So it is right to preserve beauty from the past and undermine a country’s sovereignty in the present?’

‘I—’ She frowned because she had not thought of it like this and could see validity in his argument. ‘Yes, I think so. The marbles are our heritage. They are the heritage not only of one country, but of mankind. We hold them in trust for future generations. The politics of today are transient.’

‘I am not certain if the Greeks would agree. You are an individual with strong opinions.’

She flushed. ‘A trait not generally admired.’

‘I admire your honesty, but you may need to exercise discretion if you expect to do well in London society.’

‘Oh, I don’t,’ she said.

The straight eyebrows rose. ‘Then you are indeed unusual. To what do you aspire in London?’

‘Well, to see the London Museum, the Rosetta Stone and—’

Rilla left the sentence unfinished, catching Imogene’s look.

‘It appears you do not share the dreams common to most young ladies,’ Wyburn said.

‘Not for myself,’ she said, then stopped.

She had revealed more than she had intended.

Thankfully, Imogene interrupted the slight pause. ‘You said London, Lord Wyburn. Does that mean you will not oppose Lady Wyburn’s plan?’

‘It means, Miss Imogene, that your début will afford my stepmother amusement and I seldom deny her pleasure.’

‘We are much obliged.’

‘Quite so.’ The viscount turned his gaze to Rilla. ‘It would seem, Miss Gibson, that I will have the pleasure of hearing more about your singular opinions in London.’

* * *

Rilla, Imogene and Lady Wyburn had arrived at the capital within the fortnight. They spent the first week shopping, drinking tea and allowing a bossy French maid to style their hair into any number of styles.

Actually, Heloise appeared to be the only member of Lady Wyburn’s staff under the age of seventy. Her butler, Merryweather, was so bent and wizened that Rilla longed to take the tray and bid him sit. She didn’t, however, fearing to insult his dignity.

As for Wyburn, they did not see him at all as he had gone to his estate.

‘Which he hates,’ Lady Wyburn explained. ‘It always makes him dreadfully grumpy.’

The viscount’s absence filled Rilla with both relief and irrational disappointment.

‘He made me feel like I had a smudge on my face,’ she explained to Imogene. ‘I want to prove that I am not always like that, but have adequate social graces.’

‘Except you usually do have a smudge on your face. Although I suppose it is a step forward that you actually care about your smudges.’

Rilla stiffened. Imogene was right. She usually didn’t care. She frowned. She was sitting on Imogene’s bedroom floor beside her churn and she ran her fingers along its smooth wood, twisting the waterwheel so that it moved with a clunk...clunk...

‘But,’ Imogene added with a nod towards this apparatus, ‘if you do now care about smudges, you’d best stay away from that contraption.’

‘It is a perfect reproduction of my churn made precisely to a quarter-scale. Besides you are quite right, I have never cared about dirt or oil before and I see no reason to start now.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

But Rilla was leaning over the churn as though in an embrace, absorbed in both altering the trough’s angle and moving the wheel with a continued rhythmic clunk.

* * *

Lord Wyburn had announced his return with an invitation to the British Museum.

‘Which is an odd choice for an excursion,’ Lady Wyburn stated after reading the missive. ‘Indeed, he is too fond of ancient things and is like to become as bad as your father.’

Despite these comments, Lady Wyburn quickly wrote back their acceptance and announced that the excursion would prove a pleasant change from drinking tea which was too often as weak as dishwater.

But even with warning of his return, Rilla found the sight of him standing within the entrance hall disconcerting. She jerked to an abrupt stop on the stairs, aware of a marked change in her equilibrium without any scientific cause, given that she was neither in a boat or on carriage.

Perhaps it was his size, seemingly huge as he stood within Lady Wyburn’s hall. Or maybe he reminded her too much of her father’s gambling ‘friends’.

Indeed, that must be it, Rilla decided, glad of this explanation.

Certainly, he looked every inch the Corinthian in a well-tailored jacket, beige pantaloons and polished Hessians.

Yet, as she studied him unseen, she was conscious of sadness. It was not, thank goodness, a feeling, but rather she was aware of a shadowed bleakness in his expression, a tightness in his jaw and the sense that unpleasant topics occupied his mind.

Moreover, she realised, with a second start of surprise, that she longed to change that. She wanted to see his expression lighten with wit and interest.

‘Ah, there you are. Lovely to see you, dear boy.’ Lady Wyburn bustled into the hall.

Wyburn turned and bowed. ‘And you, my lady.’

‘Although whatever made you think of the museum, I do not know. Not that I’m not delighted, of course, but I have never truly appreciated the fascination accorded to ancient things. I mean, a jug is a jug even if it is thousands of years old. Besides, we don’t even know if it was part of someone’s second-best set. I would hate my second-best crockery to be on display.’

‘That is a novel perspective. I suggested the museum because I recalled that Miss Gibson had expressed an interest. Indeed, here she is now.’

He smiled as Rilla descended the stairs. He had a dimple, just one, set within his left cheek. Rilla hadn’t noticed it previously. Briefly that dimple fascinated. Again, she had an off-kilter, slightly breathless feeling as though climbing too high or galloping fast.

‘I could have waited.’ Her stomach also felt odd. Perhaps she had eaten insufficient breakfast.

‘But it is lovely for you to think of my sister’s interests. We are both much obliged,’ Imogene added, also descending the stairs.

They now stood in the hall. Wyburn seemed taller than ever. Rilla felt an irrational irritation both with his height and the crush. She wondered if perhaps London houses had dimensions smaller than that of their country counterparts and whether this might be suitable for scientific study.

* * *

The carriage ride through Bloomsbury fascinated Rilla. Thoughts of the museum crowded her mind, but she soon found the journey interesting on its own account. She loved the busy, bustling streets filled with vendors, newsboys, pedestrians and even stray dogs hunting for scraps. She loved also the interesting mix of carriages, high-sprung phaetons, carts and tradesmen’s vehicles.

She actually found it far pleasanter to focus on the activities outside the carriage than its interior. She knew she did not have a shy bone in her body, but somehow Lord Wyburn’s proximity or the carriage’s stuffy closeness had scattered her thoughts like so much dandelion fluff.

Indeed, only by pressing her face to the window and analysing the differing designs of carriage wheels could she keep her usual composure.

When they drew to a stop at the museum, Rilla felt a moment of disappointment. The external façade looked so ordinary. It was a solid building with a slate roof and two wings jutting out for stables.

But what did she expect, statues lining the drive?

It was the inside that mattered and which had inhabited her dreams for so long. Her earliest memories were filled with stories of Greeks, Romans and Egyptians. They were her bedtime stories, her fairy tales...

After descending from the coach, the party entered the building and a short, bent gentleman ambled forward to greet the visitors. He spoke in guttural tones and nodded towards a staircase leading to the first floor.

‘We have exhibits up there as well as in our newer addition, the Townley Gallery,’ he said by way of greeting.

Imogene looked upward.

‘Gracious.’ Rilla followed her sister’s gaze. Three life-size giraffes stood at the top of the stairs. ‘They look so lifelike. I wonder how that effect is achieved.’

‘They have been specially preserved,’ Wyburn said. ‘We could enquire as to the scientific method if you’d like.’

‘That would be fascin—’ Rilla caught Imogene’s eye and stopped herself.

‘I wonder if giraffes ever get neck aches,’ Lady Wyburn said with one of her typical rapid-fire bursts of speech. ‘I recall my great-aunt Sarah used to have dreadful aches, particularly when it rained. And a giraffe would have such a lot of neck to ache. Perhaps that is why giraffes live in sunny climes.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lord Wyburn.

Rilla saw the amused tolerance in his glance and felt herself warm to him.

I could almost like him. The thought flickered unbidden through her mind. She pushed it away. He was a viscount and one who, no doubt, still considered her likely to waste his stepmother’s money while swinging from trees or chandeliers.

Besides, he was too intelligent, too observant...the last sort of person with whom she should strike up an acquaintance. With this thought, she chose not to follow her relatives upstairs, but walked briskly towards the entrance of the new gallery which she had read contained the classical collection.

