The dance she never dared to dream of…

One year after a carriage accident killed her parents and left her seriously injured, Lavinia Montgomery has finally learnt to walk again – just in time to make her societal debut. Yet while the beautiful debutante’s body may have healed, she hides a broken heart.

Before her injury, Lavinia had exchanged letters with a man she knew to be the love of her life – despite never having set eyes on him. But when she feared she’d be crippled for life, she made the heart-rending decision to let him go…

Randolph James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, is betrothed, but cannot forget the words he once received from a woman whose name he knew, but who he never had the chance to meet. So when, at a ball, his dance partner is introduced, he can’t believe his luck. One thing is certain: if this really is his debutante, he won’t lose her a second time…

Also by Anabelle Bryant

Three Regency Rogues

To Love a Wicked Scoundrel

Duke of Darkness

The Midnight Rake

Regency Charms

Defying the Earl

Undone By His Kiss

Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

His Forbidden Debutante

Anabelle Bryant

www.CarinaUK.com

ANABELLE BRYANT

began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel; especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running, and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle has earned her Master’s Degree and is pursuing her Doctorate Degree in education. She proudly owns her addiction to French fries and stationery supplies, as well as her frightening ineptitude with technology. A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking with her fans. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com.

The final book in a series carries with it expectation and emotion. Readers want a satisfying completion to the journey and as much as I’ve enjoyed writing the Regency Charms series, I’m emotional to see it end and pleased I’ve accomplished all this story needs to be. I’m a little in love with the hero. I hope you find him equally as romantic.

Thank you readers – for spending time with my characters, for emailing, messaging and letting me know how much you like this series and most of all, for loving books and historical romance!

Thank you to my fabulous editors, Clio and Nicky. Your insight is brilliant.

Happy Reading!

It is said that the right pair of shoes can help you conquer the world…

This book is dedicated to anyone who battles fear -- Fear of the unknown, fear of letting go of the past, fear of love and most of all, fear of finding their happily ever after. The first step is the hardest but from there it’s just a matter of walking on.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

Prologue

‘Over ‘ere.’ Hawkins’ impatient words broke across the night air, a well-timed command to mingle with the felonious commerce abounding in the King Street rookery. Southampton was a far cry from London but distance did little to dampen the prosperity of prostitutes, street sellers and thieves. Hawkins, no exception, an adept smuggler in particular, waited for an answer.

‘Aye.’ Gulliver’s blunt reply joined the darkness beneath a dilapidated awning, the wood rotted away to leave a skeletal frame of exposed gutter and drain, a discernible landmark in the moonlight even for a low-cunning simpleton like Gulliver Booth, a petty criminal with unremarkable intelligence.

‘‘Ave you got the ready?’ Hawkins retreated until his shoulders brushed the dirt-besmeared bricks of the squalid lodging house in guarantee his identity remained cloaked. Gulliver knew him from past business, but while uppers would dare not make eye contact with the seedy sort found in the rookery, the inhabitants who lined the decaying foundations and blind alleys possessed the innate ability to observe all with a flick of the eyes. Information was sold for coin, no loyalty existed. Aware he could meld no further, Hawkins watched Gulliver pull a face as if his question had insulted the thief’s reputation.

‘O’course, Gov, ‘ere it is.’ A shadow of an arm thrust a pale paper forward, the moonlight a poor lamp to judge whether or not the content proved authentic: detailed instructions to their next smuggling operation. As with most thieves, time was the enemy, and Hawkins had no choice but to trust his associate. The notion soured his stomach like loathsome rot; still he pushed the paper into his pocket and whistled his dismissal, the sharp sound common among the noisy colony of illicit dwellers.

Then the two men parted, the plan begun.

Chapter One

Lavinia Montgomery paused in front of the rectangular pier glass, keen focus at her feet where her maid tied the delicate ankle ribbons of the slippers in question before moving aside to provide a clear reflection. Lavinia angled her right foot with a sigh of sublime satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Dinah.’ Smiling at her maid, she glanced over her shoulder to confer with Esme, her friend and fellow conspirator in fashion, at least within the walls of Lott’s Majestic Shoe Shop. The ladies frequented the establishment often and were tended with the most preferential service, which elevated the experience from delightful to grand, and ensured they would visit again soon.

‘I adore them. They’re perfect.’ Lavinia – Livie to her friends – slanted the heel and examined the orchid silk where swirls of pristine embroidery patterned a miniature fleur-de-lis in black satin thread. ‘I’ve never seen such clever design. I must have them.’

‘You claimed the very same last Tuesday when you tried the brown cordwain half-boots and then again on Thursday when you purchased the ivory silk slippers with satin rosettes,’ Esme reminded her with melodic amusement.

‘I did, I know. At that time, I’d never seen such fine detail, but these…’ – she wiggled her toe in a flurry to emphasise her declaration – ‘…are too exquisite to ignore.’

With a nod, Dinah scrambled to gather the box, deftly intercepted by Mr Horne, the shoemaker and shopkeeper, who beamed with a perceptive glint in his eyes in anticipation of the expensive purchase.

Esme sidled closer, her whispered comment for Livie’s ear only. ‘You own nearly seventy pair.’

The note of alarm in her friend’s voice provoked Livie’s quick smile. ‘Bite your tongue – that’s a barefaced exaggeration. Last time I counted I had fifty-two and no more.’

‘When was the last time you counted? I’d wager it’s been some time. Boxing Day, perhaps?’

‘Don’t trifle with details, Esme. No one enjoys the company of a know-it-all.’ With a dismissive swish of skirts, Livie bent to untie the ribbons and return the coveted shoes to the box. She had every intention of bringing them home, her friend’s disapproval dismissed as easily as she righted her spectacles. ‘Besides, if I knew the exact number of pairs, it would be proof I didn’t have nearly enough.’

‘Your sister will not be pleased. Wilhelmina will insist the last thing you need is another set of slippers. She already complains you have too many, which you do.’ Esme’s provocative objection rose with emphatic declaration.

‘You’re supposed to be my ally. Have I ever commented on your obsession with earbobs? Even once?’ She pinned her friend with an accusatory stare and tapped a fingertip against the elegant gold swirl dangling from Esme’s left lobe before gathering her reticule from a nearby chair. ‘My sister has no eye for fashion, wrapped tightly in a blanket of practicality. How easily she forgets she’s married to an earl and can afford the most opulent wardrobe.’

‘Especially when you remind her so often. I suppose she reflects on your past more than the present.’ The conversation took a decided turn.

