Praise for Sarah Elliott

‘Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit.’—bestselling author Jessica Benson

REFORMING THE RAKE

‘A fun, frothy story! Charming!’—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James

‘A deliciously sexy romance, [Elliott’s] deftly written debut will delight readers with its wonderfully endearing characters and wickedly sharp wit.’—Booklist

THE RAKE’S PROPOSAL

‘Elliott pulls in her readers from the first page and keeps them interested until the final mystery is solved. Her attention to detail and cast of characters keep the reader well entertained and eager for more.’—RT Book Reviews

‘A very well-written book with engaging characters—a joy to read.’—The Romance Readers Connection

‘Where did you learn to kiss?’

‘I…Well…’

‘It occurs to me that somehow, in between your French lessons, you neglected kissing entirely,’ he said. ‘It would be cruel of me to let you go without a lesson.’ He began walking towards her. She should have run, but instead she raised her chin, too proud to let him intimidate her.

‘Thank you, but I do not need a lesson, Mr Bentley.’

‘Oh, but I think you do.’

He reached for her at this point, but still she held her ground. His dark gaze roamed boldly over her face.

‘First we’ll have to take that ridiculous thing off your head.’

She stayed very still as he gently lifted the wig, desperately trying to ramp down the feelings churning inside her.

‘Now, that’s much better. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to kiss you?’

The Wayard Debutante
Sarah Elliott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SARAH ELLIOTT grew up in Pennsylvania and studied English at Smith College. She moved to London in 2003 and lives there still. In addition to writing, Sarah enjoys cooking, art, antiques, and classic films. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at sarah@sarahelliott.net

Previous novels by this author:

REFORMING THE RAKE

THE RAKE’S PROPOSAL

THE EARL AND THE GOVERNESS

To Meg and Stan: congratulations!

Chapter One

1 July, 1818

“You’ve always been so good, Eleanor,” Beatrice Summerson said appreciatively as her eighteen-year-old sister entered the sunny drawing room bearing a silver tea tray. “Between Ben and Helen and me it’s a mystery how you ended up so well behaved. Father thinks of you as an absolute miracle.”

“Oh, I don’t know…I’m not so good,” Eleanor replied as she laid the tray on a side table. She began organizing its contents without looking at her sister.

Beatrice cocked her head, her eyes slightly worried. “Now, now, you mustn’t protest. You’re perfect, and you couldn’t be a more agreeable guest. Charles and I are grateful to have you.”

“I hope so,” Eleanor said uncertainly. “Would you like a slice of cake, Beazie?”

Beatrice smiled, her concerns momentarily allayed by the prospect. “Well…I am eating for two at the moment.”

Eleanor cut a very large slice, and brought it to her sister, who patted the spot next to her on the yellow damask sofa. “Do have a seat, Eleanor. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Slowly, Eleanor sat. “Oh?”

“Well…I’ve been feeling rather guilty. I know it might seem that Charles and I are terribly busy and distracted with Mark, and with the new baby on the way, but I hope you don’t feel too neglected.”

Eleanor looked down at her lap. “I can entertain myself all right.” There was, she hoped, a melancholic note to her voice.

“And our household must feel very chaotic to you at the moment,” Beatrice continued apologetically. “It’s such a shame that our butler, Cummings, absconded with our downstairs maid. We’re completely disorganized as a result, and I’ve no time to hire new staff. I’m afraid it’s become a bit of a burden to you. You shouldn’t have to help out as much as you do, especially during your first season.”

Eleanor shrugged. “You’ll get a new maid soon enough. Besides, Cummings was kind enough to recommend his father.”

“Yes,” Beatrice sighed, “but while Mr. Cummings Senior is very polite and correct in his manner he’s also completely deaf.”

Eleanor frowned. “You mustn’t let him go. I’m very fond of him.” Realizing her response seemed disproportionately heated, she added, “He’s kind to me.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Eleanor? Is something the matter? You’re behaving rather strange.”

It was Eleanor’s turn to sigh. “No, no, Beazie. Everything’s fine. I’ve just been thinking about the ball this evening.”

“You’re looking forward to it, I hope.”

“I’m afraid I am not.”

Beatrice sank back in the sofa. “Nor am I. But we must do what we must do.”

“Would you like more tea?” Eleanor asked, rising.

Beatrice nodded contentedly. “You’re in an obliging mood this morning. Just a drop of milk, please.”

Eleanor poured the tea in silence, then asked hesitantly, “Would you think it the worst thing if I didn’t go tonight?”

“You’re feeling well, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not that. It’s just, you see, a friend of mine asked me to come for a visit, and I already told her I would—”

“A visit on the night of the Montagu-Dawsons’ ball?”

“Miss Pilkington won’t be going to the ball. She took ill yesterday.”

Beatrice cocked her head slightly. “Pilkington? Have you mentioned her before?”

Eleanor smiled patiently. “Yes. Jane Pilkington. I introduced you to her at the Nortons’ party two weeks ago. Surely you remember.”

Beatrice obviously remembered nothing of the sort, but she agreed nonetheless. “Oh, yes. Of course. You know how scatterbrained I can be.”

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. “I met her at the beginning of the season. She’s come all the way from Yorkshire and doesn’t think her family can afford to send her so far from home next season if she doesn’t meet her match this time. So this ball actually meant a lot to her and she’s devastated she’ll have to miss it. She needs cheering up.”

Beatrice frowned. “I understand your sentiments, but I hope her illness isn’t contagious.”

“Oh, no. It’s just a mild cold, and you know what my constitution is like. It’s her spirits, really, that suffer most. I know I should go to the ball, but I’m sure I won’t be missed in that crush.”

Beatrice shrugged. “I suppose I don’t mind if it’s just this once.”

“Must I go?” her husband, Charles Summerson, asked hopefully from the doorway.

She turned around, making a face. “Absolutely. Lady Montagu-Dawson would never forgive us if we all deserted.”

He groaned and sank down into a chair. “Doesn’t seem a bit fair. Eleanor’s the only reason we’re going in the first place.”

Eleanor sniffed resentfully. “You’ve no idea how fair—produce a sick friend yourself and then you may complain. Besides, I’m the one who’s been to some affair nearly every day for the past two months, aren’t I?”

“She’s right, Charles.” Beatrice stepped in to defend her. “Eleanor is willing to go, but she’s sacrificing her time to help her friend. You, on the other hand, haven’t an unselfish bone in your body.”

Charles regarded Eleanor with mild skepticism but didn’t comment. Beatrice turned her attention back to her sister, concern again on her face. “Are you not enjoying yourself anymore? I’m sorry, but I haven’t even asked you until today…it’s just that you always seemed so eager to have your first season and I only assumed…”

Eleanor hadn’t been enjoying her season for some time now, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Of course I’m having a good time, a splendid time. Really. I only said that because I’ve been overcommitting myself recently.”

“You’re lucky you’re staying with Charles and me rather than with Aunt Louisa—she’d have you go tonight even if you were the sick one.”

Eleanor knew that was true and said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d avoided lodging with her domineering great-aunt. “As it is Aunt Louisa hardly leaves me alone. Every time I see her she asks me why I’m not engaged yet, knowing, of course, that no one’s asked me. She called me a disappointment the last time I saw her.”

“She didn’t!” Beatrice gasped in outrage.

“She did, too—said everyone expected better things of me. I’m trying, Beatrice, really—” She broke off, allowing her lip to tremble convincingly. “I’m not like you, Bea…six proposals in your first season alone…”

Beatrice blushed. “Oh, come, now. We all know you’re trying. You deserve a night off, and it sounds as if Miss…oh…”

“Pilkington.”

“Yes. Miss Pilkington could use your company. Go right ahead.”

Eleanor suppressed the urge to crow with joy. Instead, she folded her hands demurely. “You are the best sister in the world. Jane’s sending her carriage round later and I’ll also be driven home, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“I never worry about you, Eleanor. If you were our dear sister Helen, on the other hand, I’d be worried indeed. But not you.”

“Really?” Eleanor should have been pleased her sister thought so highly of her, but instead she was rather disappointed. Being sensible and dependable was all very well, but…

For a moment they sat without speaking, the only sound provided by Beatrice finishing off her cake. Eleanor began to drum her fingers on her lap. Catching herself, she said, “Oh, my.”

“Yes?” Beatrice asked, her fork poised midair.

“The time, Bea. You’re going to be late.”

“Oh, dear. You’re right. When will I learn?” She deposited her plate on a small satinwood table and Charles helped her rise. As they walked to the door, Beatrice turned around to remark, “By the by, those items arrived from Father’s house early this afternoon. Meg brought them to your room. What on earth do you intend to do with all those clothes? They’re not suitable to wear.”

“Probably planning to rope us into more of her drawing room theatricals,” Charles suggested. “Don’t think for one moment that you’ll get me into that blond wig, Eleanor.”

She grinned, imagining her tall, handsome brother-in-law in the straw-colored woman’s wig that was a staple of her costume collection.

Beatrice just rolled her eyes. “Do try to enjoy yourself with Miss. Pilkington tonight, darling.”

“I will,” Eleanor said, following them out of the room. Indeed, she had a most marvelous evening planned—even if she couldn’t help feeling nervous.

Of course, there wasn’t any Jane Pilkington.

Eleanor started changing her clothes the moment she heard the front door close behind Beatrice and Charles. She didn’t ring for a maid to help. Her wardrobe for the evening was designed to be put on without assistance. A serviceable gray cotton dress with a simple linen collar. Sturdy black boots. The outfit had belonged to a past governess and had been moldering in her father’s attic until she’d rescued it for her costume chest last year. She’d known it would come in useful.

She examined her reflection in the mirror. She looked…passable. She pulled on the blond wig and grimaced. Each of her three siblings was blond. Tall, blond and stunning. Eleanor was quite pretty, she supposed, at least when she wasn’t standing next to one of them. Her hair was brown; she was of medium height; her eyes, at least, were a striking blue. For the time being, however, her less impressive looks were a godsend. She must not be recognized.