‘I believe the antiquities are unlikely to change in any marked degree within the next few moments.’ Lord Wyburn’s amused voice sounded from behind her. ‘Do you ever walk slowly or, perhaps, saunter?’

‘I don’t like to waste time. Besides, this is the Townley Gallery and I’ve heard wonderful things about it.’

The gallery was a long, rectangular room with large windows and fascinating circular roof lights providing an airy, spacious feeling. Despite her haste, Rilla paused on its threshold, surveying the statues and glass cases, instinctively savouring a delicious anticipation, an almost goosebumpy feeling of delight.

‘When I stood at the Parthenon, I thought I could hear the voices of the ancients. In here, I hear their echoes,’ Lord Wyburn said softly.

‘You really do love the antiquities,’ Rilla said.

She glanced at him. His chiselled features reflected his awe, wonder and curiosity. She had known no one, except her father, to understand or share such feelings.

‘I have always been fascinated.’

‘Have you visited Italy as well as Greece?’

‘And Egypt.’

‘You saw the pyramids?’ she asked, breathlessly.

‘Yes, they are as magnificent as ever, despite Napoleon.’

‘You are fortunate.’ She stepped towards the displays but jerked to a standstill. ‘Is—is that the Rosetta Stone?’

‘Yes, although many are disappointed...’

‘Disappointed?’ She stared at the pinkish stone. Tentatively she leaned towards it, pressing a gloved finger against the glass as though to feel its contours and trace the intricate inscriptions. ‘Don’t they understand? It is the key! The most exciting discovery. It may unlock the meaning of hieroglyphs and a whole culture from the past—’

She stopped and felt the heat rushing into her cheeks.

‘Passionate.’ He spoke so softly, she barely heard the word.

He stood beside her. She no longer resented his intrusion. Indeed, it felt as though they were removed from the outside world, just the two of them, and had found a kinship amid these past treasures.

She smelled the faint lingering scent of tobacco and heard the infinitesimal rustle of his linen shirt as it shifted against his skin. Even the air stilled, as though trapped like a fly in amber.

She swallowed, shifting, wanting to both hold on to this moment and, conversely, end it.

‘My father wanted to translate the Rosetta Stone,’ she said at last.

He straightened. She instantly felt his withdrawal as he stepped back and was conscious of her own conflicting sense of regret and relief.

‘I am not surprised. It is one of the most important discoveries in modern times. Has he been to the museum since it arrived?’ he asked.

‘No, I—he—’ London was not a good place for him, but she could not say that.

‘His responsibilities have been too great at home,’ the viscount said gently as though understanding that which she’d left unspoken.

‘Yes.’

And then it happened—without warning—without the usual feeling of dread or oppression. The present diminished. The man, the Rosetta Stone, the display cases, even the long windows dwarfed into minutia as though viewed through the wrong end of Father’s old telescope.

She felt cold, a deep internal cold that started from her core and spread into her limbs.

A child—a boy—appeared to her. She saw him so clearly that she lifted her hand as though to push aside the wet strands of hair that hung into tawny, leonine eyes. He stared at her, his gaze stricken with a dry-eyed grief.

She recognised those eyes. ‘I— What’s wrong?’

‘Miss Gibson?’ the viscount spoke.

She blinked, the boy still remaining clearer than the man or the museum.

‘Miss Gibson,’ the viscount said again.

‘You were so young—’

‘What?’ He thrust the word at her, a harsh blast of sound.

‘When she died.’

The boy vanished.

‘Who died?’ Lord Wyburn asked as the present sharpened again into crisp-edged reality.

His eyes bore into her, his jaw tight and expression harsh. She dropped her gaze from his face, focusing instead on the intricate folds of his neck cloth.

What had she said? What had she revealed?

‘Has my stepmother been speaking about me?’ A twitch flickered under the skin of his cheek.

‘No, we didn’t, I—’ she said, then stopped.

‘I will not be the subject of gossip and you will not do well in London if you cannot be appropriate in word and deed.’

A welcome surge of anger flashed through her. ‘I am visiting a museum, that is scarcely inappropriate.’

‘Discussions of a personal nature are unseemly.’

‘Then I will endeavour to discuss only the weather or hair ribbons.’

‘Good.’

He made no other comment and the silence lengthened, no longer easy. She wanted to speak, to cover this awkwardness but, after that momentary anger, lassitude filled her.

This often happened. Exhaustion leadened her limbs only to be replaced later by a need to run, to jump, to ride. None of which she would do here, of course.

‘Wonderful! There you are!’ Lady Wyburn’s sing-song tones rang out.

Rilla turned gratefully as Lady Wyburn and Imogene appeared at the doorway.

‘No doubt you are both entranced with these ancient objects, but I admit I am done with them,’ Lady Wyburn announced.

‘Indeed, let’s go.’ The wonders of the Rosetta Stone had dissipated and Rilla longed for her own company.

As they walked through the corridor and into the entrance way, she could feel Lord Wyburn’s silent scrutiny and her sister’s concerned gaze.

Only Lady Wyburn seemed impervious to any discord and happily related a discussion with Lady Alice Fainsborough. Apparently, they had met Lady Alice while admiring the giraffe on the second floor.

‘A lovely girl,’ Lady Wyburn said as the wizened caretaker pushed open the oak door. ‘Although unfortunately she resembles her mother with her propensity for chins. Still, it is good to know a few people prior to your début and one cannot hold her chins against her.’

The door creaked closed as they exited into the dampness of the London spring. Rilla exhaled with relief as if leaving the museum made her less vulnerable.

The rain had stopped, but the cobblestones gleamed with damp and raindrops clung to twigs of grass, glittering as weak sunlight peeked through still-heavy clouds.

But the smell—it was the smell she noted.

Earlier, the courtyard had smelled of fresh grass, mixed with the less pleasant odour of horse manure or sewage from the Thames. Now it smelled of neither. Instead, it was sweet, cloying and strangely old-fashioned.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Lavender. I smell lavender.’

Lord Wyburn stopped. She felt the jerk of his body beside her.

‘I hate lavender,’ he said.

* * *

Even hours later, Paul could feel his bad humour as he sat astride his mount. Ironically, his own ill temper irritated. There was no sensible reason for it and he had no tolerance for moods. Rotten Row was pleasant and unusually quiet and while the clouds looked dark, it had not rained.

He rolled his shoulders. They felt tight as bands of steel. Amaryllis Gibson had unnerved him. The way she’d looked at him or through him as though seeing too much or not seeing at all. And her change from vivacious interest to unnatural stillness.

And lavender.

Why had she smelled lavender? No one smelled lavender on a London street.

His fingers tightened on the reins. Responsive to the movement, Stalwart shook his head with a metallic jangle.

Paul had hoped a pleasant ride and fresh air would calm him. It hadn’t.

All this nonsense about a début. He should have put a stop to the business. Now, he could only hope that his stepmother got both girls married off expeditiously so that he would have little reason to spend time in their company.

A sudden thundering of hooves grabbed his attention. He swung about as a horse going much too fast cut obliquely across his path. Stalwart snorted, stamping his hooves and shifting in a nervous sideways dance.

Instinctively, Paul soothed his mount, even as he tracked the other horse. Some crazy pup, no doubt. Thank goodness the park was unusually empty.

Except—the rider rode side-saddle.

‘Blast!’

Paul spurred Stalwart ahead, but the other animal had the advantage of several seconds and Stalwart was already winded. Hunkering close to his animal’s neck, Paul pushed the horse as fast as he dared and, squinting, discerned a woman’s form, her turquoise habit bright against the horse’s flank. Her hair had loosened, falling over her shoulders in a brilliant red-gold mass.

Paul gripped the reins tighter still. He knew only one woman with hair like that.

Irritation and a deeper, more primitive emotion clawed at him. Sweat dampened his palms. He was gaining ground. He’d be able to grab her reins soon enough.

He must be careful not to startle her animal. For a moment he imagined her thrown, her face smashed or her body crippled.

Half-standing in the stirrups, he leaned forward, his thighs clamped hard around the horse’s chest.

Then, without warning, her horse slowed.

Stalwart bolted ahead. Sitting heavily, Paul swung his animal about. Relief rushed through his body.