‘Oh, I do as well. Be assured.’ Livie glanced at her feet as her teeth hemmed across her lower lip in contemplation of a dozen serious thoughts in the expanse of one exhale. ‘How could I not?’ The question needed no answer, the emotion in her voice adequate explanation. ‘I spent over a year staring at my feet, willing them to support my legs and cooperate so I might walk again, relearn to dance and ride, and experience life without pain. I’ve made every promise and said every prayer, if only to secure my future and stand strong as a debutante. I’ll forever reward my feet with new shoes. It’s the least I can do to repay the debt.’ She paused and managed half a smile. ‘I shall celebrate my accomplishment with silks and satins, ribbons and gemstones. So much time has already been wasted.’

‘I agree. You’ve worked inordinately hard to land on your feet. Shoes and boots are a fitting resolution.’ Disarmed, Esme strove to restore the convivial mood. ‘Don’t forget your sister is planning for you the grandest come-out London has ever seen. Imagine the slippers you’ll wear that evening.’

‘You make a fine point. Wilhelmina is a wonderful sister.’ There was no denying how much their lives had improved since her sister’s marriage and, deep in her heart, Livie knew Wilhelmina’s concerns were rooted in love. She held her brother-in-law in high esteem as well, but at times, when she sought to assert herself and begin life again, she experienced a fair amount of conflict between loyalty to family and loyalty to self. She moved towards the shopkeeper’s counter, her petite maid hovering in the background at the ready to accept the package. ‘Besides, I won’t purchase another pair after these. At least not for a good long time.’

Esme’s unconvinced giggle chased the words. ‘Now we need to devote our attention to a more important problem – smuggling the shoes into Kirby Park and up into your bedchamber.’

Livie canted her head towards Dinah, a quiet shadow to their conversation. ‘I have that matter under control, although storage has become an issue of late.’

‘Again?’ Esme dared another giggle. ‘With every trunk and closet in your bedchamber filled to near overflowing, you must have advanced your collection to the bathtub, or perhaps you’ve removed a few floorboards and stacked boxes beneath the planks in the sitting room. Do tell. Wherever have you hidden your secret obsession?’

Livie rolled her eyes in dramatic response. ‘Of course it’s not as bad as all that, but the shelves in my dressing room are brimming over and I’ve packed tight the space below my mattress. It has been a challenge.’ Her face expressed pure muddlement. ‘I suppose I could stack a few boxes under the architrave soffit near the window seat.’

‘Truly?’ Esme hardly completed the word before a jingle of the bell at the door drew their attention across the otherwise empty shop. ‘It would appear you are managing, then…’ The end of her sentence trailed off.

A well-uniformed footman entered, his livery pale blue and smoke grey, the brass buttons on his coat a-shine in stiff competition with the gleam of his polished black boots. He strode to the shopkeeper who had busied himself wrapping Livie’s purchase, and enquired after a special order, the ladies observing all the while. Livie’s right brow climbed higher with each passing word of the exchange, though she couldn’t hear what the conversation detailed.

Mr Horne pushed Livie’s shoebox aside and retrieved two similar-sized packages from below the counter, a broad grin offered to the servant in waiting. These boxes were joined by several others until no less than eight comparable parcels littered the countertop.

‘Who do you suppose he represents?’ Livie questioned in a not-so-soft voice over her right shoulder where her friend stood with rapt attention. ‘I’ve never seen the colours before.’

‘Nor have I.’ Esme slanted a glance at the footman in assessment of his uniform. ‘Perhaps a princess has come to town, one who adores fine slippers.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Livie blinked rapidly and cleared her focus. ‘Well, I hope this doesn’t take much longer. I need to return home and Mr Horne has abandoned my package in deference to this interruption.’ Her whisper evolved into a low-voiced complaint. ‘I despair leaving my purchase behind. The slippers are an ideal match for my aubergine redingote, but I cannot wait much longer.’

‘Mr Horne would be every kind of fool to lose your loyal business when your purchases pay his rent.’ Esme added an emphatic nod.

‘Now is not the time for teasing, Esme.’ The gentle chastisement exposed a fair degree of concern.

Perhaps their conversation carried, for Mr Horne concluded the exchange with the footman, piling several boxes in the servant’s arms before returning his attention to where the ladies waited. He may have noted Livie’s expression of desperate impatience as he quickly nabbed the closest box from the counter and presented it with a broad grin. ‘Miss Montgomery, I will put these on account, of course. I apologise for the unexpected interruption.’

‘I do understand.’ The compliant reply contained a smidgen of dishonesty.

Dinah stepped forward to accept the package, her short, cropped curls bouncing with the effort, and the ladies left the shop swiftly, a question of eager curiosity lingering in their wake.

Randolph James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, stroked the single-edged razor across his right cheek, removing the night’s growth of whiskers with one fluid pass. His valet, Strickler, a kind, intelligent man and excellent manservant, would have preferred to perform the duty, but Penwick, having come to the title unexpectedly a scant eighteen months prior, chose to keep some deeds as close to his former life as possible. Much had changed in a short span of time and comfort was found in the mundane routines of his past.

Wiping his face clean of shaving soap, he applied cologne, a fragrance of spicy bergamot and cashmere, and turned his attention to the toothbrush and mint powder lying in wait on the towel-draped washstand. Fastidious with personal hygiene, he allowed his valet to assist with wardrobe only, otherwise not enjoying the fussy ministrations other titled gentlemen considered their privilege. Again, past practice dictated his comfort. He had no need for Makassar oil or pomatum, and combed his short-clipped wavy hair away from his face before he stepped from the mirror. Noting the time, he turned as Strickler entered his bedchambers.

‘I’ve seen to the fire and your daily schedule, milord. Your body-linen is arranged on the clothing horse in your dressing room, pressed and brushed. I will strop your razor with your permission and replace the hot water for your attendance after your wardrobe is complete.’

‘Very good.’ Penwick nodded his approval. ‘Inform me of my appointments while I prepare for the day.’ Strickler had attended his position for over a year now, yet the formal distinction between servant and employer was drawn with a broad stroke. Penwick didn’t know whether he’d rather it any different, again out of depth with the fresh title. A few of his comrades established a casual ease as they instructed staff or managed their valet, yet he remained conflicted. In truth, he had no need of a personal valet and considered the upper-class affectation perpetuated to invigorate one’s self-importance, a trait Penwick didn’t possess and would not acquire. With frank honesty, what he needed was a sincere friend.

‘Yes, milord.’ Strickler scurried to open the door to the inner chamber where a pristine wardrobe was organised and displayed within the shelves and closets. Waistcoats, overcoats and linen shirts hung from hangers, as neatly ordered as soldiers in formation. Trousers and breeches flanked the far wall. In the centre of the room stood a large mahogany top chest where several drawers patiently held smalls, stockings and cravats. Footwear of every necessity, Hessians, Wellingtons, Jack boots and court shoes, lined the lower shelf of the room’s perimeter. Strickler immediately arranged the wardrobe, aware but never questioning the one drawer of the bureau which remained locked at all times. Penwick kept the only key.