She removed the wig and looked away from the mirror with a sigh. I really am a disappointment, she thought as guilt settled over her. As Beatrice had said, she’d always been the good child in the Sinclair family. Ben had been a terrible rake before he’d married, while Beatrice found wedded bliss only after being thoroughly compromised first. Helen promised to be the worst of them and she was only fifteen.

But her family had always assumed that Eleanor would do her duty and wed with relative ease. If only they knew that she didn’t give a fig about getting married, not that anyone seemed interested in proposing to her, anyway. She was far too much the bluestocking, and although men seemed to enjoy her conversation, few glowed with pride to be seen in her presence.

No, the reason she’d longed for a London season was precisely what she was preparing to do tonight. She was going to the theater. It was her favorite thing in the world and had been ever since she’d seen her first play with her family in Bath at the age of nine. She’d have liked nothing more than to be a playwright herself, although that would probably never happen. She’d even like to be an actress, and that would definitely never happen…even though tonight’s performance proved she was perfectly capable.

The closest she’d ever get to these aspirations was sitting in the audience, and since she’d turned sixteen, every trip to London had included as many plays as she’d wanted, provided she could convince a family member to act as chaperone. She’d always imagined her coming-out would basically resemble these earlier trips, but now she was here and Beatrice and Charles were too busy to escort her. A London season, she was dismayed to learn, was serious business. Her life was carefully regimented, and she had little time to attend plays, not unless there was a very good reason to go. The only acceptable reason for her to go anywhere these days was that hordes of eligible men would be there. Getting married took priority.

And she was bored.

So she’d invented Jane. At first, it’d seemed a simple idea: tell Beatrice that she was visiting her dear sick friend but go to see a play instead. She’d disguise herself, and she’d probably only do it once, so what could possibly go wrong? Only now that she’d lied to her sister and dressed up in someone else’s clothes, she knew that everything could go wrong, and probably would. But she was already committed and she was excited, too. She had been well behaved her entire life, and it was about time she experienced a bit of rebellion.

She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, stuffed the wig up one of its voluminous sleeves and headed downstairs. At the bottom of the main staircase the ancient Mr. Cummings dozed fitfully. He jerked awake as she passed him.

“Good evening, Cummings.”

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair,” he responded in his reedy voice. Reluctantly, he began to rise.

“Please, don’t get up,” she chided. “I saw the Pilkingtons’ carriage approaching from my window and am perfectly capable of opening and closing the front door myself.”

“But, miss…” Despite his protests, he had already resumed his seat and showed no sign of rising again.

Eleanor was hard-pressed not to smile. “I insist, Cummings.”

“Very well, miss,” he said, nodding with gratitude, his eyelids already beginning to droop.

Eleanor walked briskly to the door before he could change his mind. Her plan would never have worked if not for Cummings. A younger butler would have insisted on accompanying her to the carriage.

And in this case, there was no carriage. This part of the plan worried her most. She would have to hire a hack. The very idea was scandalous, and she wasn’t even sure how one went about it. She glanced up and down the empty street to see if anyone was watching, pulled her hood over her head and descended the short flight of steps. She hoped she didn’t look too odd. A cloak was one thing, even a lightweight one like hers, but a hood was something else entirely. It was summer, after all.

She tried to look confident as she began to walk, hoping she wouldn’t have to go far. Luckily, the well-lined pockets of the average Belgravia resident meant that hacks wandered down even the less-traveled streets fairly frequently.

That was what she was counting on, anyway, and after a few minutes she spotted one slowly approaching, its driver scanning the street for customers. Holding her breath, she raised her arm and prayed he would stop. Miraculously, he did, and with only a slight tremor in her voice she told him her destination. He didn’t bat an eye.

He didn’t help her into the coach, either. That was a first, but she supposed she’d better get used to it. No proper young lady would dream of riding alone in a hired hack, and the fact that she’d requested one of London’s playhouses as her destination…as far as he was concerned, she wasn’t proper at all.

The hack jerked into motion and Eleanor eased back into the leather seat, feeling more relaxed. She’d just sailed over the first—and biggest—hurdle, and the rest of the evening should be trouble-free. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever feeling as independent as she did at that moment, watching the stately homes of Belgravia gradually give way to the bustle of central London.

She took the wig from her sleeve and pulled it onto her head, carefully tucking away her chestnut hair. Then she removed a small hand mirror from her reticule and examined her reflection. The face that looked back wasn’t any more interesting than it had been before, but she couldn’t help smiling. It was rather nice being a little bit bad…at least as long as luck was running in her favor.

Chapter Two

The play was supposed to begin at seven, and when the curtains hadn’t parted by half past Eleanor started to get very nervous. Lady Montagu-Dawson’s ball would last until the early hours of the morning, but Beatrice and Charles wouldn’t stay beyond midnight and might leave much earlier. If they returned home before she did…oh, it didn’t bear thinking. She couldn’t let that happen and, much as she’d dislike it, she’d have to leave the theater prematurely if the play didn’t start soon.

It didn’t help her nerves one bit that the surly driver was supposed to be waiting for her; although she’d paid him extra to do so, she didn’t have much faith in his patience or his honor. If he didn’t keep his word, she’d have to go through the ordeal of finding a hack once more.

To keep her mind occupied, she let her gaze wander over the audience around her—as best she could, anyway, without turning her head too much and attracting unwanted attention. She was aware that a few inquisitive looks had already been aimed in her direction, since even if she were a member of the lower classes, it still wouldn’t be proper for her to be there alone. She sank down in her seat, hoping to make herself less noticeable. She’d deliberately seated herself on the extreme right side of the theater where the crowd was sparse. Her view was impaired, but in the interest of avoiding eye contact and conversation it was worth it.

Theatergoing was primarily a social experience, and most people there were too involved in their own conversations to worry about her. She was becoming worried, however, about a rowdy group of young men seated in the center of the audience. Their cultured accents betrayed them as society gentlemen, and she paled at the possibility that one or two might recognize her. They were obviously drunk, and certainly beyond caring whether they made a spectacle of themselves or anyone else. A pretty orange seller made the mistake of getting too close and was pulled onto one man’s lap. She laughed good-naturedly, but Eleanor could see that she was scared and only playing along.

Lucky for the girl, the curtains parted at that moment and she was able to escape. A hush spread over the audience as the first actor walked onto the stage. The quiet didn’t last very long, but Eleanor was able to block out everything but the play. For the first time in months she was doing exactly as she pleased, and she felt gloriously liberated.

This lasted almost an hour.

At first the woman’s laughter, coming from just a few rows behind her, was like the buzz of a fly: annoying, but perfectly ignorable. But then she kept giggling, as if she had little more than a dried pea rattling around in her head. It wasn’t even a proper laugh. It was a simpering, grating titter.

Eleanor gritted her teeth. She couldn’t turn around and tell her to be quiet. Chances were the woman would respond with a few rotten cabbages that she’d brought along just in case.

A sharp squeal burst from the woman, followed by another round of giggles.

This was more than Eleanor could bear. Pulling herself up straight, she turned around with as much hauteur as she could muster. She wasn’t going to say anything, but she would make her displeasure known with a pointed, dignified look. Then she would turn back around and enjoy the rest of the play in peace.

Only it didn’t work that way. She forgot about the pointed look completely, and she even forgot to turn back around. She forgot the reason she’d turned around in the first place.

The irritating woman was there, and her gaudy dress, cut low to reveal her generous attributes, was to be expected. But beyond that Eleanor noticed nothing about her. She noticed instead the man seated next to her, and she continued to notice him even as it slowly dawned on her that she was staring. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen and she simply couldn’t help herself.

His head was bent to whisper something in the woman’s ear—she might have responded with another giggle but Eleanor was temporarily rendered deaf. His brown hair, so dark it was almost black, was fashionably cut but just a bit too long. Long enough to brush against his temples and make Eleanor’s fingers itch to do the same. Nearly everything about his features proclaimed a high birth—his faultless nose and high, chiseled cheekbones, his straight, dark brows—but his full mouth intimated nothing but sensuality. And the way his perfectly tailored blue jacket caressed his broad shoulders…

Caressed? Eleanor cringed at the choice of word, but good heavens, it was true. Something about him made her think in terms of…well, touching. How very odd. Something about him made her rather flushed, as well. She wondered if he’d be hot to the touch, if his skin would feel soft, or his hands, perhaps, lightly callused. He was again whispering something into the woman’s ear, and his lips were so close that they must have brushed against her skin. What did that feel like? She watched, enthralled, as his head dipped slightly and his lips trailed down the woman’s neck, stopping at her shoulder.

And then he turned his gaze in her direction.

Oh, dear.

She knew she should have looked away the very second their eyes collided, so why was she still staring, only now with her mouth ajar like a simpleton? Her mind told her what to do, only her body was slow to respond. It didn’t help that he was staring right back at her, looking every bit as surprised as she felt. And why shouldn’t he be? She’d been ogling him. His gaze traveled over her face as if remembering every detail, and she blushed deeply as his bemused expression gradually gave way to something far more sensuous. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from such a distance, but she could easily discern that they were dark and sinful. His lips curved appreciatively.

Her jaw snapped shut and she turned around so quickly that her head hurt. Dear God. What had she told herself? Do not look at anyone, particularly not men who look like that. Particularly not handsome rakes who seduce women in public places.

She wrinkled her nose at that last thought. Was that really what he was doing? Seducing that woman? What she would have given to be able to turn around to double-check. She’d certainly never seen such a thing before, and here was her chance to find out the precise mechanics. But she clearly couldn’t do that, no matter how curious she was. Especially since she sensed that he was still watching her. No, she couldn’t turn around. Not again, and she shouldn’t even be thinking such unchaste thoughts. What would her family think? She was Eleanor, the good, studious child, and although she’d strayed that evening she’d since learned her lesson.