‘Miss Gibson!’ he shouted. ‘Hand me the reins! What on earth happened? How did he get away on you?’

‘My lord?’

The woman looked across at him. He saw no anxiety, no worry or apology. In fact, she was smiling and looked considerably happier than she’d appeared at the museum.

‘Are you all right?’

She rubbed the horse’s neck. Her hair fell forward, tangling in its mane. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Fine? Fine! You could have been killed.’

The impertinent wench laughed. ‘I was perfectly safe. Grey Lady’s a lamb and I’ve been riding for ever.’

That was true. He could see it now that the blindness of fear had lifted. He’d seldom seen a better seat, or a more foolhardy display.

‘That may be so, but you are not in the country and Grey Lady is no plough horse.’

‘She’s beautiful. It has been ages since I rode such a creature.’ Her voice softened, her hand still caressing the horse’s neck.

Paul prided himself on his rational calm. He did not give way to emotion. But the hammering of his heart did not feel rational.

Or calm.

‘Where are her ladyship and your sister? Why are you riding alone and at such a pace?’ he asked abruptly.

His question seemed to confuse her. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Lady Wyburn said I might ride ahead.’

‘I assure you she did not mean for you to dash off to Rotten Row. Ladies do not gallop on Rotten Row. Nobody gallops here even on quiet days.’

‘Really? I made certain I did not collide with anyone and a good ride is such fun.’

‘As is climbing a tree and riding livestock.’

‘Livestock?’ She stopped, head cocked, as though confused. Then her countenance cleared. ‘Why, I remember now where we met. Lady Lockhart’s garden party years ago.’

‘I hope you will not repeat that particular performance.’

‘No, that goat was too uncomfortable. I couldn’t walk for weeks. Besides, there seems a sad dearth of goats in London salons.’

Oddly, Paul wanted to smile. More than smile, he wanted to laugh. The girl’s wit, her zest for life was contagious and blotted out her odd behaviour that morning.

He felt absurdly relieved for this.

Although why he should care, he did not know. ‘You must curb your enthusiasms, Miss Gibson. Your manners are too forward,’ he said sharply.

Her face fell, the laughter leaving her gaze and two spots of anger flushing her cheeks. ‘I apologise for my rudeness and any lack of propriety, my lord.’

He nodded. ‘I do not wish my stepmother to become the subject of gossip.’

‘I would never dishonour her ladyship. I will return to her now before she becomes anxious. Goodbye, my lord.’

She spoke quietly, but he saw her anger in the toss of her head and that wild, wonderful hair. Then, to his surprise, she pulled her animal short. He wondered what insult she had forgotten.

‘About cutting so close to you,’ she said, speaking the words he least expected. ‘I should...will apologise for that. You were hidden from my view, but that is no excuse. I had my mind on other matters and could have spooked your horse.’

The fire fizzled from him. ‘It is of no consequence.’

She nodded, urging her horse ahead.

‘And, Miss Gibson?’

‘My lord?’

‘You have an excellent seat and are a fine horsewoman.’ Which, he guessed, were the words she least expected.

She nodded and turned away, urging her mare to a trot. Paul watched with reluctant admiration. He liked her wide generous smile which somehow transformed her face. More than that, he liked her vibrancy, the love of life, which seemed to exude from her.

Damn.

The realisation jolted through him. He stiffened and Stalwart stepped sideways with a nervous whinny.

He was, Paul realised, physically attracted to Miss Amaryllis Gibson.

No, it was more than that. It was more than just the physical desire he might feel for an actress or light skirt. He liked her. He liked her intelligence, her wit, her peculiar interests, even her opinions.

What other woman would be so enchanted with the Elgin Marbles?

But he would not, must not, allow it.

Miss Amaryllis was the last person for whom he should form an attachment. She was impulsive, immature and unpredictable.

Paul did not like the unpredictable.

His childhood had been a steeplechase of unpredictable, ruled by his mother’s moods. One day there would be laughter and the next...

On the next, her mood would overwhelm all else so that even the servants stooped under its weight.

And as for his father...

Chapter Three

‘At last!’ Imogene said. ‘Our first grand ball!’

The sisters stood before the looking glass in Rilla’s bedchamber, under strict instructions from Heloise to touch nothing.

Rilla stared at her reflection with a peculiar feeling of disbelief.

It was her, of course. Yet she looked so different.

Tentatively, Rilla rubbed her hand across the expanse of skin exposed by the low neckline and watched the image do so too. The neckline, the lightness of the muslin, the way if fell loosely about her waist and hips gave her a feeling of nakedness which was both disconcerting and exciting all at once.

Of course, Rilla knew she was too tall and her movements too brisk but, despite this, she looked...good.

Well, better than she would have supposed and quite different from a girl who habitually fell out of trees.

Indeed, it would be satisfying to have Wyburn see that she did not always gallop or do outlandish things.

Not that she particularly cared what Wyburn thought.

Abruptly, Rilla shifted her gaze to her sister. Now Imogene was truly beautiful—exquisite in a light blue gown with pearls encircling her throat.

And so like their mother.

Rilla had forgotten how beautiful her mother had looked before her last illness. She remembered her now—taller than Imogene, but with that delicate pale beauty. She remembered also how her father would even abandon his Greeks and Romans to escort her. He would complain, of course, saying he was trussed up like a Christmas goose, but his gaze would fix on their mother, the love evident.

What would it be like to be loved like that?

For a fleeting, disturbing second, the image of the Viscount Wyburn flickered before her inner eye.

Rilla pushed this aside. She would do better to focus on her sister who, Rilla realised, was looking a bit too ethereal.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Nervous,’ Imogene admitted. ‘I fear I will forget all Mr Arnold’s instructions and fall over my feet.’

Mr Arnold was their dance instructor, a portly gentleman with plump puce-coloured cheeks.

‘You have never fallen over your feet in your life,’ Rilla said.

‘I have never gone to a dance of this size and I have never felt so nervous. Besides, Mr Arnold said it was so important that a débutante is proficient in all the steps.’

‘Mr Arnold can’t even see his feet and I am certain he wears a corset so I refuse to take his word as law.’

‘A lady is not supposed to discuss a gentleman’s undergarments.’

‘Then I will resist the temptation to discuss undergarments tonight,’ Rilla said, putting an arm about her sister’s shoulders.

Imogene smiled wanly. She looked so young and vulnerable, her eyes large within her heart-shaped face. It reminded Rilla of their childhood when the two years between them had been a lifetime.

‘Everyone will be enchanted by you,’ Rilla said gently. ‘Why wouldn’t they be? You’re beautiful and witty.’

‘I feel like I did at Lady Lockhart’s piano recital when I was ten.’

‘You played perfectly. I was the one who ruined everything by dropping a spider down Jack St John’s collar. You were meant for this night.’

‘You are good for me,’ Imogene said. ‘Mother always knew what to say at times like this.’

Rilla nodded, touching the gold locket about her neck. It was smooth and warmed by her skin. ‘I miss her, too.’

‘This was her dream for us.’

‘For you. She wanted you to have a choice and to find someone you could love.’

‘She met Father during her first Season.’ Imogene carefully rearranged one of the blonde curls framing her face. ‘Rilla?’

‘Hmm?’

‘When...when you have your feelings, do you ever see her?’

Rilla stilled, except for her fingers, which continued to twist the thin gold chain at her neck. Imogene seldom spoke of her ‘moments’ and never without fear or loathing. ‘No.’

Imogene nodded, turning to pick up her reticule.

‘But,’ Rilla added softly, ‘I think that is good. I think it means she is at peace.’

Imogene shivered. ‘I wish you had grown out of your moments like we all hoped. Then you could fall in love and marry. ‘

‘I am much too ornery to marry, even if I did not fear that any husband might commit me to Bedlam. Besides,’ Rilla added, determined to lighten the mood. ‘I have my Greeks and butter churn for company.’

‘Do not discuss Greeks or your churn tonight.’

‘No Greeks, churns or undergarments. I will discuss only Romans and my automated cake mixer. Come on.’ Rilla swung her arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Enough serious talk. Your dream awaits. And you are going to be fabulous.’