‘This will do.’ Penwick shed the towel around his waist and donned smalls before accepting the fresh linen shirt offered, the fasteners at the cuff time-consuming, the silence awkward. High-waisted breeches followed, the fall buttoned to the band, before he donned a waistcoat embellished with elegant sage-green embroidery. Atop this came his tailcoat with pale grey facings and then a stock, followed by a cravat that Strickler worked with swift efficiency to tie into a stylish knot. Penwick held no favour for bows or ruffles, the trappings of required clothing already an unfavourable portion of his morning. Layer after layer was added, disguising the man he once was, and embellishing the earl he’d now become.

‘Will you wear tall boots, milord, or do you prefer the white-topped Hessians?’ Strickler had already made the fashionable choice and carried the Hessians as he returned to the chair without confirmation. Perhaps his valet anticipated he’d capitulate to the fashion recommendation without complaint. The realisation didn’t sit right, but with little concern for which boots to select, Penwick took the chair and accepted the footwear. He’d done everything as he should and followed politesse to the letter, sparing no expense. As a result, he felt as trussed as a dinner goose at St Michaelmas.

‘My schedule?’

‘Yes, milord. You have appointments through late afternoon. Following breakfast, Lord Chelsney is expected at the stables. After which you’ve allotted time for fencing practice, a bath and change of clothes. Lunch with the Lending Library Foundation at two, your weekly dance lesson at four and then off to the jeweller’s where you are to choose your betrothed’s wedding ring.’ Strickler paused, an encouraging smile slanting his slim lips upward before he reclaimed a noncommittal, austere demeanor.

An unwelcome ill-ease ran through Penwick at the latter statement. How ridiculous. He’d chosen his bride particularly, selected her with the utmost care from his list of suitable marriage candidates, observed her in society, conversed with her on numerous occasions and, at last, convinced himself she would suit. With the wedding in less than a fortnight, he’d need to overcome this odd reaction to thoughts of marriage. Claire deserved better.

It wasn’t as if he’d never considered the institution. True, he’d foreseen his future with a different outcome, but his plans had fallen apart unexpectedly; a story as common as a lost letter in the post or a broken heart. His eyes slid to the brass lock on the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, all at once anxious to be left in private.

‘That will be all, Strickler.’ Penwick accepted the pocket watch and guard chain the manservant held in his gloved palm, the wait for his valet to leave a moment too long. Then he turned the key in the lock and slid the drawer open to reveal a tightly bound packet of letters, the papers well creased and wrinkled from countless handlings, the pages a potent addiction.

Guilt was quick to put a dampener his actions. He should be rid of the letters. Cast them into the fire or drown them in the Thames. Cleanse all memory of the words and promises that scarred his heart, and end his dependency on the impossible.

But he couldn’t.

The realisation he possessed this weakness weighed heavily on his soul. How could he enter into marriage, a sacred union built on honesty and trust, when his truest emotions, love, devotion, passion, lay tied with a ribbon hidden in his wardrobe? How could he betray his intended and compromise his own integrity? With the deepest reverence, he respected his betrothed. She presented a kind smile and clever intelligence. He’d encountered not one poor word in reference to her reputation or family. Still, despite earnest effort, he’d collected no tender emotion.

He cleared his throat as if the action would somehow rid him of the reality of his choices. He had a duty, a new station to uphold. He would marry. He would propagate and carry on with the most congenial of relationships. Ardent affection could develop were he to allow it the opportunity. This was the truth and the lie he told himself daily while enduring the ritual of overdressing required of his station.

He slammed the drawer closed and locked it before he could change his mind. He would not read a letter this morning. He had a long, happy future to look towards and the letters did not signify.

Chapter Two

Dearest, I cannot allow you to speak poorly of your dance ability. You are, no doubt, a swan in the ballroom, a rose among weeds, delicate, graceful and captivating. I long to waltz with you, hold you in my arms and circle the floor, proud and honoured to be offered the boon. One day we will waltz. You have my word.

Livie allowed a gentle smile, the remembrance of Randolph’s words bittersweet, the letter in her lap dated over a year ago. At the time, she had believed his vow to be no more than a fairy-tale wish made by a kind gentleman who knew her solely through correspondence, never having seen or conversed with her in person. Yet as their exchanges grew in frequency, through weeks and months, emotion became more important than probability. Their conversations evolved into lively banter, two friends who hinted at more, a man and woman who’d met under the most unlikely of circumstances and forged a relationship by letter writing.

How she looked forward to his heartfelt missives, their discussions exploring every subject imaginable, no topic off limits or too mundane. Perhaps it was the act of committing the words to paper and sending them into the post that freed her from inhibition. She shared fears and aspirations, goals and accomplishments. The anticipation of his reply kept her counting the days and mentally listing all the new questions and comments she longed to include in her next message.

Together they spoke with refreshing candour and frank honesty, which led to a natural progression of sentimental affection and, though they never confessed it, feelings of love. An undercurrent of adoration and devotion laced their final letters, hinting at what might be were one to take that final step, to wish hard enough and plan a meeting. She clenched her eyes closed against the onslaught of emotion she worked so hard to ignore.

Because Fate had intervened.

She’d never foreseen the accident or impairment that interrupted her life, crushing her dreams along with her legs.

She inhaled, holding the breath until her lungs hurt to prove she was alive and in control, then folded the letter with care and returned it to the wrinkled pile kept in a small rosewood box on her dresser. How odd so much time had passed and the memories of Randolph’s words remained vivid, as if they’d conversed only yesterday. Unwilling to consider her loss any longer, she turned away, that segment of her life beyond her now. Too much time had passed. She needed to look towards a bright new future.

She would master the steps of every waltz, cotillion and quadrille, her ability more polished with each lesson. She would embrace her come-out, her sister’s zealous plans and effort not going to waste, and she would pursue a congenial place in society.

All in all, if one couldn’t have eternal love, one could have shoes… many, many pairs of lovely, fanciful shoes. Shoes represented freedom and choice, the ability to move forward and stand tall. The distraction prompted a smile and she spied the brown wrapped box she’d snuck upstairs and hid under the coverlet at the foot of her bed. Strategically placed pillows helped to obscure them somewhat, though the situation was only temporary.

She closed the door and turned the lock before peeling away the brown wrapping, her anxious fingers fumbling with the lid as she finally opened the carton.

What was this? Where were the orchid silk slippers with matching ribbons and delicate embroidered embellishment?

With haste she upended the box and dumped the contents atop the mattress as if another pair of shoes lay hidden beneath the plain black walking boots she’d discovered within.

But no, nothing except a small burlap pouch, as unattractive as the leather boots, slid into view when she examined the contents. Disappointment rippled through her, yet she couldn’t complain when she should never have made the purchase in the first place.