All she could do was wait for the intermission. It seemed like an eternity, and she was too flustered to pay attention to the action onstage. She just counted the minutes and endeavored not to think about the wicked man behind her.

As the curtains began to close at the end of the first act, Eleanor quickly rose from her seat. She tried not to look too agitated as she walked down the aisle, her eyes trained on the floor and her heart pounding in her chest. He was still watching her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

She was the first person out the theater doors, and once into the foyer she began to run. The street outside was still busy but she had no trouble picking out her driver. In her current state he shone like a beacon.

Thank heavens she’d be home soon.

James Bentley’s office was situated on the south side of his large home. Its floor-length windows filled the room with bright sunlight, light that was gradually bleaching his mahogany furniture of its original dark sheen and endowing it with the warm and weary look of age. Shades of brown and green dominated the office, but were tempered—if one wishes to be strictly honest—by dust. The sunshine brought the dust to prominence, although this fact often went unnoticed by the occupant’s selectively unobservant male gaze. His maid, a girl of about twenty, was too scared of him to enter most days, although he couldn’t fathom why. So the dust quietly collected on the skirting boards; on the chairs and desk; and on the randomly placed piles of books, stacked three, four or five high. It was a cluttered room, but it was an intelligent clutter, a masculine clutter. It was exactly as a productive office should look.

That’s what James told himself as he regarded the room from his desk, even though his day thus far had been marked by inactivity and distraction. He’d accomplished little more than a good lunch at his club.

He rose from his seat and crossed the room to look out the window, onto the well-appointed houses that faced him from across the street. He’d been living at this address for just over a year. Just a year since he’d returned to London after twelve years away. It had been a busy time: furnishing a new home, rekindling old friendships, helping finance a friend’s business and sorting out his own neglected finances. But now the novelty and challenge of these endeavors had begun to fade. He feared he was getting bored.

That thought worried him—he’d been having it too often, and he couldn’t put his finger on the source of his discontent. He supposed taking advantage of the season’s entertainments might help. Despite his lengthy absence, he still received piles of invitations every week—to dinners and balls and every other type of social torture imaginable. And, if he ever decided that standing around in a hot room with a gaggle of silly girls whispering about him behind their hands was a pleasant way to spend an evening, then someday he just might accept one of these invitations.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and glanced at the papers scattered across his desk. He still had work to do, but it could wait until tomorrow. A brisk walk would clear his head, and besides, he was supposed to have dinner with his older brother, Will, in a few hours. William Henry Edward Stanton, now the seventh Earl of Lennox, to be exact.

James grabbed his jacket in preparation to leave, but just as he started walking to the library door it opened. His butler, Perkins, announced, “Mr. Kinsale to see you, my lord.”

Jonathon Kinsale, his best friend and now a business partner, too, was right behind him, not waiting for permission to enter. “You’re not leaving?” he asked in his mild Irish brogue.

James resignedly draped his jacket onto the back of an armchair. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but Jonathon was already helping himself to a glass of brandy. “I’m dining with my brother tonight. Thought I’d take a constitutional first.”

“Oh? And how’s Will?”

“Just returned from six months in the country. Haven’t seen him yet. Why don’t you come along? You’d be doing me a tremendous favor.”

Jonathon made himself comfortable on the worn sofa. “Why, so I can play buffer between you? No thanks. You can handle him perfectly well on your own.”

“He’s bloody persistent, though. Every time I see him, he brings up things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Like Richard.”

James shrugged. Even in the privacy of his home, with his best friend, he still didn’t want to talk about his eldest brother. “Richard is dead. He doesn’t concern me anymore.”

“Of course,” Jonathon said, obviously unconvinced.

James sat back down, wishing Jonathon wasn’t so bloody astute. But the truth was, he didn’t think Richard would ever cease to concern him.

Both Richard and William shared the same mother, but she’d died giving birth to Will. Their father, the fifth Earl of Lennox, had remarried one year later, this time to Diana Bentley, a renowned Irish beauty and his lifelong love. Unfortunately, she’d also been an actress.

James was born a year later and Will, only two at the time, had adored his little brother instantly. But Richard was another matter. He’d been eight when his father remarried, old enough to be aware of the traces of infamy that clouded James’s mother’s past. He’d despised her, and he’d hated James, too. To his sneering and slightly mad eyes, she was a lowborn whore, and her son carried her tainted blood. He’d told James this every chance he’d got. Although James hated Richard right back, these words dominated his childhood. He’d always been afraid that despite a polite facade, the rest of society felt much the same way.

Unfortunately, Richard concealed this side of his personality well, and when both parents died in a fire, no one questioned his ability to be guardian to James and Will, who were only nine and eleven. As the eldest son, Richard would control their education and incomes. He also inherited the title and the bulk of family estates until they came of age.

Will hadn’t fared too badly, but for James, the years that followed were marked by unhappiness and abuse. Will did what he could to protect his younger brother against Richard, but he, too, was just a child. James bore his brother’s cruelty as long as he could, and if only he could have borne it for a few more years he would have come into his inheritance—not a great fortune, but enough to pay his commission and become an officer in His Majesty’s service, like every other third or fourth son. Instead, he’d run away at sixteen, with only the money in his pocket. He’d slept on the side of the road for two days, but then came across a recruiting party at a public house. A red-coated captain had urged all able-bodied men present to protect their fair island from the French scourge, but what sounded most attractive to James—who’d had one pint of ale too many for his youthful head—was the promise of a clean uniform and a hot meal. At least he wouldn’t starve, and although he was presently unable to buy his commission, perhaps he could earn his place as an officer through honest hard work.

“Will just refuses to accept that I’ve created a life for myself separate from everything he values,” James said finally. “I’ve no love for titles and inherited privilege.”

“He just wants to correct past wrongs. Feels guilty because you had to struggle for so many years while his life was easy. Richard was mad.”

“Mad, yes, and not too fond of me, either. I know all this, so let’s drop the subject.”

When he’d left home, he’d thought nothing could be worse than life with Richard, but two years in the army had proved him wrong. The life of a professional soldier was a far cry from the more comfortable existence of an officer. Jonathon had been in his regiment, and they’d become friends whilst sitting in a muddy ditch trying not to be killed. It turned out that Jonathon knew several members of his mother’s family. James’s grandfather owned a Dublin theater, and Jonathon had worked there as an actor and playwright. They’d spent hours plotting ways to escape the service, but these plans became irrelevant when a Frenchman fired a bullet straight at James’s heart; Jonathon shoved him out of the way, taking the bullet himself. James would be forever grateful for this act, although by the end of the day he, too, was struck down. Wounded but alive, both were released from further duty. They’d traveled to Ireland, where Jonathon promised to introduce him to the family he’d never met.

And they’d embraced him. He’d felt for the first time in many years that he had a family. He’d even adopted his mother’s maiden name, a change that Will took issue with; his name would certainly be a topic of conversation at dinner that night. He’d stayed there for almost a decade, until news of Richard’s death arrived.

When he’d returned, Jonathon had come with him, hoping to pursue his dream of owning a London theater. He’d saved a bit of money, and James had helped him with the rest.

“You are being rather stubborn, James, I must say,” said Jonathon, unwilling to let the subject drop that easily. “Will has a point. Richard’s gone. You’ve moved back to London, you’ve claimed your inheritance. So start using your real name, too, and pretend to be respectable.”

James rose, picked up his jacket once more and headed for the library door without responding to that suggestion. “Sure you won’t come tonight?”

Jonathon reluctantly rose from his comfortable position and followed him out of the room and across the marble hall. “Theater won’t run itself. By the by, did you enjoy yourself last night?”

James’s head experienced a tiny pulse of pain at the memory. He knew exactly what Jonathon was referring to. He opened the front door with a quiet groan and stepped outside. “You witnessed my shame?”

“Kitty Budgen is rather conspicuous, I’m afraid. Laughs like a jackal.”

“A real friend would have stopped me.”

“It was too amusing to stop.”

James hadn’t intended on spending his evening with Kitty Budgen, sometime actress and notorious flirt. He’d gone to the theater merely to sign some papers and had been about to leave when he’d spotted a lone woman seated in the audience. Unaccompanied women were invariably prostitutes and not good for business, so he was going to ask her to leave. He’d been waiting for the right moment, but the longer he watched her the less convinced he became. He couldn’t see her face, but her tight, priggish hair and drab clothes didn’t correspond to a prostitute’s colorful appearance. Furthermore, she definitely wasn’t trying to solicit anyone’s attention. He’d started to lose interest, and then Kitty had come along and he’d forgotten about her altogether…

How surprised he’d been when he finally surfaced from Kitty’s charms to see the woman now turned around in her seat, staring at him with a mixture of shock and opprobrium. Any doubts he’d had about her status vanished—he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a sincere display of maidenly outrage. He couldn’t blame her, either, all things considered.

And he’d been damned shocked himself. She was remarkably pretty, a fact he would never have guessed from the back of her head. She was beautiful in a way that Kitty, with her garish clothes and painted face, could never be. He rather regretted the fact that he’d held back from approaching her. He had an idea she’d have been a far more interesting companion.

“James?”

He looked up, realizing he’d become lost in his thoughts once more.

Jonathon sighed. “I said that if I were in your position, I certainly wouldn’t be wasting my time with the likes of Miss Budgen. I’d be dancing with a different heiress every night and fathering weak-chinned, aristocratic brats. What about marriage?”

James frowned. “You’re as bad as Will. I’m not sure that any self-respecting heiress would waste her time with me, nor am I interested in the least. Now—” he paused, looking north, in the direction of Hyde Park “—I’m walking this way.”