* * *

Three hours later, Rilla stood in the Thorntons’ ballroom. Dancing required more stamina than tree climbing. Her feet hurt, her head pounded and her face ached from smiling.

Although she was enjoying the dance. It was rather wonderful, like entering a separate world of golden light, music and magic—Oberon’s palace, peopled with fairies.

And there she had no shortage of partners. Indeed, she had only sat out two dances and had not yet chatted with any of her new London acquaintances or, more importantly, her neighbour and best friend Julie St John, freshly arrived from the country.

Perhaps she could find her now. Rilla scanned the ballroom. A familiar face would be so reassuring. Plus Julie had been out for three Seasons and would doubtless have all manner of suggestions. Hopefully, one of which might include a cure for blisters.

And then she saw him.

Wyburn.

All thoughts of Julie scattered from her mind.

Wyburn stood a few feet from the entrance. Her body stiffened and she knew, in that second, she had been unconsciously waiting for him. She felt a peculiar mix of hot and cold, and heard the quickened thump of her heart.

His very darkness made him different.

He stood tall, surveying the ballroom with an indolent gaze. Dark hair, dark straight brows and dark jacket made the others seem overdressed like brightly costumed actors.

She touched her hair. Then dropped her hand. She refused to primp. She would not even acknowledge that peculiar bubble of pleasure that he would see her here and in this dress.

But gracious, it was hot. She fanned herself. He had moved from the step and was now chatting with several gentlemen. Lady Wyburn had stated that he would ask both herself and Imogene to dance, as they were her protégées.

Except Rilla didn’t want to dance with him. She hadn’t seen him since Rotten Row and, as always, he made her feel like she had two left feet.

And yet to not dance with him would also be peculiarly dampening to the spirits.

She frowned. Since when had she become such a ninnyhammer? A person able to understand the laws of physics should certainly be capable of deciding with whom she wanted to dance.

Perhaps she should consider a suitable design for an automated fan which might be suspended from the ceiling—a much better use of brain power than the tracking of Lord Wyburn’s movements.

Not that he seemed in any great hurry to perform his duty towards his stepmother’s protégées. He was now escorting a large young lady in pink silk to the dance floor.

He’d likely regret that choice. The lady in pink did not appear light on her feet.

And then, in that split second of amused derision, it came.

The horrid, familiar, unwanted cold struck. It spread from the centre of her body down into her limbs. The candelabra and brightly coloured dancers dimmed. The purple-and-pink bouquets swirled and the music muted, as though coming from some great distance.

In its stead she heard a soft, sad whisper.

‘Help him.’

Rilla twisted left and right, but saw only the rubber plant and the blank wall behind it. Goosebumps prickled. Her hand tightened on her fan so that its hard edges pressed almost painfully against her palm.

I will not faint. Or cause a scene. Not here. Not now.

The words repeated in her mind like a mantra or the thumping of indigenous drums. I will not faint. I will not faint.

‘Rilla! Are you all right?’

A tall figure in ruffled green stood before her.

‘Julie,’ Rilla said, her voice oddly distant to her own ears.

‘Are you ill?’

The sweet cloying scent of lavender filled her nostrils.

‘Lavender. I smell— Are you—wearing—lavender?’ she asked, the simple question difficult to phrase.

‘No, I don’t like the smell. But, Rilla, what is it? You look awful.’

‘Fine. Really.’

Rilla had fought this before. She knew how to do it. She knew she must root herself in this hot, overcrowded room. She must focus on Julie and her frilly green dress. She must press her palm hard against the edge of her fan. She must escape the scent of lavender and immerse herself in the smell of flowers and sweat and food from the buffet.

She must ignore the man on the dance floor who was so impossible to ignore.

She exhaled in a slow whoosh.

‘It is the heat,’ Julie said.

‘Yes,’ Rilla said, disregarding the goosebumps still prickling her arms.

‘You will get used to it. I have. This is my fourth Season.’

‘When did you get into town?’ Rilla managed to ask, ludicrously proud to have said the simple sentence without pause or stammer.

‘Only two days ago. Mother wants to keep our costs to the minimum, you know.’

‘And how is she? Your mother, I mean?’

Julie shrugged with a rustle of fabric. ‘Dragging every unmarried man under a hundred to meet me. I’m a disappointment, although I’d likely do better if I did not resemble a wilted lettuce.’

‘You look lovely.’

‘For a lettuce.’

‘But never a wilted one,’ Rilla said and even smiled.

She took her friend’s hands, glad of the human contact, the reassuring pressure of Julie’s finger and the clean, wholesome talcum scent of her. ‘I am so happy you are here.’

‘And I you.’ Julie paused, looking towards the wide sweeping staircase which descended into the ballroom. ‘Gracious, he’s here too. We could have a schoolroom reunion.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Jack.’

Dislike knotted her stomach as Rilla saw a familiar young blond gentleman descend the staircase, his expression one of cynical indolence.

‘Roving for an heiress, I would guess. He needs one. Is he deigning to acknowledge us?’ Julie asked.

‘Apparently.’ Rilla watched the man’s approach.

Jack St John, Earl of Lockhart, looked well enough. His clothes were well cut, his movements easy. Yet she felt herself cringe, edging towards the rubber plant.

‘My dear sister and Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.

‘Lord Lockhart.’

‘Miss Gibson, I did not know you and your sister were coming for the Season. I hope you are enjoying the evening and that it has been convivial.’

The earl gave the last word peculiar emphasis, rolling it in his mouth.

An emotion, close to fear, twisted through Rilla’s body, although his words were innocuous enough. ‘Everyone is very pleasant,’ she said.

‘Ah, yes, the ton can be delightful, but then the mere whisper of a rumour can make it cruel.’ He smiled. His face was pale and, in stark contrast, his lips looked too red for a man.

Rilla swallowed. The fear grew. Her palms felt clammy within her gloves.

‘Jack, don’t say you’ve done something scandalous?’ Julie asked, worry lacing her tone.

‘Not at all.’ His smile widened. ‘And Miss Gibson is fortunate that she has such an admirable character she need never fear rumours or odd tales.’

Did he linger on that word ‘odd’ like a man tasting brandy or was it her imagination?

But before Rilla could formulate a response, the earl made his bow and left. Rilla swallowed. The heat, the dancers, the music pressed in on her.

Julie touched her arm. ‘You’ve gone quite pale again. Don’t worry about Jack. He probably remembers the goat.’

‘The goat?’ Rilla said blankly.

‘The one you rode?’

But, of course, the goat. The relief was so great she almost laughed out loud. Her smile grew wide. She had quite forgotten the goat. Good lord, he could talk about the goat ad infinitum, if he chose.

‘Julie!’ Lady Lockhart’s strident voice startled both girls. Julie turned so quickly she nearly tumbled into the rubber plant.

Her mother approached, bearing down on them in a well-corseted purple dress. ‘There you are. Whatever are you doing, hiding in the shadows? People want to dance with you! You’ll never make a match indulging in idle chatter.’

‘No, Mama.’

‘Good evening, Amaryllis.’ Her ladyship cast an appraising glance over Rilla’s gown and coiffure. ‘You’d best be standing straight. Giggling is never attractive in girls. They appear vapid. Indeed, you’d best make yourself presentable if you hope to find a husband.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Rilla dropped a curtsy.

‘Come along!’ Lady Lockhart propelled her daughter away. Rilla watched. Julie looked smaller, as though only propped up by the abundant cloth of her gown.

Alone once more, Rilla glanced back to Jack as he crossed the room. He had all the swaggered arrogance she remembered from the schoolroom and, more recently, when he’d visited Father. If only they hadn’t gambled—

To be beholden to such a man.

An unladylike swear word flashed through her mind and she had to bite her lip to keep from saying it aloud. The obnoxious man had gone to Imogene.

The earl was asking her to dance.

For a brief unreasonable instant Rilla wanted to sprint across the floor and physically pull him from her sister. An impotent anger vibrated through her and she felt her fists tighten.

‘Goodness, why so fierce, Miss Gibson?’

Rilla jumped at the low male voice. Turning, she found herself staring at a broad masculine chest encased in a white-satin waistcoat and black jacket.