For no other reason than curiosity, she lifted the pouch and pulled loose the drawstring at the top, spilling the contents into her cupped palm. A pair of bow-shaped shoe clips captured the afternoon sunlight slanting through the window and glistened with blinding clarity. The clips were encrusted with a multitude of large, clear stones that could only be some type of glass crystal, for were they real diamonds, their size and cut would have been enough to secure wealth beyond imagination.

Not sure what to do, she raised the adornment towards the window where it caught a kaleidoscope of colour in every gleam and glimmer, the faceted reflections waltzing along the far wall. Perhaps the clips were worth salvaging from the entire mistaken-shoe incident. She’d never seen such sparkling beauty and owned several pair of slippers that would showcase the embellishment at parties or formal social functions. They twinkled in her palm with a bold wink, as if to assure her the secret confidence remained safe. She didn’t have time to consider it further as her sister’s voice echoed in the hall.

‘Livie, are you home?’

‘Yes.’ Livie yanked the coverlet over the boots, box and wrapping, shoved the shoe clips into her skirt pocket and unlocked the door a breath before Wilhelmina breezed into the room.

‘Perfect. We need to decide on decorations for your come-out. Have you chosen any colours in particular? I thought a pale shade of blue would complement nicely, or pink and lavender.’

‘Pink for certain, but we need to elevate the décor. I would hate for anyone to equate my gathering with a young girl’s birthday celebration, jejune and ordinary.’

‘How true.’ Wilhelmina’s expression changed to one of discomfort, her eyes flicking around the bedchamber as if searching for a place to rest. ‘While I have your attention, there’s something else we need to discuss.’

‘Really?’ Livie looked towards the coverlet, relieved no evidence showed.

‘Dash mentioned you’ve overspent your allowance again. The bill from the shoemaker this month exceeded last month’s, and while I truly understand your desire for fancy shoes to accompany your new-found freedom, I had little defence for your behaviour. My husband took me to task and what could I say? You couldn’t possibly need another pair…’ Wilhelmina’s faltering comments trailed off in a whisper.

‘Oh, dear.’ Livie reached for her sister’s hand, pulling her closer in hope of erasing the concerned frown on her face. Wilhelmina worried, Dash grumbled, and here Livie hid yet another pair of shoes, albeit the wrong ones, under the quilt at the foot of the bed. She needed to reorder her priorities and practise a bit more common sense. Hadn’t Esme warned her? ‘I’m sorry. I’ll do much better. I know my debut is a tremendous undertaking and with Kirby Park’s complete renovation and your recent wedding celebration, it’s selfish of me to continually overspend, most especially when additional footwear is unnecessary.’ The contrite apology matched her sincere expression.

‘Oh, Dash wasn’t terribly bothered and all is right, I assure you, but he did bring the matter to my attention.’ Wilhelmina smiled. ‘Aunt Kate and I have worried about you for so long. I suppose much as you rediscover freedom, we must allow you room to manage your independence.’

Wilhelmina led them to the bed where they took a seat and Livie paid particular attention to the hidden box, willing it to stay put despite the movement on the mattress.

‘You’ve been through a horrible ordeal and regaining your ability to walk and move freely is the greatest gift, a true cause for celebration. I understand,’ Wilhelmina continued. ‘Still, you couldn’t possibly wear all the slippers you’ve accumulated. Promise me you’ll focus on your dance lessons and party plans more than the newest designs at Lott’s.’

‘I will.’ Livie squeezed her sister’s hand tightly. ‘I promise not to go near the store and practise more mindful spending. I won’t even window-shop for fear of temptation,’ she added with commitment.

‘Thank you.’ Wilhelmina released Livie’s hand and offered a quick embrace. ‘There are so many exciting moments within reach. We have to choose your gown and decide on flowers, the menu and musicians. Your debut will be the grandest London has ever seen. I do love you so. I know I shall cry as you have your first dance.’

They sat in silence, their thoughts likely equalled in review of their shared history: a carriage accident Wilhelmina believed she’d caused, one that had claimed their parents’ lives and crippled Livie. The accident had resulted in over a year’s worth of therapy and hard work to see Livie’s legs strong and useful again, additional money worries, and then Wilhelmina’s marriage to the Earl of Dashwood and their relocation to Kirby Park, his country estate. The result had been fortuitous, her sister finding the man of her heart, but the path to true love had contained several ruts and detours, bringing them to this moment when Livie would finally celebrate her debut.

‘All this talk of dance reminds me I should get ready for my lesson.’ Livie broke the quiet, anxious to let go of the disconsolate memories and focus on what was to come. ‘I’ll think about this conversation during the entire ride to London.’

‘I’ve no doubt.’ Wilhelmina rose from the bed and headed towards the door. ‘If only your instructor could come to Kirby Park, but when you hire the best, sometimes you have to make a sacrifice. I would assume Monsieur Bournon’s services are in great demand in the city.’

‘I don’t mind travelling to Monarch Hall. Dinah is delightful company and I’m learning the most wonderful techniques. It requires a great amount of practice to appear light on one’s feet.’ She tapped her toe forward as if to begin a dance.

Wilhelmina answered that comment with a little laugh. ‘I agree. I’m anxious to hear all about your progress at dinner this evening.’

With her sister gone, Livie scrambled to reassemble the box and boots, cramming the package under the chair near the washstand and arranging a quilt in unceremonious fashion across the top until she could hurry back to Lott’s and return the mistaken purchase. She never should have made the secret jaunt to the shoemaker’s in the first place and now she’d have to do the same to return the unwanted pair, despite having promised Wilhelmina the opposite. The store was situated in Paddington, on the outskirts of the city, and having travelled there this morning, it seemed foolish to ride past the same area without taking the shoes with her. But she’d never have time to accomplish her waltzing instruction, carry the package to the south side of London and return home before dinner. The errand was best left for another day.

Until then she’d need to make ready for her lesson. Monsieur did not appreciate it when she arrived late and no excuse seemed satisfactory in the dance master’s opinion.

Penwick advanced upon his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Jonathan Allington, and let loose a hearty chuckle as the assault was countered with razor-sharp accuracy, the clipped slice of his foil echoing in the empty hall, no point earned. They’d already been at it too long, tired and sweated through, but neither man would relinquish the challenge despite practising their fencing to hone skill, not resolve differences.

‘You should admit defeat and bow out gracefully. I won’t tell a soul your advanced age of thirty-two years has brought on an inconvenient fatigue, impairing your ability.’ Penwick flashed a devious smile, pleased by the proposition of sharing the jest.