Jonathon took the hint, but he couldn’t help calling out over his shoulder as he headed in the opposite direction, “Perhaps you should try to be interested. It might cheer you up.”

Chapter Three

Eleanor didn’t exactly know what she was doing there, seated once more in the shadowy outer edges of the theater, just two weeks after her first ordeal there. She’d anticipated spending a quiet evening at home with Beatrice and Charles as no social events had been organized. Only that had changed late in the afternoon when Charles’s mother, Lady Emma Summerson, invited them all to dinner.

“You’ll come, of course, won’t you, Eleanor?” Beatrice had asked. “The invitation is rather tardy, I know, but that’s because something novel has come up. Mrs. Parker-Branch visited Emma late this afternoon with her latest protégé in tow—she fancies herself a great patron, as you know. He’s a Florentine tenor and has agreed to sing for Emma tonight.”

Normally Eleanor would have agreed immediately, but something—she wasn’t sure what—had made her hold back. “It sounds like a late evening.”

“I suppose, but you’ve done nothing all day. It won’t be anything too formal, I promise. Say you’ll come.”

Indeed, Eleanor had meant to say just that. But when she’d opened her mouth something else came out entirely.

“Perhaps I’ll give Miss Pilkington a visit.”

A braying voice coming from the center of the audience bought her attention back to the present with a snap. Her first instinct was to turn to see what was happening, but she caught herself in time. She’d been coaching herself all night to practice restraint, only it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She’d been raised to speak her mind, not to lower her eyes demurely.

The curtains parted, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax.

Only she couldn’t, nor could she concentrate. She glanced over her shoulder to look at the rows of seats behind her, but they were still empty.

Don’t be silly, Eleanor, she chided herself as she turned her head back around. He will not be here this time. That would be too great a coincidence.

The evening’s play was As You Like It, again. She’d returned for a second viewing—not that she’d been able to see it properly the first time—and the chance that he’d also be there a second time was too slim to worry about. It was highly unlikely that she’d see him again in any context. His physical appearance might have suggested he was a gentleman, but his behavior certainly did not. She’d never seen him at any ton events before, and she would have remembered.

So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? He was no longer a threat; he was nothing more than a spine-tingling—make that very spine-tingling—memory. She wasn’t unused to attractive men, either. Her brother, Ben, was terribly good-looking and Charles, until two weeks ago, anyway, was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. But, well, that was Charles, for goodness sake. It wasn’t the same.

Eleanor closed her eyes and tried to remember the stranger’s face. Since she’d dreamed about him just the other night it wasn’t that difficult. She sank back into her seat and looked up at the plasterwork ceiling. She couldn’t help grinning. Dear God, why have you made me so depraved? His boldness had shocked and thrilled her, and all he’d done was smile at her with a little more masculine approval than she was used to. Few men had ever flirted with her; she wasn’t used to that sort of attention.

The sound of a large form easing into the seat in front of her drew her attention back to earth. That form was a very tall and spherical man.

Oh…!

She frowned at his broad back and leaned her body to one side and then to the other, trying to see around him. How dare he not only come in late but obscure her view, as well? She stared at the back of his bald head, willing him to change his seat. She certainly wasn’t going to move. In the first place—just as a matter of principle—she’d sat down before him. In the second place, however, looking for another seat would require standing up, searching about and drawing attention to herself in the process. Just when she’d been avoiding notice so well.

With an annoyed sigh, Eleanor realized she had no choice but to crane her neck.

From the comfort of his private box, James looked out over the audience. He wasn’t really paying attention since he’d already seen the play, and had actually only come along because Jonathon had invited him for a closing night drink. With each successful play, he came closer to repaying the loan, and he liked to celebrate.

His gaze faltered as it drifted across a blond head. A woman, seated on the right side of the theater. Unlike most of the audience, her face was turned toward the stage, and she appeared to be following the play with interest. She was also completely alone. He narrowed his eyes, instantly certain he’d seen her somewhere before, although he couldn’t remember where. Other than the fact that she was alone there wasn’t anything remarkable about her. Her body, what he could see of it, anyway, was slim and covered in a dreary, gray dress. Her hair was pulled into a severe knot.

He watched with amusement as she shifted her weight, apparently trying to see around the large man seated directly in front of her. If he’d been any closer, he was certain that he would have heard her huff in annoyance.

Where had he seen her before?

With a frown, he reached for Jonathon’s opera glasses. As he watched, she leaned forward once again, trying to crane her head around the impenetrable form blocking her view. He chuckled as she sat heavily back into her seat in frustration.

As if she heard him, an impossibility from that distance, she turned her head to the side quickly, almost suspiciously. He stopped laughing, his eyes on the face that was now presented to him in profile. Suddenly, he remembered.

“See anything unusual through those?” Jonathon asked, regarding him with mild interest.

“Perhaps.”

Jonathon glanced down at the audience toward the nondescript blond woman. She still fidgeted miserably. “Really?” he asked dubiously.

“Have you seen that woman before?”

Jonathon frowned. “Don’t think so…honestly can’t remember. Have you?”

He shrugged. “When I was here last…about two weeks ago. She was unaccompanied then, too.”

Jonathon sighed. “What a nuisance. Do you want to remove her, or shall I?”

James didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to throw her out, not until he’d satisfied his curiosity, anyway. He didn’t know why she so intrigued him, but he’d thought about her several times since he’d first seen her. She was quite pretty, but she definitely didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Yet he remembered a slightly different picture from before: bottomless azure eyes; flushed cheeks; full, parted lips…he hadn’t expected to see her again, and he wasn’t going to let her run away so soon this time.

With a departing nod to the still-doubtful Jonathon, he left the box, heading down the dimly lit flight of stairs to the seats below. It took only a moment to locate her, and he had to hold back another grin as he walked slowly down the aisle. If she’d been paying attention before, that was no longer the case. Her attention now seemed to be entirely focused on boring holes with her eyes into the man’s thick neck. She was so absorbed that she didn’t even notice as he took a seat directly behind her. She just exhaled loudly in frustration and craned her head once more.

James watched her for several minutes, enjoying her irritation. The act soon ended, and the man rose and walked off, presumably to stretch his legs before the second half of the play began. With a relieved sigh, she leaned back into her seat.

And he leaned forward, his lips only inches from the back of her head. In a whisper, he asked, “Why don’t you change your seat if you can’t see?”

She didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure if he’d expected her to. For an instant she looked as though she was about to jump out of her seat, but then she merely stiffened her shoulders. She was pretending not to have heard him.

He narrowed his eyes. The volume in the theater had increased as the scenery was changed, but it wasn’t that loud. She’d heard him, and it wasn’t as if she had anyone else to speak to, either. She was just sitting there, intentionally ignoring him. James wasn’t used to that sort of treatment. He slid from his seat, stepped over the row of seats in front of him, and sat down right next to her.

Eleanor kept her neck as rigid as a flagpole. She’d no idea who this beastly man was, and she certainly wouldn’t dignify his presence by looking at him. Making eye contact would only invite further liberties; better just to ignore him and hope that he’d go away. She’d rehearsed this tactic many times in her head just in case such a scenario should pass.

“Are you enjoying the play?”

She made no answer and still didn’t turn her head. Instead, she imagined what he’d look like. Pudgy. Ugly. His nose would be bulbous and lined with red veins from too much drink.

He sighed elaborately next to her, leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. In turn, she edged sideways in her own seat and tried to make herself as small as possible so she wouldn’t accidentally touch any part of him. Odious man.

“Well, you must like it, as I’ve seen you here before,” he said. His voice was deep and rich and didn’t fit the unattractive physique her mind had conjured up. “Unless, of course, you just make a habit of wandering around the less savory parts of London by yourself at night.”

She hoped he didn’t notice her eyes grow slightly wider as the meaning of his words sank in. Had he really seen her there before? Her muteness was positively killing her, but she refused to speak, hoping that if she ignored him long enough he’d get bored and leave.

But he didn’t get bored. He got impatient, and he reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging gently.

She gasped and pulled it away with a jerk. She was so outraged that she completely forgot about ignoring him and turned her entire body around to rebuke him. But the nasty words that were ready at her lips died before they were ever formed.

Oh, no.

“Hello again,” he said, his voice laced with humor.

She didn’t reply. She was still too stunned. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but there he was. Right next to her, regarding her with curiosity and waiting for her to say something. And she could think of nothing to say. Her head felt as if it had been emptied of all intelligent content and all she could do, again, was stare. She’d thought he was handsome the first time she’d seen him, but now, up close…she really shouldn’t be looking at his lips. She lifted her gaze from his mouth but instead became trapped in his eyes. Mesmerizing eyes, not dark at all as she’d previously thought, but leafy green with veins of gold and brown.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice growing softer.

She didn’t know how or when it had happened, but he’d reclaimed her hand; with his thumb, he lightly stroked her palm. If not for that fact, she surely wouldn’t have answered him. But with his hand covering hers she couldn’t think too clearly. Her voice didn’t sound quite like her own. “Eleanor.”

He cocked his head, waiting for more. His fingers drifted up her arm, across her shoulder, to trace a gentle line along her jaw.

“Surely you have more of a name than that?”

Did she? What was her name? “Um…Smith.”

“Are you newly married, Eleanor…um, Smith?”

“Why do you ask such a question, sir?” Her sense was finally returning, and she pulled her head away from his wandering hand.

He smiled, his eyes darkening wickedly. “You stumbled a bit over your name, Eleanor Smith,” he explained. “I thought perhaps it might be…new to you.”

She blushed deeply, but her voice was sharp. “I stumbled because I am unused to such rudeness.”

“I see. Are you married at all, then?”

She just glared at him before turning her head away to face the stage. She would not answer him this time. Doing so had obviously only encouraged further impertinent questions.

“I don’t believe you are married.”

She could hear the laughter in his voice and cursed him silently. She picked up the thin program she’d been given upon entry and began reading it for a second time.