* * *

The girl looked more like a golden statue than a human form. The cream muslin dress was shot with gold and shimmered with her every move. Her hair was a crown of ruddy gold, piled high with soft tendrils curling at her neck.

Miss Gibson was definitely not pretty, that would be too insipid. Nor beautiful, her face was not cast in classic lines. No, she was striking, inspiring almost.

Good Lord, and he was staring at her like a goggle-eyed fool.

‘Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.

She turned and frowned as though disorientated. ‘Lord Wyburn, you startled me.’

‘My apologies, Miss Gibson. You were engrossed,’ he said.

‘Yes, I was watching—’

‘Your sister’s success. Without much pleasure, it would appear.’

Colour rushed into her cheeks, but she caught his meaning quick enough.

‘I’m not jealous of my sister, if that is what you mean,’ she said.

‘Blunt again. Jealousy is a natural feeling.’

‘Natural to some—not me. I’m happy for my sister.’

‘If not envy, then why the angry countenance?’ Paul asked more gently.

‘I disapprove of my sister’s partner.’

Good Lord, the girl really did have a penchant for direct speech—a rarity in the female sex.

‘I agree, although your bluntness will cause you no end of grief.’

‘I might insult someone?’

Paul smiled despite himself. ‘Even in secluded corners, one may be overheard.’

She made a face, seemingly unimpressed with the suggestion. ‘I am not afraid of Lockhart. Straight talk might do him good.’

‘But it might do the speaker harm, particularly if the object of her speech chooses to use his influence to discredit her.’

He saw a flicker of apprehension, quickly squashed.

‘So,’ he asked lightly, wanting to relieve the very anxiety he had caused, ‘are you enjoying it?’

‘The dance?’ she said, with uncharacteristic vagueness.

‘That is the event we are currently attending.’

‘Yes.’ She looked about her with genuine admiration and smiled. ‘Yes, it is beautiful, magical almost.’

Paul followed her gaze and watched the expressions flicker across her mobile features. For a moment, he forgot that he had been to hundreds of balls and that their allure had long since tarnished.

Instead, he saw the room as she did, a fairyland of flickering light, mirrors, music and perfumed air.

‘Dance with me,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your card is not full and I fear the current situation is not appropriate.’

‘In what way?’ Her brows drew together.

‘We have not yet danced. May I have the honour, Miss Gibson?’

Her face registered an interesting mix of emotion: surprise, confusion, reluctance. She shifted back towards the rubber plant. Good lord, the chit actually wanted to refuse. No one had turned him down since he was a callow youth. He did not know whether to be angered or amused.

‘I believe that hiding is not acting with the utmost propriety,’ he added.

‘I am not hiding!’

‘And refusing to dance with the stepson of one’s benefactress might not be entirely appropriate.’

‘Then, pray tell, what would you have me do?’

‘Accompany me to the dance floor,’ he said, inclining his head towards the orchestra.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t wish to be improper. Lady Wyburn said you would feel obligated to ask.’

He frowned, perversely irritated. ‘She exaggerates my sense of social obligation, I assure you.’

‘I am certain she meant it as a compliment.’

‘No doubt. But now you are looking much too serious. Smile as though I’ve said something particularly witty.’

‘Is that what all the other women do?’ she asked.

She smelled of soap and lemons, he thought, as he led her to the dance floor. He liked the smell, tangy and fresh, so different from the perfumed scents of other women.

‘My lord?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He jerked his attention back to the conversation.

‘Do other women look spellbound as if you’ve said something witty?’

‘Naturally.’

He took her gloved hand and felt it tremble within his palm. The dance started and they broke apart in time to the music.

‘Even when you haven’t said anything either inspiring or witty?’ she asked as they came together again.

‘Especially then.’

‘How tiresome for you.’

‘Why so?’

‘Well, it must make you feel as though you’re not a real person, but just a viscount.’

He laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve been called “just a viscount”.’

‘I meant no offence.’

‘I know.’ And it was true, he thought, surprised by her perception. Few people saw him as a person and women never did. He was a good catch, with a title, estate and ample income.

‘Now you’re much too serious,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to look as though I’ve also said something remarkably entertaining?’ She stepped under his raised arm. ‘Or does it not work both ways?’

‘It does and can be tedious, I assure you.’

‘Indeed, I find discussions about the weather highly overrated.’

‘Try looking fascinated by a spaniel’s earwax,’ he said, remembering a conversation with a certain Miss Twinning.

Miss Gibson laughed, a rich spontaneous sound. No, she was no statue. She was too vibrant—more like a flame caught in human form.

‘I take it you do not discuss earwax?’ he asked.

‘I steer clear of that subject. In fact, I say remarkably little and endeavour to stick to Imogene’s list of suitable topics.’ She spoke with mock solemnity, the amusement in her eyes belying her tone. She had remarkable eyes.

‘Which include?’

‘Fashion and the weather.’

‘Really.’ They were dancing side by side. He caught another whiff of lemon. ‘And what,’ he murmured, bending so close that her hair tickled his cheek, ‘would you discuss if left to your own devices?’

‘My waterwheel and butter churn.’

‘Your what?’ His fashionable ennui deserted him and he almost missed a step, narrowly avoiding the Earl of Pembroke’s solid form.

‘My butter churn,’ she said more slowly.

‘And what makes this churn so worthy of conversation?’

‘Nothing really. I should not have mentioned it.’ She looked regretful, glancing downward so that her lashes cast lacy shadows against her cheeks.

‘Oh, but you should. I’m fascinated.’ This was, surprisingly, true. He wanted to lean into her and catch again that delightful whiff of lemon. He wanted to see the intelligence sparkle in her eyes and feel her hand tremble, belying her external calm.

‘The churn is automated by a waterwheel, you see, and I believe it would save our dairy maid so much hard labour.’ She spoke quickly, her cheeks delightfully flushed with either enthusiasm or embarrassment.

‘And have you had the opportunity to test its efficiency?’

‘Once,’ she said.

‘Successfully, I trust.’

Her lips twitched and she looked up, merriment twinkling. ‘The water succeeded in flooding the dairy. After that my device was banished.’

‘Unfortunate.’

‘However, I have constructed a small model so that I can perfect the design during my baths.’

‘Your baths?’ He choked on the word.

His mind conjured a vision of long, wet hair, full breasts and alabaster limbs. He caught his breath.

Her cheeks reddened. ‘One of those forbidden subjects like undergarments. I mean—I only mentioned baths because my churn is run by a waterwheel. Hence I need a source of water to move the wheel.’

He laughed. He could not help himself. Her conversational style might be unusual, but it was certainly more edifying than the weather.

Or earwax, for that matter.

She was, Paul realised, a good dancer. This surprised him. He’d always thought of her as moving with unladylike speed, charging full tilt into the museum or galloping on Rotten Row.

Now she kept perfect time, her body graceful and her movements fluid and rhythmic.

‘You love music,’ he said.

‘I do. And you?’

For a second he could not recall her question.

‘Like music?’ she prompted. ‘My lord, if I recall, you are supposed to at least pretend to pay attention.’

‘I must take you to the opera.’

She missed a step.

Blast. And curse his operatic suggestion. In fact, he should not spend another second in the girl’s company. Already, he was behaving out of character. He’d chortled at her impudence, enjoyed an entirely inappropriate conversation about churns, baths and undergarments, and was inordinately interested in eyes of an indeterminate grey-green and a pair of quite ordinary lips. No, not really ordinary. Their shape was too fine... And she licked them delightfully when discussing a scientific principle.

He frowned.

‘You are under no duress to entertain me—or take us to the opera,’ she said with sudden stiffness, her jaw lifting and her movements turning mechanical. ‘I understand from Lady Wyburn that our evenings are extremely full.’

‘If I choose to invite you to the opera, you will go,’ he retorted, unreasonably irritated.

‘If you choose to invite me in a civil manner, I will consider your invitation.’

‘I...’ He paused.

‘You must learn to school your features, my lord. I’m sure scowling at your partner is scarcely appropriate.’

‘And you must learn the art of polite conversation.’ He glowered with greater ferocity.

‘You suggested I discuss my churn.’

‘Before I knew there were baths involved.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Only as a source of water. Much like a puddle. There can be nothing inappropriate about a puddle.’