‘You should mind your own business.’ Allington passed forward, his blade fast to counter the parry, the tip of his sword just missing the side of Penwick’s shoulder. ‘And you should invest in my father’s mines or, at the least, admit the opportunity intrigues you. Diamonds are lucrative, valuable and a gentleman’s wisest investment, especially in consideration of your new status.’ Again he lunged. ‘I will continue my attack on both fronts. Bear in mind it presents as an ideal way to join our two families.’

‘I assumed my marriage to your sister symbolised the perfect union.’ Penwick widened his eyes at Allington’s callous remark and lunged forward with a bold advance. ‘And I have few relations of whom to speak.’

‘Touché.’

The conversation continued in silence, the back-and-forth phrasing of their blades the only communication for several minutes.

‘You do love her, I assume.’ Allington whipped to the left, his offhand comment more a feint than his sudden manoeuvre.

‘And who is this unexpected responsible older brother? I’ve not made your acquaintance these past months.’ Penwick continued his riposte, a drop of perspiration trickling into his right brow with the swift movement. Still, the wood-panelled walls grew closer with each of his strikes. Another moment and Allington would have no retreat, his back to the wall, the match won.

‘I assure you I have many sides, as faceted as the gemstones my father offers to the wealthiest clientele throughout England and beyond. Do not play the fool and neglect opportunity. An earldom is an expensive undertaking.’

Allington sounded winded. Too much talk and not enough skill. Penwick’s stamina remained banked.

‘I appreciate your concern, though I’ve taken every precaution to secure my future with wise investment. I stand to lose more than profit, were I to accept the offer. Your sister would believe I courted her to gain favour with your father or, worse, possessed an ulterior interest in the family mines, valuing the property’s worth more than her beauty and poise.’

‘Beauty and poise age and fade away, unlike money, which grows more valuable and attractive the longer one keeps it. You did not answer my question.’

Allington’s boot heel hit the floor moulding. His brows narrowed, aware there was no retreat, and he assumed a combative stance, at once attempting an envelopment to seize Penwick’s blade and rotate their position, but his lack of control versus Penwick’s superior strength guaranteed failure.

‘Which question would that be?’ With an accelerating lunge, Penwick knocked the sword from his opponent’s grasp.

Allington leaned against the panelling, catching a breath before he slid down to sit hastily on the floorboards. ‘Hell, your skill is unmatched. I would do well not to cross you.’ He glanced upward, an expression on his face that reflected a mixture of acknowledgement and defeat. ‘At least not with a sword.’

‘You presented an excellent defence.’ Penwick extended his hand and hoisted his friend upward. ‘I’ve had more practice, ‘tis all.’

‘Perhaps.’

They walked to the side of the room where two glasses of water waited beside fresh towels.

‘I’m serious in regard to your investing in Father’s diamond mines. For clearer understanding, I’m not suggesting you travel beyond England. The mines are located in some godawful region of the world where even I wouldn’t venture a visit. There the stones are unearthed, cleaned and prepared before they ever reach our soil. Once in England, Father chooses the best gems, commissions the cut and sells them or designs the best into unique pieces. It’s all done quite easily. Money in, money out, except we’re profiting at such high margin, it would be against all honour not to urge you to partake of a share, most especially now that you’re betrothed to Claire. What profits you will provide for her lifestyle.’

‘Concerned I can’t support my wife?’ Penwick attempted to ease the mood with jocularity, though his mind spun with questions. Why did Allington press the subject? It never failed; whether drinking at the club or fencing in the ballroom, the subject of his investing in the Allington jewellery business always surfaced. ‘All jests aside, I’ll consider the notion.’ A change of subject was in order. ‘How is the mare you purchased from my stable faring? You haven’t mentioned her since the transaction.’ Horseflesh – a common enough topic for any gentleman and another on which he was considered an expert.

‘The animal needs a firm hand. I despair if all your livestock is as unmanageable.’ Allington followed the cut with a gruff chuckle and replaced his glass on the table.

‘The white Abaco Barb? It’s one of the calmest breeds imported to England and this mare in particular is my finest. I almost couldn’t sell her to you, wanting to keep the prize. She’s obedient, reliable and perceptive of her rider,’ Penwick responded with an austere shake of the head. No one could accuse the horse of unruly defiance. He’d named the mare Decorum because she combined dignity and regal presence whenever they rode.

‘Aha, now I have identified the truer problem, one bigger than the horse of which I complain. As a breeder you regard the horses as equals, when any fool is aware to command an animal’s respect one must prove to be the master.’ Allington clasped his hands together to punctuate his assertion.

The critical remark was stated with outright arrogance and an uncomfortable silence smothered their otherwise brotherly palaver. There wasn’t more to say after that and, once Allington took his leave, Penwick bathed and changed his clothes. His schedule presented a busy day ahead and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Some unresolved sentiment lurked below his consciousness to cause him unrest.

At least his appointments would end on a high note with his dance lesson at four o’clock. He’d already decided he would not choose Claire’s ring today. The subject of diamonds seemed overstated of late. He could always stop at the club on the way home, though. Two fingers of expensive brandy might be the exact prescription to assure a night of fitful rest.

Chapter Three

Isn’t it peculiar how our letters cross in the post only for us to discover, when they arrive, we’ve asked each other the same questions? Perhaps it indicates we are of like mind. In answer to your queries, I enjoy reading, although my sister’s love of poetry surpasses my interest in novels. I’d much rather attend a gathering than spend time within the pages of a book. I have a passion for flowers, yellow roses in particular, and favour candied orange peel above all sweets. The most embarrassing situation I’ve ever experienced occurred during my best friend Esme’s birthday celebration. We were chattering away until I developed a ridiculous case of the hiccups. Esme suggested I inhale ground pepper to restore my breathing pattern but the result produced a sneeze so large my spectacles landed in the ratafia bowl. To this day, whenever we recall the incident, we laugh until our sides ache. Thank heavens no one else noticed. I’ve never told another soul.

Penwick folded the letter with care and replaced it within his breast pocket. How foolish to continue to live in the past and yearn for a woman who had disappeared without a trace or reason. Didn’t she owe an explanation to their friendship?

Friendship.

What a farce. Over time, he’d developed feelings, a deep emotional connection that, were he to allow it into the light of day, would consume his soul. The emotion hadn’t mellowed as time passed, but fermented in potency and grown in strength so that it barely fitted within the portion of him where he crowded his most precious memories.

Preparing for his dance lesson had proven a weakness he now regretted. Filing through Lavinia’s letters to find this one, a favourite, where her voice spoke directly to his heart, and then, subsequently, choosing to carry it with him, had proved pure idiocy.

He’d need to do better. He was to be married in less than a fortnight to a woman who cared for him and would soon vow to produce his children and provide an amiable home life.