“If you’re not married—and you’re not—then you must be employed.”

Still without looking at him, she gritted out, “I never said I wasn’t married.”

He chuckled. “But you’re not, of course. You’re lucky you aren’t, too…if you were, your husband would be obliged to give you a thorough spanking for coming here alone. It’s not at all proper, you know.”

Eleanor didn’t turn her head for a moment. She was too shocked, not believing he’d really said what she thought he’d just said. Spanking?

Spanking?

With the word raging in her mind, she turned on him, eyes flashing, forgetting for the moment the dangerous effect he had on her. “You, sir, are not at all proper!”

He was unfazed by her indignation. “How are you employed, did you say?”

“I did not.”

“I see. Then shall I guess?”

“I am a governess,” she answered shortly, hoping that austere and respectable occupation would change the direction of his lecherous thoughts. Scathingly, she added, “And you are…what, a professional libertine?”

She’d meant to insult him, but her remark seemed only to amuse him further. “No…I rather wish, but…” He paused, perhaps realizing he’d baited her too much. “Don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet—perhaps I should start over. I’m James Bentley.”

“Do you intend to sit here all night, Mr. Bentley?”

“Just until I figure something out,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze roaming over her face. “You see, it’s a rather odd thing that a governess should be here alone. I mean, you ought to have an untarnished reputation, oughtn’t you? You ought to be at least as proper as the brats you look after.”

Eleanor swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t come up with that particular profession. He was right. No governess would traipse off to the theater alone—not if she expected to keep her position, anyway. “It is not a crime to enjoy the theater. And I’m not employed. Currently, that is,” she blurted out. “I am looking for work.”

James leaned forward. “I can help you with that,” he said, his voice low and slightly thick.

“You can?” With his face so close to hers, she felt her train of thought begin to slip carelessly away. Her eyes wandered to his mouth. She was watching him speak, but not really attending to what he said.

“You’ve overlooked one crucial point, Miss Smith. You’re far too pretty to be a governess. No one will ever hire you.”

“No?” Her voice sounded small and faint.

He shook his head. “Afraid not. But I’d be happy to employ you.”

She blinked, not understanding at first what he meant. But when the meaning of his words slowly became clear, all the anger and embarrassment she’d felt that evening came back to her in one large dose. She opened her mouth to retort, but she had no insult to equal the one he’d just dealt her. So instead she said nothing and rose. He didn’t try to stop her as she pushed past him. What a fool she’d been. She knew he was watching her, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was leaving the building, finding her hack, and getting home as soon as possible. With her head down, she picked up her pace.

And then the next thing she knew she’d crashed into a large, solid object. It was the man who’d been sitting in front of her, the one who’d started her disastrous night off on such a sour note. She glared up at him. He was coming back to his seat for the second act, but unfortunately, he seemed to have had several pints of ale in the interim. He wasted no time latching his fat hands on to her shoulders.

“Well, ’ullo. What’s the ’urry, luv?” he slurred. She backed away from him quickly, but she tripped on the hem of her dress as she did so. With a startled cry, she fell backward.

She should have hit the floor, and she braced her body for the inevitable pain, but it didn’t come. She found herself instead being held by a pair of strong arms. She didn’t have to look behind her to know to whom they belonged. She went rigid, trying to ignore the unfamiliar sensation that washed over her, a feeling of both helplessness and safety, of anger and, most frightening of all, of thrilling pleasure. She took a deep, steadying breath and regarded the large man in front of her. Although she couldn’t see it from her position, something in Mr. Bentley’s expression—that handsome face that had been laughing and mocking her until just a moment ago—must have told him to retreat. Any menace the man had possessed was now replaced by an almost comic apprehension, and he nodded apologetically as he backed away. She shivered, wondering if Mr. Bentley really could be dangerous if provoked.

He turned her around in his arms and looked down at her face with concern. “Are you all right?”

She nodded shakily and tried to straighten. He was too close, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. Heavens, he was tall. She hadn’t noticed when he’d been sitting.

He brushed a finger across her cheek, and she realized he was wiping away a tear. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been crying. There was something…almost tender in his expression, something truly apologetic for having upset her. It only lasted a second—perhaps she’d even imagined it—but it sent a shock of uncertainty through her body. Was he to be her friend or her foe? At that moment it wasn’t clear which. One minute he was arrogant and insulting, and the next he was protecting her from harm. A tiny inexplicable part of her wanted to bury her head in his arms, even though prudence told her to kick him in the shins and run.

He was still holding her, still looking down at her face. She couldn’t look away. His head dipped and she was certain he was going to kiss her; it felt inevitable, like a force she was powerless to stop and didn’t want to stop, anyway. She’d never been kissed before and she didn’t know what to do. She closed her eyes and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Miss Smith?”

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her questioningly and holding up a long, chestnut-colored curl. With a startled intake of breath, she reached her hand up to feel her wig. It had slipped to the side just slightly, probably when she’d run into that man. He reached out his hand, too, and she stepped away quickly, concerned that he was going to pull it off.

They faced each other. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew how she felt: nervous. There was no telling how he would react to this discovery. He might be angry, or feel deceived. He’d obviously be suspicious. But instead all that emerged from his guarded expression was…the same look of intense curiosity that she’d seen on his face several times that evening.

“You’re a bit of a puzzle, aren’t you, Smith?” he said, taking a step forward and stopping when only a few inches separated them. “But I’m afraid I’d rather like to figure you out.” His head dipped slightly again, only this time to whisper, “I was going to kiss you a moment ago. Unless you want that to happen you’d better run.”

She still wasn’t at all clearheaded, but for the first time that night she had no trouble making a decision and acting upon it. She took him at his word and turned and fled. She didn’t look back.

And James didn’t follow. He would have liked to, but he could tell from her expression that he’d frightened her. He just watched her dash up the aisle, long enough for her to disappear through the doors. Then he sat down on the closest seat, not yet ready to return to his box. Jonathon had doubtless observed the whole encounter and would be waiting to rib him. Normally James would have no problem handling his jokes, but for some reason this situation was different. He felt…disappointment at her leaving, and regret that he was the one responsible for her departure. It was an odd sensation since he didn’t even know her. She remained a mystery, and he’d stupidly frightened her off for good. He believed that she was exactly what she claimed to be: a governess who, for whatever reason, simply liked a bit of Shakespeare. Nothing wrong with that. It was actually rather endearing. Like a lot of governesses, she probably had no family and therefore no chaperone. So why, having determined that she was not a doxy trolling the theater, had he treated her like one?

The answer was pretty obvious. Because, in the short time he’d spent with her, she’d intrigued him more than any woman he could remember. Because she had the most remarkable eyes, and a face that was both sensual and intelligent, a rare combination. Because he did want to kiss her. Because he knew, whether she knew it or not, that she’d wanted him to kiss her, too.

The curtains parted for the next act and he sighed. He didn’t really want to sit through the play once more. He rose, but as he stepped into the aisle something caught his attention: a reticule, abandoned on the floor. She must have dropped it. He bent over to pick it up, noting that it was made of cream silk and embroidered with birds and flowers. It was obviously expensive. Perhaps it wasn’t hers after all…

He didn’t mean to snoop, but there was only one way to find out. He opened it, looking for some clue. It contained a long piece of frayed blue ribbon, a small leather-bound volume of the plays of William Wycherley, a mirror and several coins.

It also contained an invitation: to The Right Honorable Marchioness of Pelham, 5 Belgrave Square.

Now who was that?

Chapter Four

It was a perfect morning for a walk in the park. The sun shone softly through the trees, dappling the path with light, and a mild breeze gently teased Eleanor’s hair, loosening it from the knot at her nape. She carried her scratchy straw hat in her hand, at least for the time being. Eventually, Louisa would notice and insist she put it on once more.

Right now, though, Louisa was about ten paces ahead of her and gaining distance with every step. Beatrice walked stiffly by her side. They’d been arguing until just a few minutes ago, although Eleanor had been unable to hear what about. It hardly mattered, since Louisa picked fights just for fun. Beatrice had made a few murmurs of appeasement but now, knowing her efforts were pointless, had given up in favor of stony silence. Eleanor was thankful that her sister had come along, although she would have preferred to be alone with her. They hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in ages, and could hardly do so with Louisa listening in. Beatrice tended to understand her better than anyone else, and not that long ago, she’d also been a reluctant debutante. She’d have some words of encouragement or advice. And good heavens, did Eleanor need it, at least if she was going to survive the rest of the season. Of course, she couldn’t confess everything that was on her mind: James Bentley, no matter the impression he’d left on her, was simply out of the question.

For the moment, though, their conversation would have to wait. She hummed quietly, letting herself be lulled into daydreams by the satisfying crunch of her kidskin boots hitting the gravel path. She allowed herself to lag even farther behind and began to imagine herself away from Hyde Park, away from the stifling governance of spinster aunts, uncomfortable hats and tight stays. There was so much more to life than her petty existence. She had a mind of her own; she had interests that had nothing to do with finding a suitable husband and producing suitable children. What was all the fuss about getting married, anyway?

And why did the only man to excite her have to be distinctly unsuitable? What on earth did that say about her taste? Granted, he was handsome. Granted, he had wanted to kiss her, and that was certainly a novel experience. No one else had wanted to kiss her before; all the young men she’d met so far only wanted to kiss Lady Arabella Stuart or Lucinda Cator, the season’s two Most Desirables.

“Eleanor!”

She looked up with a small jerk, anticipating the reprimand that Louisa’s sharp tone promised. Louisa and Beatrice had halted several paces ahead, but were now standing, waiting for her to catch up. Both women looked annoyed.

“How many times must I say your name? And where is your hat?” Louisa demanded. She squinted directly into the sun, which made her look even crosser than normal.

Eleanor immediately began to rearrange her hat and walked briskly to reach them. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I wasn’t attending. Is something the matter?”