And now he wanted to laugh. ‘I believe you might be advised to heed your sister,’ he said instead.

‘And I believe that the music has stopped, my lord.’

‘What?’

‘The music has ended,’ she repeated.

This was true and the gentlemen were already making their bows and leaving the floor with their partners.

‘Moreover, standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor might cause comment which would not, I know, be appropriate.’

Chapter Four

‘I’m glad someone hung out a moon for our special night,’ Rilla whispered hours later as she stared from the window of her sister’s bedchamber. She traced the white disc with her fingernail, the pane cool against her skin.

They had returned from the Thorntons’ ball a half hour since and Imogene lay reclining amongst the lace cushions on her bed, stretched like a contented cat.

‘Rilla, how can you talk about the moon? Did you not notice Lady Alice’s dress and her mother’s tiara? The diamonds lit up the room. Can you imagine owning such jewels? Those are the things I dream about—not moons.’

‘And I will dream of them for you. But the moon will do for me.’

‘And the gentlemen! They were most kind and made such pretty speeches. I cannot believe I was nervous earlier. Indeed, I cannot decide which I enjoyed more, the dancing or the conversation. And all the gentlemen thought me witty.’

‘With good reason, but...’ Rilla paused, turning from the window and picking up a hairbrush from the dressing table. She pushed her palm against it so that the bristles prickled her skin. ‘Do be careful. Not everyone is as nice as you suppose.’

This got Imogene’s attention. Her eyes widened and she propped herself upright. ‘Are you referring to someone in particular?’

‘Not really. Most of your partners were delightful—’

‘But?’ Imogene interrupted impatiently. ‘What is it, what do you want to say?’ Her voice took on a childish tone.

‘Well...’ Rilla tugged the brush through her hair.

‘You have some big-sisterly criticism. You disliked someone with whom I danced?’

Rilla paused. ‘Jack St John, if you must know. He was obnoxious as a child and has not improved since. Julie says he gambles and drinks.’

‘Lud, every gentleman gambles and drinks. Even Father—’

‘I know. That’s why—’ Rilla stopped, gulping back her words. Imogene knew nothing of Father’s debts. Or Lockhart’s involvement. ‘I mean, I just think you should be wary. Be polite, but—keep him at arm’s length.’

‘Goodness, I only danced with him.’

‘And joined him for lemonade.’

‘Lud, how dreadful. What should be my punishment?’ Imogene had now abandoned all lassitude and sat bolt upright, her fingers working at the lace trim of the pillowcase.

‘Don’t be foolish. I am only worried for you.’

‘Foolish? May I remind you that I have been reading the Tatler for years? It is perhaps you who are foolish with your Greeks and...and butter churn.’

‘My churn? My churn has nothing to do with this. I just wanted to warn you.’

‘I don’t need your warnings.’

‘Obviously.’ Rilla pushed her hair back from her forehead and dropped the brush with a clatter on to the dressing table.

What a mess. She should have known not to mention the matter while Imogene was both tired and excited from the ball. Likely she was still raw from that moment of nerves earlier. Besides, who was she worried for—Imogene or herself?

Imogene had not been the subject of Lockhart’s insidious comment about ‘odd tales’.

Imogene had not heard voices in the middle of a dance.

Imogene had not talked about baths or felt that peculiar, prickly, apprehensive, excited attraction to Lord Wyburn.

The silence stretched, broken only by the clock ticking and a branch tapping intermittently against the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rilla said at last. She was always the first to make peace. Her anger both came and went swiftly. ‘I’m fussing, as Mrs Marriott would say. After all, you could hardly refuse to dance with a neighbour.’

‘Thank you,’ Imogene said, still stiff, her gaze focused on the wallpaper as though much fascinated by the painted roses. ‘I certainly did not wish to give the earl any special favours. Besides you danced with Lord Alfred Thompson twice.’

‘I did,’ Rilla acknowledged, although the foppish Lord Alfred was a vastly different man than Lockhart. ‘Anyway we shouldn’t quarrel. It would be a sad way to end such a special night.’

‘True,’ Imogene smiled, looking away from the wallpaper. ‘Besides, the earl will be too busy with his own set. We will not see him much.’

‘You’re right, of course.’ Rilla stood and, blowing her sister a kiss, left for her own chamber.

But once alone, Rilla felt her body wilt with exhaustion and her spirits drop to an oppressive low.

She would feel better after a night’s rest, she thought, as she kicked off her slippers. Yet, despite exhaustion, sleep did not come. Her thoughts jumped and flitted.

There was Lockhart with his silky tones and innuendos.

And the viscount.

And her reaction to the viscount.

Worse yet, there was that soft, desperate voice and her own growing conviction that Lord Wyburn was connected to that voice.

All of which meant, she should avoid him. She should not dance with him or chat about Romans, Greeks, butter churns or any other topic for that matter.

And yet she could not stop seeing him. He was Lady Wyburn’s stepson.

Even worse, she did not think she even wanted to...

* * *

Apparently a Wyburn soirée took as much preparation as Hannibal’s invasion, minus the elephants. Shortly after the ball, Lady Wyburn had decided to follow on this success with a dinner in the girls’ honour.

‘It would be just the thing. We will invite anyone who is anyone, which is an extremely confusing phrase because really everyone is someone, at least in their own mind. Besides, we don’t want people to forget you.’

‘Highly unlikely. We drink tea with the same people every afternoon,’ Rilla said.

‘I meant the gentlemen, my dears.’

On the day of the event, the girls watched the bustling of all manner of servants and trades people. Florists trooped in, housemaids swept and polished so that lemon wax perfumed the air and Lady Wyburn rushed about, her grey ringlets dishevelled and her forehead shining with perspiration.

‘I thought the house already immaculate,’ Rilla whispered to Imogene as they looked over the banisters into the front hall.

‘Indeed, and Lady Wyburn describes this as an intimate dinner,’ Imogene added.

Heloise, the diminutive French maid in charge of their appearance, hurried up the stairway, her feet tapping against the wood with businesslike efficiency. ‘There you are. I had been looking for you, oui. Miss Imogene, I need you to try on your gown. Miss Amaryllis, perhaps you should go to your chamber. You cannot be draping yourself over banisters all day.’

‘Yes,’ said Rilla, not unwilling to leave. With any luck she might even manage a few minutes with her churn. She had asked Heloise to save her bathwater and hoped to try out a modification in the design of her trough.

Despite her evident disapproval, Heloise had followed instructions and the bathwater remained. Although, Rilla noted, grinning, Heloise had relegated the churn to a far corner, half-hidden by the curtains.

The contraption consisted of a trough which channelled water on to a waterwheel which powered the churn. She had recently altered the design of the trough, hoping that if she carved a deeper channel, the force would increase, but less volume would be required.

Taking a small knife, Rilla scraped the wood with regular, methodical motions, enjoying the rasp of metal against wood, the roughness of the grain and even its smell. She liked this tangible link with home and the concrete practicality of the task.

Both the viscount and odious Jack St John were coming tonight. Of course, she’d seen the earl every day that week—that man was an all-too-frequent visitor, lingering like the smell of fish on Fridays. Moreover, Imogene apparently found him wildly humorous, although in Rilla’s opinion he had a stolid, humourless personality.

She dug energetically into the wood.

Still, there were other gentlemen who viewed Imogene with approbation. Lord Alfred Thompson visited most days and was more intelligent and less foppish on closer acquaintance.

Yes, he might do, although Imogene didn’t seem entirely smitten.

Wyburn hadn’t visited. Indeed, Rilla had not seen him since the ball.

This was a great relief, of course, Rilla decided, digging with sudden ferocity until her knife skidded, narrowly missing her hand.

Must the man even jinx her from afar? Not that she missed him. He made her too confused and her usually prosaic nature and logical mind became impaired by his presence.

There. She gave a final cut and put down the knife.

That should work. She would test it now. She always found concentrating on her inventions a calming occupation. Balancing the trough over the waterwheel, she used the jug from her dresser to scoop up the chilled bathwater.

She watched carefully as it splashed into the trough and on to the waterwheel, which then moved slowly, causing the two paddles in the churn to also shift.