He crossed his hand over his chest, the letter beneath the thick wool of his coat, the words against his heart. What had happened to Lavinia? Why did she suddenly vanish? He had no answers. Worse, his world had upended soon after, the responsibilities of the earldom consuming all time and energy. When he had tried to find her and travelled to the address on the letters, he’d ended up leaving Shropshire with more questions than answers. Why had fate brought them together only to leave their relationship unfinished?

The carriage rocked to a stop and he was forced from his disquieting reverie. All the better as he was not brave enough to consider the condition of his heart at the moment.

The footman opened the door and extended the steps. Monarch Hall stood with stoic patience across the cobblestone street. People bustled along the walkway, brushing shoulders and exchanging conversation, their worlds filled with laughter. Businessmen and citizens went about their schedule with focus and determination. Day by day the world moved forward, as evidenced by the newsboy on the corner, a fresh daily waved high in the air.

Yet here he stood, one foot in the past and the other stalled in the present. He forced himself off the curb and towards the brick-faced two-storey building. Elongated windows stretched towards the sky, the weather clear, an unlikely occurrence as late afternoon yawned its surrender to night.

He’d commissioned Monsieur Bournon’s services as soon as he’d set his mind to marry. For all his fancy footwork while fencing, he’d never mastered the most popular waltzes, having been living in the country only a short time prior, unaware an earldom would command his attention post-haste. Still, the steps came easily and he soon realised the graceful agility needed for a successful raddoppio or passata-sotto while holding his blade could seamlessly transfer into a box-turn or glide while dancing.

Sunlight mingled with candlelight through the large panes as he strode towards the door, not wishing to be late and at the same time anxious to begin. He kept his attendance at these lessons secret, most of his personal life as concealed as possible. With exacting attention, he focused on learning everything an earl needed to know and more.

Twisting the knob, he came up short as he entered, a stranger waiting in the inner foyer where Monsieur Bournon usually greeted him. Penwick’s lessons were private and individual. He’d never seen this stout man before and would surely have remembered his distinguishing appearance. Dressed in casual clothing, loose-fitting pants and a plain linen shirt, it was the man’s outlandish moustache that caused a person to glance twice, the ends of it surpassing the corners of his mouth and turning upward as if begging one to smile.

‘Good afternoon, milord. I am Mr Moira. Monsieur Bournon has been called away on business and has asked me to conduct your lesson.’ The stranger stepped forward and extended his hand in greeting. ‘He apologises for any inconvenience, but I assure you I am adept at dance instruction and will continue your training with skill.’

‘I see.’ Taken aback by the change in circumstance, Penwick wondered how the instruction would be accomplished. Monsieur Bournon knew of his desire to keep his lessons confidential and therefore respected his wishes. The master supplied a different dance partner each session, so not only was Penwick guaranteed privacy, but the lady participant never grew to know him. It was a most convenient arrangement. ‘Has Monsieur informed you of the conditions?’

‘In entirety.’

Moira stepped aside so Penwick could enter further and shed his greatcoat. He hung the garment on the rack, hesitating with a backward glance at his pocket before they walked towards the ballroom area where each lesson was held. Outside the door, Moira paused once again.

‘In order to accommodate everyone’s lesson within this unexpected time of absence, we’ve arranged for your partner to be another of Monsieur’s students.’

Penwick jerked attention to the instructor. ‘Now see here, Moira. I pay Bournon an exorbitant sum each week for his professional instruction and now not only will I miss his expertise, but I’ll be partnered with someone who may not execute the correct steps.’ There was no reason for his outright annoyance concerning the unlikely change in circumstance and he shook his head to excuse the sharp reply, but with the wedding looming in the near future, every lesson seemed imperative.

He should never have reread that old letter. Somehow, the amusing words had conjured all kinds of inconvenient feelings and awakened the restlessness and disappointment he worked hard to keep buried; his uncooperative outburst the result.

‘Please understand, milord. Monsieur Bournon feels terribly about this inconvenience and had he not been summoned by the Prince Regent would never have left you with short notice of this change in plans. Nevertheless, the lady is an accomplished student who is here to polish her skills more than interpret the steps. She will be the perfect match for your ability. I have every confidence.’ Moira appeared worried by the conversation, his mouth held in a firm line, his brow furrowed, though he continued with assertive insistence. ‘You must at least begin the lesson. Then, if you are displeased, you may leave and I will notify Monsieur Bournon that I have failed in mollifying your request and managing his intentions, but do bear in mind that, when summoned by the Crown, one does not hesitate.’

A shadow of guilt for his initial overreaction diffused Penwick’s distemper. He was to be married and it would not suit to be waltzing with a lady of society for an hour of dance instruction, but there truly was nothing to be done about it. ‘Very well. I’m here now. Let us join the lady in the hall, but please remember not to address me by name. It’s important no one knows of my attendance here.’ He recovered all aplomb and waited for the instructor’s consent.

‘Excellent. You have my word.’ Moira’s anxiety transformed to jovial countenance in a blink, and with a twist of the brass door handle they entered, their boot heels echoing in the otherwise silent room.

Across the floor, a tall, slender woman stood with her back turned. Perhaps she’d been lost in thought or restlessly passing the time while she waited, for their entrance startled her and her head whipped around so quickly her round, wire-framed spectacles slid down her nose with the motion.

Suddenly it was hard to breathe.

Somewhere in his chest, under his left arm just shy of his heart, the exact location where he’d been sliced by an epee while learning to fence, a tremendous ache swelled, forcing his lungs to constrict and his breathing to halt. He dragged in air with great effort.

He watched as the lady turned to face them, righting her glasses with a fingertip before taking a stride, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders to fall in ribbons down her back. They matched eyes and the entire world stopped.

He knew not how long they stared, unaware, caught in the moment, until the instructor cleared his throat and Penwick forced his mind to focus.

How unusual to have thought about spectacles during the carriage ride. How fantastically strange and confusing.

‘Milady, your partner for today’s lesson has arrived,’ Moira informed the young miss. ‘May I introduce Lord W?’

Penwick didn’t possess enough clarity to question the initial.

‘Waltz, milord.’ Mr Moira smiled, apparently pleased to share the discreet explanation.

‘Oh?’ Her one word whispered past him, but the lady didn’t say more.

All at once, his eyes didn’t know where to settle, taking in her fashionable gown, a deep shade of crimson which complemented her porcelain skin and mahogany hair, then to the white gloves buttoned at each wrist. Her features were delicate, high cheekbones and soft, full lips, and her shy smile, when she finally became comfortable with the new circumstance, lit the room more than the plentitude of high-strung chandeliers spaced across the ceiling amidst the departing rays of the sun.

He approached, his prior tension a fading memory.