“I asked, Eleanor, why your sister denies having received an invitation to my dinner next week.”

Eleanor thought carefully before answering, not having the faintest idea how this question pertained to her. Both Louisa and Beatrice were staring at her impatiently. Hoping for a clue, she said slowly, “I didn’t know you were holding a dinner, Auntie. I’m afraid I haven’t put it in my diary.”

“You’re not invited. It’s for married ladies only. What have you done with the invitation?”

Eleanor wasn’t prepared for this interrogation, not right now, not when her mind had so recently been indulging in far more pleasurable thoughts. What did they want from her? “But I thought I wasn’t invited. Why would I have the invitation?”

Beatrice sighed at her continued confusion. “You aren’t invited, Eleanor. Louisa insists she gave you the invitation to pass on to me several days ago, but I never received it. Did you forget?”

“I knew I should have entrusted it to my footman,” Louisa added resentfully before Eleanor could reply. “But your sister was at my house for a visit, anyway, Beatrice, so I gave it to her instead. Useless girl. I repeat, Eleanor, where is the invitation now?”

Eleanor had gone pale as the memory came back. She knew where the invitation was, or at least where it had been when she’d parted ways with it. It had been in her reticule, along with other useful things like money to pay her driver. Luckily, she knew where Beatrice’s housekeeper kept a small supply of funds for day-to-day sundries, so she’d been able to pay him on arrival. But given the events of that evening, the invitation had been insignificant enough to slip from her mind entirely.

Louisa was still looking at her, waiting for an answer that she didn’t actually have. She certainly couldn’t admit that she’d left the invitation at the theater when she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. All she could do was be vague, but that would only send her aunt into a greater rage.

“It is possible I lost it, Auntie.”

“It is possible? Did you or did you not?” Her nostrils flared slightly.

Vagueness wasn’t working, so she tried bluntness instead. “Well, I don’t know where it is now. So I suppose that means I did lose it. Yes.”

Beatrice sighed deeply. “It no longer matters, Aunt Louisa. I never received it, and I’ve made other plans. Just this morning I told Lucy that I’d spend the day with her.”

Louisa shook her head. “You will have to change your plans. Your sister-in-law will understand.”

“I can’t just change my plans. I made a promise.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor said, quietly but sincerely, hoping that her apology would placate her aunt enough so that they could change the subject.

“Your apology is noted, Eleanor, but not particularly helpful at this stage. I must have even numbers. Who ever heard of seating thirteen around the dinner table?”

“Well, I am sorry, Auntie.”

“Thirteen! It’s preposterous.”

Eleanor bit her lip, not wanting to retort. But she hadn’t slept well the night before and didn’t have her usual patience for her aunt’s histrionics. “Don’t you think ‘preposterous’ might be a bit strong?”

“What?” Louisa spluttered.

“It is hardly a crisis. No one will even notice.”

Louisa’s mouth opened and closed a few times, fishlike, before she could speak. “I…I am not accustomed to this impudence from you, Eleanor. Where does this boldness come from?”

Eleanor refused to answer her. She was sick of being treated like a child. She crossed her arms and stared back stubbornly.

Louisa’s gray eyes narrowed. Still looking at Eleanor, she said, “Beatrice, I am going home. We will finish our discussion there. I do not approve of flippant girls.”

And with a curt nod, she turned and marched off.

Beatrice shook her head as she watched her walk away. “Why did you provoke her, Eleanor? She’s going to be in one of her sulks for the rest of the day, and I’m the one who’ll have to talk her out of it.”

“It’s not as if I meant to lose your invitation. I hate the way she talks to me, and I can’t let her do it forever.”

“You won’t think that when she decides you’re becoming undisciplined and need to stay with her instead of Charles and me. I know it was an accident, Eleanor, but you’ve been terribly absentminded. Louisa has apparently been planning this dinner for many weeks. You weren’t very sympathetic.”

Eleanor wished she could explain why she’d responded as she had, but she couldn’t tell Beatrice how she’d really lost the invitation. Hopefully, she said, “You’d rather spend the day with Lucy, anyway. Perhaps I did you a favor.”

“That is not for your carelessness to decide.”

She flinched. Beatrice had never spoken to her so sharply before.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly.

Beatrice flushed with guilty embarrassment. “You needn’t apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Forgive me.”

“If you forgive me. I haven’t been myself…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yes, well, one’s first season will have that effect.” Beatrice looked up the path, where Louisa’s rigid figure was gradually growing smaller. “I have to go now if I’m to catch up. Don’t worry about Aunt Louisa. I’ll calm her down. Come home soon.”

Eleanor watched her sister move hurriedly off. She walked over to the nearest bench and sat down, feeling wretched. She’d never stood up to Louisa before, and she’d hardly ever fought with Beatrice. What did it take to please everyone? Perfect obedience? Perhaps her taste of independence had made her bold. At any rate, her reinforced backbone didn’t seem to be going over at all well.

Who was she?

James was growing more confused by the minute, and to make matters worse he was beginning to feel rather absurd, as well. He’d been following her, after all, for half an hour now. He’d first seen her when she’d emerged from the stuccoed portico of number five Belgrave Square, preceded by the two stately creatures who’d just left her stranded. Finally alone, she was sitting forlornly on a bench. And he was standing behind a tree, looking, no doubt, like a complete fool. He’d ducked behind the tree when her companions had turned around to remonstrate with her. Now that they’d both left he supposed he could emerge, only he still didn’t know what to say to her.

His intention had been merely to return her reticule, and it was a matter of pure coincidence that he’d arrived at the house just as she was on her way out. He hadn’t even been certain that it did belong to her, as he could come up with no explanation for why she’d be carrying around someone else’s invitation, or for why a governess would own such an expensive item. As he’d mulled the possibilities over in his head it had even occurred to him, albeit briefly, that she might actually be the Right Honorable lady herself. She certainly talked like a marchioness. But he quickly discounted that thought: she was too obviously innocent to be married. Some rudimentary detective work, carried out the day before—well, he’d just asked William—had revealed that the Marchioness of Pelham was tall, blond and visibly pregnant. She could only be the woman he’d just seen Eleanor talking to.

If she was an Eleanor at all. Perhaps she was a Jane, or a Maria. He still didn’t know why she’d be carrying the marchioness’s invitation, nor could he explain why she looked so different today. It wasn’t just that the horrible blond wig had been replaced by her own rather nice, sleek brown hair. She wasn’t dressed as she had been before, either. She didn’t look like a governess.

But the way those women had been bossing her about, not to mention the way she’d been walking ten paces behind them, suggested they didn’t regard her as an equal. He hadn’t heard most of their words, but it was obvious they were taking her to task for something. Words like impudence, carelessness and useless had a way of carrying.

So, again, who was she?

He began walking in her direction, his hands in his pockets. He hoped he looked nonchalant, but he didn’t feel that way at all. Although he kept telling himself that he had the upper hand, with both age and experience on his side, it didn’t change the fact that he was starting to feel like an untried schoolboy. He didn’t exactly have a plan, and there was a very real risk that she’d bolt the moment she saw him.

Luckily, that didn’t happen. She noticed him just before he reached her, but although her eyes registered surprise she didn’t so much as start. Perhaps her mind was too busy with other matters for her to react quickly; he thought he detected a fleeting trace of sadness in her expression, although it vanished before he could be sure. As he halted in front of her, her expression became masked. She straightened warily in her seat, as if preparing herself to spring at the slightest sign of impropriety.

James hadn’t assumed she’d make things easy, and clearly she wasn’t going to dash his expectations. He suppressed a sigh of frustration. “Miss Smith. What a pleasant surprise.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just continued to stare levelly back at him, allowing no indication of her feelings to enter her face. But inwardly, she was reeling. How was this possible? Was she dreaming him up…every detail down to his disheveled hair and gold watch chain? Was he as much a figment as Jane Pilkington?

No, no. Be reasonable, Eleanor. He is real, and he is dangerous. Find a way to leave, and do it quickly.

Only instead of following her mind’s advice by nodding a curt goodbye and departing immediately, she responded with a question of her own. She was too bewildered to do otherwise. “What are you doing here?”

James raised an eyebrow at the accusation in her tone, but her suspicion was perfectly justified. He probably should answer her question honestly and immediately by removing her belongings from his jacket’s inner pocket, but he thought it would be unwise to reveal his hand so soon. Better to pretend he was equally surprised by this meeting.

“I always walk in the park at this time of day…live quite close by, in fact. And you, Miss Smith? I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

“I rarely walk in the park,” she lied. She often walked in the park, but would now obviously have to change that habit. Blast him. Furtively, she glanced up and down the path. An elderly couple, some distance off, was strolling in their direction. They were hardly a threat, but what if someone she knew came along? What if she should be seen talking to him? She had to leave, and if he tried to stop her she’d…

Probably expire on the spot, but she’d worry about that later.

She rose. “Do enjoy the sunshine, Mr. Bentley. I wish you a good day.” But as she took her first step, he moved to the side to block her.

“Not so fast, Smith. I’m starting to think you’re following me. You’ll have to explain yourself first.”

Eleanor glared at that absurd suggestion. Speaking quietly through clenched teeth, she ordered, “Move out of my way, Mr. Bentley, or I will scream.”

He arched an amused eyebrow, almost daring her to make good on her offer. After a few seconds he asked, “Well? I’m waiting.”

She opened her mouth slightly, but not a scream, or even a peep came out. Her cheeks suffused with color. Of course she wouldn’t do it; she had no desire for public humiliation. The horrible man had called her bluff.

And he knew it, too. He looked altogether too smug.

“You grow tedious, Mr. Bentley,” she said finally. “Have you no one else to bother?”

“Not when you’ve so unexpectedly improved my morning. Who were those women?”

Surprised by the sudden change of topic, she blinked in confusion. “Which women?”