‘Mademoiselle, whatever are you doing?’ Heloise hurried into the room.

Startled, Rilla almost toppled into the bath. ‘Bother,’ she said.

‘You’re getting yourself wet.’

‘I’ll dry.’

Rilla poured a second jug of water on to the trough, angling her body so that she could see the liquid’s progress and its speed of descent.

‘I meant you should rest or do something ladylike,’ Heloise said, making a clicking sound with her tongue.

‘I find this very calming. Besides, I think it is working better.’

‘Umff. Me, I will feel calm when we have done something with that hair. We should start now. Doing your hair is a time-consuming process and it will be evening soon enough, oui?’

‘But it is early still.’

‘We need all the hours God sends. Besides, her ladyship said that the viscount, you know, Lord Wyburn, remarked that you had cleaned up remarkably well.’

‘He did?’ Rilla dropped the trough.

‘Now look at the mess. I will clean it and then no more science.’

* * *

Rilla entered Lady Wyburn’s drawing room some hours later in a low-cut emerald gown, every aspect of her appearance primped and polished by Heloise.

A fire burned in the hearth, its marble mantel smaller than anything in the Gibson household, but vastly more sophisticated.

In fact, Lady Wyburn’s entire decor was one of understated elegance. Gilt trim glittered about the ceiling, reflected in the long mirrors which lined the walls. White-and-gold sofas and chairs furnished the room, and a red Indian carpet dominated the centre.

Imogene had come down already and sat on the sofa, resplendent in a pink dress and long white gloves.

‘You look beautiful,’ Rilla said.

It was true. Since arriving in London, Imogene had matured, transforming from a beautiful girl into the elegant woman she had always wanted to be.

‘You too.’

‘Thank you. Heloise worked hard and assured me I would not disgrace her which is high praise, but...’ Rilla paused, adding, ‘I am nervous.’

‘I am sure you need not be. You have been a success to date.’

‘But at other events, there has been dancing. Here we will do little but converse and I have no idea what to talk about. I’m doomed to stand mute like a pea-goose.’

‘You’ll be fine as long as you do not mention your inventions.’

‘They’d be more interesting than the weather.’

‘Ladies do not aspire to be interesting.’

Rilla giggled. ‘I aspire only to survive the Season without tripping.’

‘Rilla—’

‘I hear something.’

Careless of her dress and hair, Rilla knelt on the sofa, pushing her head through the curtains. ‘They’re already come!’

Indeed, the first carriages had stopped in front of the house. Rilla could see their dark outlines within the puddles of yellow light cast by the street lamps.

Rain fell heavily, bouncing off both the cobbled streets and the black-lacquered roofs of crested coaches. Several of Lady Wyburn’s liveried servants carried torches and black umbrellas as they escorted the guests towards the house.

Then, something happened. The scene warped, changing and transforming.

Her breath caught. Instinctively, she clutched at the thick velvet curtain. She swallowed. Before her eyes, the street disappeared into a black lake pitted with rain. Men waded into the water. They held flickering torches, their light reflecting on the water’s ink-like surface. She could see their cloaks. She could see the thick trunks of their legs and hear the splash of water as they trudged forward.

Fear, worry and, deep in her stomach, the coldness of despair.

And lavender.

She smelled lavender.

‘Rilla?’ Strain tightened Imogene’s distant voice.

The men stooped, lifting something from the lake and Rilla felt her gaze inexorably drawn to it. ‘Please...’ she whispered, half in prayer.

Then, as if it had never been, the lake diminished and Rilla was back, once more, within the pleasant room.

Her breath escaped in whistled relief.

‘Come, girls!’ Lady Wyburn swept into the room. ‘Gracious, Rilla, whatever are you doing poking your head through the curtains? You’ll wreck your hair. It is time to greet your guests.’

‘Yes.’ Rilla stood and forced a smile.

She cast one final look through the window, but the scene presented nothing more alarming than a cobbled street on a wet night. The horses stood, stamping their hooves, steam rising from their sleek backs. Coachmen opened carriage doors, muffled under greatcoats dark with wet.

‘Rilla?’ Imogene questioned, her voice low with worry.

‘It was nothing,’ Rilla said.

These moments could not—must not—happen here in London.

* * *

Paul noted Miss Gibson’s absence almost immediately upon rejoining the ladies following dinner and port.

It wasn’t that he looked for her. In fact, he’d been trying to ignore her for the better part of the evening. Rather he appreciated something lacking, like a room without a fire or a flowerbed out of bloom.

At first he surmised she’d gone to the ladies’ retiring room, but as her absence lengthened, he wondered whether she was ill. She’d looked pale earlier. Indeed, even through dinner she’d been lacklustre and distracted, very different from the girl with the flushed cheeks that he’d seen after that wild gallop.

Lord Alfred’s absence took Paul longer to appreciate. The man was not particularly noticeable, more cravat than person. However, after a while, Paul realised he’d not seen that gentleman either for a good hour. He also recalled that Lord Alfred had hovered about both the Misses Gibson at the Thorntons’ ball and had visited Lady Wyburn’s establishment on several occasions.

Paul’s jaw tightened. A headache spread across his temples. Easing himself from his chair, he strolled from the room with forced indolence. Once in the corridor, his spine straightened and his thoughts turned bleak.

The girl was under Lady Wyburn’s protection and he refused to let her act inappropriately with Lord Alfred, or anyone else for that matter. He looked in both the morning and music rooms.

He found no one.

‘Where is Miss Gibson?’ Paul asked Merryweather as the butler entered the hall, his tray heavy with refreshments.

The man started, causing the crystal to rattle. ‘Haven’t seen her, my lord. Perhaps check the library. She likes it there.’

‘The library?’ Paul frowned.

His father had liked the library rather well, although he’d spent more time consuming alcohol than literature.

The door creaked in opening. The light was dim, broken only by a small fire and two sconces. It was only as he neared the hearth that he saw the emerald figure curled within the depths of the leather armchair.

He stopped. She must be sleeping. He softened his tread so as not to startle her. Peculiarly, she clasped a miniature in her hand and her posture seemed unnaturally rigid for one in sleep.

‘Miss Gibson?’ He touched her shoulder.

She made no response.

‘Miss Gibson?’ he said again, more loudly. Still she seemed not to hear him although her eyes were open.

He shook her shoulders, almost roughly, conscious of an unfamiliar start of fear.

She stirred.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

She blinked, staring at him as though not comprehending his words.

‘You were asleep,’ he explained.

She shifted. The miniature dropped from her hand, clattering to the floor. Bending, he picked it up. His stomach tightened as he saw the painted face. His fingers clenched against the frame.

‘What are you doing with this?’ he asked.

Chapter Five

The lake lapped at her feet. Rain stung her cheeks. She shivered, her clothing wet and clammy against her skin. Water dripped from the men’s clothes and boots as they waded to shore. A few held torches, the yellow light flickered, illuminating their grim faces, their sodden clothes and the thick trunks of their legs.

‘Miss Gibson.’

The voice came as from a great distance. She heard it but was still trapped, caught in this wet blackness broken only by the torches’ weak light.

‘Are you all right?’ She felt a touch on her shoulder.

And then the black lake disappeared and she was again in Lady Wyburn’s library, thank goodness.

‘Are you ill?’

Wyburn. She recognised the voice.

Panicked fear ballooned in her gut. Wyburn was here. He had seen her like this. He must not suspect.

‘I—am—fine,’ she said, slowly and carefully.

‘You look white. What happened?’ Worry clouded his face and a lock of hair fell across his forehead, making him appear younger and more vulnerable.

‘I—’

She’d touched the portrait.

She’d touched the miniature that he now held. She looked away. ‘I had a headache.’

‘You have been gone an hour.’

‘An hour? That is not possible—’ Her gaze went to the mantel clock. It had been five after eleven and now read midnight. ‘I must have dropped off.’

Except she hadn’t slept. Where had the last hour gone? Where had she gone? She shivered.

‘You’re cold.’

She watched as he took the shawl she had discarded, putting it about her shoulders. His fingers grazed her arm. They felt warm with a tingling roughness at the tips.

For a foolish, impulsive moment she wanted to touch them, to hold on to them.