Livie watched as the gentleman strode across the dance floor, her heart pounding a ferocious beat. Without cause, her palms grew damp beneath her gloves, and she was grateful to have remembered them, as she’d have been mortified to present sweaty hands to this handsome stranger. He stood a head taller than any man she’d danced with before, though that number remained few. Monsieur Bournon practised with her ordinarily and he was of smaller stature. Her eyes rose and she found his expression one of dubious curiosity.

What an unexpected twist to an otherwise troubling day. Who was this stranger? And how did he come to need dance instruction when his appearance presented as polished as any gentleman with whom she’d ever made acquaintance? Here stood a man who hadn’t gone soft like so many aristocrats, his physique broad and fit. His clothes were pristine and pressed, his dark brown hair combed precisely to fashion and, unless she was mistaken, she detected the warm, spicy scent of bergamot in his cologne. How she loved candied orange peel. The thought eased the moment.

‘May I?’

His deep voice resonated, slid through her senses with a lasting beat as if he opened the door to her heart and whispered to her soul. Not the hollow echo that accompanied every sound in the vast ballroom. Instead, the two words vibrated within her and the reaction proved fascinating and unsettling. His striking appearance had already set her heart to beat triple-time; she needed no other observation to abrade her nerves. Aware she stood a motionless ninny, she forced a smile and they moved equidistant to close the space between them.

‘Of course.’ She replied and he reached for her, one hand settling in her gloved palm while the other gently clasped her waist. They touched and her gaze shot to his in kind with an expression of equal surprise.

A woman could get lost in such large brown eyes, the colour of his irises a mixture of coffee and honey, framed by lush dark lashes, long and curled at the very tips. She swallowed, hoping he couldn’t hear the sound.

And still they stood motionless.

She’d danced with partners who’d held her in identical frame, but somehow this moment was different. Defining. His touch warmed her from the inside out, filled her with an unidentifiable sensation that assured and at the same time pitched her pulse to high riot. She must control her nerves and accomplish her very best dancing. For some reason, it seemed all the more important today.

From the corner of her eye she noticed Mr Moira retreating to the far wall where he raised a violin. The first stroke of the bow startled yet again and she jumped, Lord W’s hand tightening on her waist as if he wished to hold her safe and prevent her from falling. They hadn’t taken one step, but it pleased all the same, the protective measure he showed without the slightest provocation.

With a subtle nudge he swayed into the music, leading with the firm insistence of his hand at her waist, the measured exhale of his breath against her temple. They danced in silence, the graceful, disconsolate melody fraught with unexpected sentiment. It filled her with gentle longing and loss, as if myriad tender emotions, fragile and evanescent, milled within, unable to find their correct tempo and position.

Lord W appeared equally affected though she hadn’t shifted her eyes, content studying the elaborate folds in his cravat, the rugged shape of his jaw, how his Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed unspoken words. His mouth possessed a deep cleft at the peak of his upper lip like the crease of a heart. How would it feel against her mouth? Her pulse tripped at the wayward thought, and she knew without looking he possessed a tentative unrest, just as she did. They’d scheduled the lesson to learn the proper footwork, yet their steps were completed without hesitation, their bodies consumed with some unexplainable force far more important than timing or inclination to the turn. They danced a grand circle around the ballroom, her heart counting the rhythm more than her mind, the sensation bewildering, but pleasant, a lick of fiery desire anxious to become a conflagrant fire.

What was this? What strange passion affected him? Unsettled him? He’d danced with numerous partners through every lesson, never the same woman twice, all experience at social functions mirroring a similar routine, yet now, in this moment, he’d never felt more scattered and collected, the opposing qualities at war with his composure. He focused on the far wall, each step in time, every pace completed perfectly, yet blood pounded in his veins, the disconnect of sensibility and emotion too loud to comprehend. Why was this happening when he’d worked so hard to organise his life and compartmentalise each aspect of his future? Now that he’d chosen Claire for his wife, he had no use for inconvenient feelings. Whatever they may be. His brain floundered for a logical explanation and found nothing.

He dared a glance at the lady within his arms, her flowing hair arranged in a lovely manner that allowed the length to cascade down her back. The loose ends glossed amber light from the shimmering candles and caught in the air as they spun through a turn. Her eyes remained steadfast, fixed on his neckcloth and seemingly unaware his body reacted to her presence with ardent intensity.

It was wrong. An ignominious betrayal. Yet he couldn’t look away and refused to debate his respectability. He would observe every aspect of her appearance before their dance ended and he forced himself to forget.

Abandoning inhibition and reason, he noted the bow of lashes upon her delicate cheek, the creamy skin flushed soft as a new-born rose, and her endearing spectacles, which reflected light and shadows with their rotation through every turn. Pretty seemed an inadequate descriptor. His brain discarded beautiful next. Exquisite and rare came to mind and took immutable hold. Her features were fine-boned and delicate, her mouth poised as if she worked hard to keep words contained, and when she tilted her head ever so slightly and slanted a fleeting glance, her eyes darting to his and back again, the unintentional flirtation sent blood to his groin in a hot rush of desire.

The dance continued, the violin serenaded, strains of song accompanying the fluidity of their progress, and still he grew more attentive; her tiny waist beneath his palm, the warm, delicate trust of her gloved hand, her quickness of breath. It was as though each rotation wound him tighter, every revolution pulled him inward. He blinked hard and widened his eyes, at once aware he’d drawn her to his chest, all but crushed her to his body and she hadn’t uttered a word of objection.

He stopped, abrupt and jolting, though the song continued for several lingering notes before Moira realised they no longer danced. Penwick could only stand and stare, the distress in the lady’s eyes mirroring the turbulence coursing through him. What had he done? He waited not another minute before rushing from the hall.

Chapter Four

I have dark hair and eyes, in case you’ve ever wondered. I mention it because I find myself thinking about your appearance at times and imagining the person behind the lovely words. I hope I haven’t offended you. I’d never forgive myself if you believed me shallow or otherwise short on manners. I confess my curiosity can be a curse.

His chest thrummed. A long carriage ride through congested London streets, yet here he sat at Boodle’s and his chest thrummed still.

Penwick took a long swallow of brandy, hoping the soothing burn of expensive liquor would quiet his unrest, but it did little more than fuel the torment of conflicted emotion.

He laid his hand across his breast, unwittingly reminded of the letter in his pocket, and snatched his grip to the glass again, his pulse a heavy beat. Perhaps his time had arrived, his heart about to fail. It was how he’d come to the earldom unexpectedly. His extended family possessed an abundance of chest apoplexy and a shortage of males. But no, the unidentifiable sensation was not his heart deteriorating; rather it seemed overfilled, stressed at the walls with urgency. So much so it vibrated, causing the illogical palpitations which stoked his angst.

He wouldn’t label it obsession, but somehow, through their lengthy exchanges, ink on paper, nothing more than slashes and curves, she’d become a part of him, a part he never wished to be without. Yet that needed to change.