“The ones speaking to you. The stern gray one and the blond one who stayed behind with you for a minute. Do you work for the younger one?”

A sudden wave of dizziness forced her back down on the bench. This was very bad news indeed. He’d seen her family, and finding out her identity and theirs was just a short step away. Work for Beatrice? What exactly had she told him? Oh, yes. Eleanor Smith: governess.

“I look after her two-year-old son.” She didn’t feel at all confident as she told this falsehood, but hoped he would believe it since she resembled neither her sister nor her aunt.

He let his eyes wander down her body and then back up. “Dresses you rather well, doesn’t she?”

She stiffened under his disconcerting gaze. “I simply benefit from her castoffs. She is very generous. I…I just have her clothes altered to fit me. This dress is two seasons old.”

He nodded slowly. “And as she appears to be enceinte, presumably in a few months you will have another charge.”

“Yes. I can hardly wait.”

“And how long have you worked for her?”

She felt as if she was being quizzed under oath, only she didn’t have any answers to give since every word she uttered was spur-of-the-moment perjury. “Not very long.”

“Two days ago you said you were looking for work.”

“Yes, well, I lied.” She had no trouble coming up with that answer—it was the first bit of truth she’d spoken since they began this ludicrous conversation, and the words came out easily. But, oh God, now she’d have to explain why she’d lied…

He sat down on the other side of the bench. He was looking at her skeptically. “It’s not nice to tell falsehoods, Miss Smith.”

“I don’t care,” she said defiantly. “Why should I have told you the truth?” She didn’t exactly know how she’d explain herself out of this mess, but desperation helped the words to flow, as did the fact that he was too close to her and she really needed to leave. “I believe it was you, sir, who pointed out how improper it was for a governess to be at the theater alone. I simply didn’t want you to know who my employer was, so I told you I had none. But now you’ve found me out. You may tell her if you like.” She sincerely hoped he wouldn’t take her up on this challenge, and she was relieved by his answer. He even looked a tiny bit contrite.

“I have no desire for you to lose your position.”

She rose again, this time determined to leave. “Now, you will forgive me, but I really must go. She will wonder what has kept me.”

He rose, too. “I’ll walk with you.”

His words caused a swirl of unfamiliar sensation deep down in her stomach, but she tried to ignore it. “That won’t be necessary.” She started walking briskly, but he paid no heed to her refusal and began walking with her.

She stopped and turned on him. “What do you want, sir?”

It was a reasonable question, and he wasn’t even sure of the answer himself. He could hardly confess that he wanted to kiss her, that he wanted to take her home with him and keep her there until he grew bored. She was completely adorable, especially when her cheeks filled with color and she looked as though she was ready to stomp her foot in irritation. He certainly wasn’t ready to see the last of her.

“I have a confession to make, Miss Smith. Thought you’d want to hear it before you left.”

She was extremely curious to hear it, but it didn’t matter. As much as he infuriated her, his was the most thrilling company she’d ever experienced and her self-possession was vanishing fast. “I don’t care.”

But before she could turn away, he reached into his pocket and removed her reticule. He held it out to her. “My confession is that I didn’t just stumble upon you. I found this after you left the theater…there was an invitation inside, addressed to your mistress. I was on my way to return it, but you were leaving the house just as I arrived.”

She took the reticule from his hand, but just looked at it dumbly. Slowly, she started walking again, trying to digest this new set of facts. He knew where she lived. How disastrous. What if he should seek her out there? Or change his mind and decide to tell Beatrice after all?

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. She didn’t actually think he’d do either. In the first place, he had no reason to go to the trouble of seeking her out, not when he was handsome enough to have his pick of beautiful women. And second, she didn’t really think he’d tell Beatrice. Doing so would be deliberately cruel. But then again, he’d already proved he was capable of a certain amount of underhandedness in order to get what he wanted.

She needed a strategy, and provoking him further would obviously get her nowhere.

She stopped walking and turned to face him. He stopped, too, and waited.

She swallowed nervously, and then spoke. “I’m sorry if I’ve been rude to you this morning. I mean, you deserve it, but nevertheless it is remiss of me not to thank you. For rescuing me from that horrid man the other night. And for returning this. The invitation inside is very important.”

James smiled, and her heart fluttered. “Don’t thank me too soon.”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, ‘too soon’?”

He began to walk forward again and, unaware of what she was doing, she followed his cue and began walking with him. “Well,” he said slowly, “I have another proposition to make.”

“What kind of proposition?” Eleanor asked. She quickly amended her words, however, realizing that she probably didn’t want to know the answer. “Actually, you don’t need to tell me.”

“I assure you it’s nothing sinister, Miss Smith. Do you always think such base thoughts?”

“Base thoughts!”

He stopped once more, leaning this time against a tall oak tree. “Yes. It’s a perfectly innocent proposition and you won’t even let me begin. It’s precisely what happened when I tried to make the same proposition at the theater—you misunderstood me badly, you know, and maligned my character in the process. Instead of waiting to hear what I had to offer, you dashed off like a scared deer.”

She bristled at the comparison. “Do you refer to your gallant offer of employment? As you now know, I’ve no need of work.”

“Shall I tell you what my offer was? Or would you prefer to go on thinking the worst of me?”

She glanced over her shoulder suspiciously. They’d entered one of the more secluded parts of the park, and she hadn’t realized it until then. “I’m not remotely interested,” she said, but she made no move to leave. She leaned in slightly.

James smiled. “Yes, I can see you’re not at all interested. You enjoy the theater very much, don’t you?”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“It’s obvious you’ll go to great lengths to attend.”

“That’s not true,” she lied stubbornly. “I like it no more than most.”

He sighed. “Then explain your ridiculous disguise and your multiple deceptions. You know you’d lose your situation if your employer ever learned of your outings, but you’re willing to take the risk anyway.”

“Yes, well, I have decided I won’t be doing so any longer. Too risky, as you’ve just pointed out.”

He moved a step closer. “You could go, if you wanted to. You could go if you were with me.”

She countered by taking a step back, unable to think clearly when he stood so close. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“But it is. I hold a very large share of that theater, you see. I’m one of its owners, and if you were with me I could provide you with better protection than you have now, sitting alone in the audience. As your last experience showed, you need protection.”

Eleanor just stared at him for a good five seconds as she attempted to make sense of his words. She felt rather sick. How could this be possible? She’d wondered how she’d been unlucky enough to encounter him there twice, and he owned the theater. She was a fool.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” she said, her voice weak.

“Look, Miss Smith, you needn’t act so maidenly about this. It’s a simple business proposition. We both have something to gain.”

“I fail to see what either of us would gain.”

“We both require the other’s company.”

“I do not require your company, sir, and you can go alone.”

“Of course I can go alone. I don’t have to go at all—I helped finance the theater, but I have little to do with its day-to-day running. But I’ve been thinking of late that I ought to take a more active role, and I would do so more readily if I had someone pleasant to sit next to on a regular basis. Make it feel less like work, don’t you think?”

It was outrageous. Jeopardize her reputation so he wouldn’t be bored? “Get someone else to sit next to you—you didn’t seem to have any difficulty finding companionship before.”

He smiled. “Perhaps. But it is a problem finding someone intelligent enough…I must admit to being a bit of a philistine, Miss Smith, and I need someone to help me understand the plays properly. Someone who’ll have something improving to say at the end. Someone like a…governess.”

Her heart was pounding so loudly that he must have heard it, but somehow she managed to sound calm. “You’re a bit old for a governess, sir, but I wish you luck in your search. I must go.”

She turned away, but he caught her hand. He was beginning to look impatient. “What I’m really trying to do is help you. Will you accept my help?”

“How on earth would this help me? Please don’t tell me you’re concerned about my welfare.”

“Well, I am. You need a chaperone.”

“And you think you’re qualified?”

He frowned at her sarcastic tone. He was making everything up as he went along, but it all sounded like good sense to his ears. He’d almost convinced himself that his motives were benign, so why wouldn’t she believe him? “Maybe not in the conventional sense, but it’s not safe for you to go alone. People make certain assumptions about women who do such things. You are aware of that, aren’t you? If you step foot in a theater alone, everyone there will assume you are a woman of easy virtue.”

She turned pink. She’d known respectable women never attended the theater alone, but she hadn’t actually taken the time to consider why that was so. She’d thought it was just another of society’s conventions.

“I already told you, I won’t be going again.”

“But you’ll want to.” He still held her hand, and the light, warm pressure was beginning to make her feel dizzy. He stepped closer again, and his voice dropped an octave. “Give me an answer, Eleanor. I know I haven’t behaved like a perfect gentleman to you, and this is my only way of making up for it. Let me help you. A new play starts next week. Come with me. I promise you’ll enjoy it. I even promise I’ll behave. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

She knew she should refuse; that was the only sane thing to do. But his voice was gentle and cajoling, and his leafy eyes had grown dark. She wanted nothing more than to acquiesce. She was thinking about kissing again, thinking about how close his face was to hers. He was right: she would want to go again, and he was offering her the chance.

She knew she should refuse. That’s what any sensible, gently raised young lady would do. But the tedium of being a sensible young lady had been doing her in for many weeks now. There really was much more to life.

“I can’t come. It’s too difficult to get out of the house without being detected.”

He sensed her resolve was fading. “You must have a night off.”

She shook her head.

He rolled his eyes. “This habit you have of lying…everyone has a night off. Tell me when yours is.”

This couldn’t be happening to her. He was asking her to sneak away and meet him secretly. She wasn’t supposed to do that sort of thing, but here she was, actually contemplating it. She knew she shouldn’t…but why shouldn’t she? There were so many rules she had to follow, and she hadn’t invented a single one herself. Besides, what if he should reveal her secret? Thanks to that invitation, he knew where she lived and he knew who her relatives were. Her voice was small and uncertain. “Wednesday?”