‘I hope you’re not sickening for something?’ he said. ‘You did not look entirely well at dinner.’

‘Is that why you came looking for me?’

‘I feared your absence would cause comment.’

She nodded, her mind working again, but with pedestrian movement. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’

‘That would set a precedent.’ His lips curved just a little.

‘Absent at my own party. Hardly a forgivable offence.’

‘Particularly as not everyone may have assumed any indisposition.’ His tone hardened.

‘Pardon?’

He shrugged. ‘Lord Alfred was also absent from the room.’

‘And that is not permitted?’

‘Not if it could be presumed that you were “unwell” together.’

Rilla blinked. Anger pushed past her distress, a welcome revitalising heat. ‘And did you think that, my lord?’

‘It seemed a logical conclusion.’

The man could say the most obnoxious things without batting so much as a hooded lid. ‘Logical?’

‘I know Lord Alfred admires you. I thought his feelings might be reciprocated.’

The rage grew, pushing past the heavy-limbed lethargy, speeding her thoughts and pumping her blood. The anger was not just at Wyburn, but at herself. At this unnatural aspect of her being that came from God or the devil. She balled her hands, digging her nails into her palm with almost welcome pain.

‘I sought solitude, but not with Lord Alfred. I am no fool.’ The words came easier now.

‘I did not think you were. But I know you to be impetuous.’

‘Impetuous, not immoral.’

His face remained impassive. ‘Women do strange things for love.’

‘I do not love Lord Alfred, or anyone else for that matter.’

‘For your sake, I hope it will remain so.’ His gaze fell on the miniature. She noted shadows under his eyes and a weariness in his demeanour.

‘You do not believe in the sentiment?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’ Even as she spoke, she knew she shouldn’t, that she was stepping over a boundary.

‘Love destroys.’ He spoke flatly and sat heavily in the chair opposite, without his usual elegance.

The clock above the mantel ticked and the fire gave a sudden crackle. She twisted the fabric of her shawl about her fingers.

‘Not always,’ she said softly. ‘Our most noble deeds are done for love. It gives us the capacity for good as well as evil. One must believe that. Otherwise the world becomes hopeless...’ She stopped, biting her lip.

A thread had pulled loose and she wound it around her finger, so tight it left fine white lines across her skin.

He flashed a cynical smile. ‘I doubt the Trojan warriors would share that view.’

‘Shakespeare might. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove”.’

‘He also wrote Romeo and Juliet.’

‘Which was a tragedy because of the impediments to love, not because of love itself.’

He smiled, his expression more sad than cynical. ‘You are a romantic. But do you base these beliefs purely on the work of poets or have you real-life experience?’

The room felt still, a stillness that was tangible. Self-preservation urged her to laugh, to mock, to say something careless and witty or even foolish. Yet she could not. It was suddenly important to her that he regain hope.

‘I base them on my parents, because they were truthful and loving,’ she said at last.

‘Mine weren’t.’

The words sounded unwilling, as though drawn from him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, at once hating the triteness of the phrase.

She glanced at him. Candlelight flickered across the harsh planes of his face. He looked so sad that she reached to touch his cheek, the movement involuntary.

He jerked at her caress. She dropped her hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

‘Don’t be.’ He spoke so softly that she wondered if she’d dreamed the words.

As though handling fine porcelain, he took her hand. Her skin tingled. All thoughts, all feelings seemed centred on their two hands as he rubbed his thumb against her open palm, a feathered touch. ‘You have a quality, Miss Gibson, which makes me want to believe the impossible. That water can churn butter.’

Slowly, he lifted her hand and kissed it.

Her heart thundered and her breath quickened.

Letting go of her hand, he raised his forefinger and touched the tip of her chin, tracing the smooth line of her cheek up to her temple.

She felt the touch into the very core of her being. His fingers slid down to her throat, tracing her collarbone and touching the sleeve of her dress. The fabric shifted. His fingers pushed under it, edging it from her shoulder.

‘Paul.’ It was a whisper.

She was filled with sensations different from anything she had experienced—a warmth, a need, an exhilarating recklessness. She met his gaze. His eyes were no longer cold but smouldering as his gaze roamed over her face, her neck, her shoulders and the décolleté of her gown.

A log crackled.

With the sound, his mood shifted. He dropped his hand, jerking it away as though stung. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.’

‘I wanted—’

‘I know.’ He stood abruptly. The chair grated on the hardwood. He walked to the fireplace, his back rigid. ‘You must go back.’

‘Yes,’ she said, still dazed.

‘Miss Gibson,’ he spoke with sudden force. ‘I apologise for my behaviour. It was unpardonable.’

‘It’s no matter.’

‘Miss Gibson?’ He turned to her.

‘Yes.’

‘This will not happen again, you have my word.’

He left the room swiftly, closing the door behind him with a muted click.

Slowly, as though needing to orchestrate the movement of her limbs, Rilla rose and walked to the hearth. She felt the warmth of the fire on her legs. She gripped the mantel, glad of the feel of solid wood against her hands. In front of her, she could see her own reflection in the huge mirror which hung over the hearth.

How could she look so outwardly unchanged? And yet she was immeasurably altered. She’d wanted to kiss the viscount. She’d never wanted to kiss anyone before...ever...

Now she did.

And her body was a stranger to her, demanding things she didn’t understand and knew she could not...must not...have.

She’d known since she was a child that she should not love or marry.

This was truer now than ever, particularly with this man. Despite herself, her gaze slid to the miniature as it lay face down on the side table.

But for the first time, she had an inkling of what she must forgo.

And if she couldn’t?

If this heat...this feeling...proved too strong.

With a jerk of sudden energy, she pushed herself away from the mantel. She had to get away from here; from the miniature and from her own scared, wide-eyed reflection.

Almost violently, she pushed open the door, half running into the corridor.

‘Evening.’

The voice was cool. She jerked about, half stumbling. Jack St John lolled against a wall adjacent, smiling.

‘What are you doing here?’ she questioned.

‘I am,’ he said, taking out both handkerchief and silver snuffbox, ‘on my way to the card game.’

‘Oh—I...I wish you luck.’

‘Indeed.’ He smiled. ‘I am feeling lucky tonight.’

She watched as he took a pinch of snuff and sniffed, before carefully dabbing his nostrils with his handkerchief. ‘Prodigiously lucky, in fact.’

* * *

Rilla flung herself down beside her churn. She kicked off her slippers and pulled out the ribbons Heloise had so painstakingly twisted into her unruly hair.

The whole evening had been a nightmare from start to finish. Instinctively, she reached for the solid wood of her churn like a sailor for a life ring. She rubbed her fingers along the grain, moving the wheel so that it made a comforting thump...thump...thump.

Surely if she stayed focused on force and momentum and mathematical calculations she would be safe. Such activities had helped her in the days after Sophie’s disappearance and rescue, during her mother’s illness and her father’s gambling.

Yes, if she occupied her mind with force, gravity and momentum, her skin would no longer tingle from his touch.

Besides, she was being highly illogical to still feel that tingle. The touch had occurred hours past. It was scientifically impossible that she could retain any sensation of his fingers brushing her palm, trailing across her cheek or pushing the cloth down from her shoulder—

‘Rilla!’ Imogene’s voice came from outside of the bedchamber.

Rilla lowered the trough with a clunk.

‘Gracious! It is three a.m. Whatever are you doing—?’ Imogene stopped on the threshold.

‘Adjusting the angle of my trough.’

‘Well, stop. I have news. Did you hear that Myra Kelly and Anthony Soames are engaged?’

‘Do we know Myra Kelly or Anthony Soames?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then why would I care?’

‘Because there were rumours that Lord Alfred was dangling after her and now she is off the market.’ Stepping into the room, Imogene sat elegantly on Rilla’s white-ruffled bed.

‘Oh...’ Rilla paused, frowning at her churn. She had not known that Imogene had so much interest in Lord Alfred although he visited frequently. ‘Then that is well, I suppose.’

‘Indeed, and he said he would call tomorrow and we could all go to the park if the weather improves.’

Perhaps if he asked for Imogene’s hand, they could leave London. Yes, that would be best, although the idea left her strangely flat.

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