He seemed surprised that she’d actually provided him with an answer. “Wednesday? Shall we meet then, next week?”

She was already shaking her head vigorously, wanting to take everything back. She hadn’t agreed to anything. “I…I don’t know my answer yet. I will think about it, but I can’t make any promises.”

“I’ll send my carriage. There will be no risk at all.”

“I will not be alone in a carriage with you!”

“Oh, for…I won’t be in it. I’ll meet you at the theater, so you’ll be perfectly alone. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“It will never work. You cannot send your carriage to my house. I could never explain such a thing to my mistress.”

He frowned. Of course his carriage couldn’t simply arrive at the doorstep to whisk the governess away for an evening of dubious entertainments. But he also knew that if he left transportation up to her she’d never come. “I don’t think you’ll have to explain yourself, but if anyone asks, say you’re visiting an elderly relative. My maid goes somewhere every Tuesday night and I haven’t the faintest idea where, nor do I care. She can do what she likes during her own time. No one will miss you.”

Except she wasn’t a servant, and she would be missed. “I don’t know…”

“Six o’clock,” he said, his voice quiet and brooking no argument. Eleanor looked into his eyes and knew he’d won. How had it happened? Everything had moved too quickly, and she just couldn’t keep up. And now he was standing so close to her, his head bent toward hers and his changeable eyes meeting her gaze. He still held her hand, and the gentle, almost imperceptible caress of his thumb made her shiver.

He really was going to kiss her this time; she was sure of it. But he didn’t, not on the lips or cheek, anyway. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it softly, never taking his gaze from hers.

“I believe you have somewhere to go, Miss Smith, so I will bid you good day. Don’t make my driver wait, or he’ll come find you.”

As he walked away, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. What had she allowed herself to be talked into?

Chapter Five

Six o’clock had come and gone, and Eleanor still wasn’t ready. She couldn’t find her gloves, and in light of James Bentley’s disturbing habit of grabbing her hand at unexpected moments, they would be an indispensable part of her armor. She’d practically turned her bedroom inside out looking for them. Where were they? And where, for that matter, was he? If he was coming, he was late.

She walked over to her window and looked out onto the square; it was the sixth time she’d done so in as many minutes. Perhaps he might not come at all. That was a reassuring possibility. His promise may have been nothing more than an empty threat meant to scare her. Perhaps he’d met some other hapless girl in the week since she’d seen him and had forgotten all about her.

But just in case he hadn’t…where were her gloves? She was ready in every other way: gray dress, blond wig concealed in the folds of her cloak. The carriage might arrive at any second, and it wouldn’t do at all for her to keep it waiting. What if James’s driver really did come to the door looking for her? She didn’t particularly care to put that threat to the test, even if Beatrice and Charles had already gone out for the evening and wouldn’t be there to witness anything. In fact, she was supposed to be with them, and at that moment she desperately wished she’d never requested permission to visit Miss Pilkington instead.

She moved away from the window and sat on her bed, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember everything she’d done that day and hoping for some clue as to her gloves’ whereabouts: ate breakfast, wrote to her father, bought a new hat, returned home and read a book in the sitting room…

Right. Sitting room. She’d look there.

She dashed out her bedroom door and down the front staircase. She slowed as she reached the bottom, giving the hall a cursory glance. Cummings, not surprisingly, seemed to have gone on an extended break once Beatrice and Charles had left and was not to be seen. She exhaled slowly with relief as yet another obstacle disappeared and threw open the sitting room door. She immediately spotted her gloves, in a crumpled heap on a Pembroke table on the other side of the room.

But she took only one step into the room before stumbling to a halt. It was already occupied. Charles was leaning back comfortably on the sofa, a rumpled newspaper spread out in his lap.

She backed up immediately, so that only her head and shoulders poked around the door. He’d be sure to wonder why she was wearing her cloak.

As it was, he was already looking at her curiously. “Eleanor? Is something wrong?”

She didn’t answer right away. Why was he still there? She’d said goodbye to them over an hour ago, but now Charles was back, looking as though he had no immediate plans to go anywhere. Although he was still in evening dress, he’d loosened his cravat and removed his shoes.

Trying not to sound anxious, she said, “I’m fine. Why are you not at the Dalrymples’ ball?”

He smiled rather smugly. “I’ve been granted a reprieve. Your sister felt unwell, and we returned home before we’d even got out of the carriage. She’s resting upstairs. You might bring her some tea since we’re short staffed. Do it m’self, but she blames me for her queasiness.”

“I’m afraid I have to leave.”

He frowned. “Why are you hovering in the doorway?”

“I…I’m visiting Miss Pilkington tonight, remember? Her carriage has just arrived and I don’t have time to talk.” Eleanor hardly looked at him as she answered. Her eye was drawn to the large south window, the one that faced the street. It was true: a carriage had just pulled up in front of the house, only it didn’t belong to Jane. It was quite a grand one—although not ostentatious—and it definitely wasn’t the sort of carriage a humble governess would take to meet her relatives. James seemed not to have worried about such details.

However, from Charles’s perspective it seemed perfectly natural that one of Eleanor’s friends should own such a smart contraption. “Oh, yes. Has she improved?”

“She’s convalescing slowly.”

“Don’t know how you manage to avoid your social duties, Eleanor. Thought Louisa would’ve forced you to go tonight.”

She shrugged noncommittally, hoping to mask her annoyance. What a time for him to start feeling expansive. “Bea’s very sympathetic. She knows what it’s like to be in my position, and she never told Louisa that I wouldn’t be going. But, Charles, I really must leave. I don’t want to keep her driver waiting.”

“I’ll walk you to the carriage,” he offered. “Cummings seems to have vanished into the ether again.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “What ridiculous ceremony! There’s absolutely no need for you or for Cummings. The carriage is right outside and I can walk to it perfectly well on my own. Besides, you haven’t any shoes.”

He looked down at his feet, realizing she was right. But when he looked back up at her, Eleanor was afraid she saw a tiny hint of suspicion in his eyes. Was it her imagination or had they narrowed just a tiny bit?

Luckily, though, she was saved by Beatrice’s lady’s maid, Meg, who walked briskly passed her into the room. Like all good lady’s maids, she was a snob, but she gave Eleanor’s unseasonable outfit nothing more than an unconscious look of disapproval before going straight to Charles. She appeared anxious, but Eleanor was unable to hear her whispered words. Beatrice obviously needed something, and for a blessed moment, Eleanor no longer mattered.

“Charles, I’m sorry, but I really must go. Give Bea my love.”

He nodded distractedly and waved her away, his concern now entirely focused on his wife’s condition. Eleanor crept out the door.

Eleanor’s deep blush began the moment James’s driver greeted her politely and helped her into the carriage, and lasted the whole way to the theater. Now, sitting in the parked carriage and waiting for the driver to open her door, she began to feel ill. And where was James? A large crowd had formed in front of the theater, and for all his promises of chaperonage, he was nowhere in sight.

She closed her eyes and slid back into her seat, allowing her head to fall back despondently. The whole situation still didn’t seem real to her; perhaps she’d wake up in bed any minute now, having dreamed the whole thing. It wasn’t her fault that she was there, considering he’d pretty much blackmailed her. If she hadn’t complied with him, he might have told Beatrice, and that would have meant that she’d be shipped back to her father’s house in disgrace or, even worse, that she’d be forced to spend the rest of the season with Louisa. She’d had no choice but to do as he told her.

She opened her eyes and sighed, knowing perfectly well that she was making excuses. She could have refused, if she’d really wanted to. It was just that a tiny bit of her wanted to be there, despite her nervousness. She wasn’t afraid of James, strictly speaking, even if she was afraid of the way he made her feel. But she could control her feelings for one night, right? What could he do to her in a crowded theater, anyway? She should be perfectly safe, as long as no one recognized her, and as long as she didn’t do anything stupid like talking to him or looking at him unless absolutely necessary.

And if he tried to kiss her again, well…it wouldn’t kill her, would it?

She closed her eyes miserably. She could not succumb to such reasoning or she’d really be doomed.

When she opened her eyes, the door was ajar and James was looking in. In the dim light he seemed positively sinful. His white cravat made him appear even darker, and the wind had tousled his hair. She wondered dumbly if he’d walked there. And she was staring. Again.

Why, oh why…

“Is everything all right, Miss Smith?”

She realized with a renewed blush that she was practically reclining in her seat, and she pulled herself up quickly to restore her composure.

“I…I was just getting bored of waiting. You’re late, Mr. Bentley.” She didn’t mean to scold, but she was so embarrassed she couldn’t seem to help it.

He smiled rather ruefully, and her heartbeat quickened. “Have you been longing for my company?”

“Like I’ve been longing for measles.”

“I do apologize. Shall we go inside?” He held out his arm to help her from the carriage.

Her mind was now clear enough for her to be wary of his chivalry. “I can alight unassisted, thank you.”

He shrugged. “If it pleases you.”

It was actually a rather difficult feat to climb from a carriage in long skirts without help, or to do so gracefully, anyway. By the time Eleanor had reached the pavement, she could plainly see that he was biting back laughter.

“Do I amuse you, Mr. Bentley?”

“Not at all. Will you be warm enough?” He waited for her answer, but her stubborn eyes told him it wouldn’t be forthcoming. He gave up. “Right, take my arm.” It was an order.

She looked at his arm, and then she looked at the large, jostling crowd gathered by the theater’s doors. She swallowed, gingerly placed her hand on his sleeve and pretended that doing so made her feel nothing. And they started to walk, left, right, left, right. She concentrated on her feet so as not to think about his arm. They’d nearly reached the entrance.

If only she’d been concentrating on what was happening around her, rather than keeping her gaze fixed on the ground, then she would have seen the scuffle that began between two men, just behind her right shoulder. She would have stepped out of the way before they crashed into her.

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