He summoned his litany of purpose. Claire was kind and intelligent, sensible and, at the same time, enthusiastic about their planned future. The attempt fell flat.

He tipped the drink to secure the last drop and signalled a footman who stood against the forest-green wall coverings, eager to replace his empty glass. Boodle’s was a sanctuary; the one place in London where his title proved useful more than superfluous. He kept a small table for four near the corner, away from the infamous bow window where dandies watched the crowd and desired to be noticed in return. At least within these walls life continued as expected without fast decisions and pressured opportunity, without societal perception and breathtakingly beautiful women who waltzed as if they belonged to no other partner in the world.

Damnation, his thoughts had wandered yet again.

‘Penwick, very good.’ A familiar voice drew his attention.

Allington circled the overstuffed chairs near the hearth and approached the table, as if a materialisation of current circumstance to smother wayward thoughts and unexplainable happenstance. His smug expression of entitlement frayed Penwick’s patience. Here stood a man who enjoyed being seen through the bow window. Were his father not well liked by peers and respected for his fine jewellery work, Jonathan would not be allowed within the club’s sanctuary. Someone could only have secured the man’s voucher, a favour called into purpose, although Allington worked through the room as if he belonged without a doubt.

‘Are you all right? You look a bit green about the gills. You’re not rethinking your impending marriage, are you? I’ll run you through if you embarrass Claire in any fashion.’ Allington took a chair with his brash ingress, though Penwick would have rather he hadn’t.

‘Of course not.’ He exhaled a cleansing breath and tapped his fingers on the table. Breaking an engagement would prove catastrophic for Claire and he could never live with himself were he to cause her disparagement. ‘Although you’ll never best me with swords.’ An underlying note of challenge in the reply instilled tantamount provocation.

‘That could be true.’ All conviviality evaporated and Allington’s congenial greeting seemed more façade than genuine disposition. ‘Have you given further thought to the investment proposal?’

‘Since we spoke this morning?’ His question rose on the endnote to proclaim the notion as lunacy. Where was the footman with his brandy?

‘I’m a decisive man and assume you are of similar ilk. When something appears sensible and to profitable financial benefit I rarely allow the opportunity to pass.’

‘I’m careful in all aspects of life.’ At last the footman returned and Penwick welcomed the fresh brandy.

‘I’ve learned that about you through incisive observation. It took you ages to commit to my sister. Father wondered if you were sincere. Hesitation painted you in a poor light.’ Allington sent a scant glance around the perimeter of the room. ‘I assured him all worry was for naught. I take you as a man of your word, as should he. All that aristocratic grandiloquence keeps you bound to the honourable course, doesn’t it?’

More than a little seemed troubling with Allington’s statements, though the conversation proceeded no further as Jasper St David and Randolph Beaufort entered the parlour, their aim his table. Penwick couldn’t have been more thankful for the friendly intrusion of two comrades. The men exchanged handshakes and introductions as necessary before Allington took his leave shortly thereafter. The mood eased immediately.

‘Stuffy prig, isn’t he?’ Jasper eyed Allington’s departing form. ‘One must wonder what he’s hiding?’

‘Oh, it’s all high water with him; no matter he comes off as a nigmenog.’ Randolph gathered a sneer in distaste. ‘Strikes me as a bedizened churl.’

‘My future brother-in-law?’ Penwick flicked his gaze to the now empty doorframe. ‘I agree he’s puffed up with his own consequence, although it’s probably nothing more than a handful of tawdry mistresses he’d like to keep in holes and corners.’

‘In holes and corners?’

‘On the quiet side, Randolph.’ Jasper’s grin widened. ‘A practice you find unfamiliar, I’m certain.’

‘I see. Like a code of sorts.’ Beaufort donned a broad smile. ‘Why do you suppose abbreviation is such a long word? I’ve often wondered.’

No one readily replied and Penwick eyed Jasper in meaningful conversation. ‘Of late, Allington has encouraged me to invest in the family business. Every time he mentions it, I become more uncomfortable, yet he persists with the patience of a starving cat waiting at a crack in the floorboards.’

‘Diamonds not your preference?’ Jasper asked the question with a tone expressing his belief that only a clunch would refuse the opportunity to enter into business with one of London’s most successful jewellers; and since Jasper owned Inventive Investments, a company dedicated to gaining collateral for prospering innovators, he possessed sound judgement.

‘It’s more his zealous insistence that puts me off than the actual venture. He presented the proposition this morning and now here we are in late afternoon and he’s badgered me about it again. This single-mindedness is off-putting, a cryptic challenge of pursuit I’ve no interest in perpetuating.’ Penwick drew a long sip of brandy.

‘Perhaps he has a short memory?’ Randolph’s suggestion amused Jasper who smiled towards his good friend before he replied to Penwick. ‘Cork-brained and all that. My uncle suffered from the same malady until he died like a fuddle cap with barrel fever.’

‘Rather odd, indeed. Why press the issue? It causes one to doubt the motive.’ Jasper gave a thoughtful pause. ‘You don’t suppose the family is under the hatches? Despite their esteemed reputation with the ton, you possess a proper title. One cannot ignore your betrothed is the daughter of a businessman, no matter the merchandise is diamonds, and while she may exude polish, there’s no changing she’s a woman from a lower class of society.’ Jasper continued to speculate. ‘Could the family desire your wealth and prestige? Diamonds are as secure an investment as I’d propose, though if he’s overspent and dished up, that’s another matter entirely. Otherwise, why would Allington run the risk of entry in your black book? Only an addle pate would anger an earl, more exact, a model of probity and uprightness. The boot is more commonly on the other leg.’

‘Exactly.’ The same questions plagued Penwick. Yet he couldn’t put his finger on any particular evidence to condemn Allington’s enthusiasm. Could it be the man sought to welcome him into the family wholeheartedly? Or did he work at Claire’s behest? This possibility caused him to regret his surly attitude. He needed to travel to Clipthorne on the outskirts of London and visit with his intended. Not only did he neglect his duties in offering her due attention, but were he to spend an afternoon with Claire, the lingering feeling of ill-ease might dissipate once and for all. He rejoined the conversation between Jasper and Randolph though his mind had wandered and he had no idea of the topic.

‘My Aunt Minerva wore a diamond tiara whenever she left the house. It sat on her head, all sidledywry, and the centre stone caught the sun, shiny as a sovereign. I assumed it was cut glass, but perhaps she’d purchased the gems from Allington. Their reputation for fine stones is renowned.’ Beaufort’s mental reverie held the table hostage for another beat.

‘Oliver’s brother is in town, dressed as a swell of the first stare and full of juice. He mentioned purchasing a horse from your stable.’ Jasper knocked the tabletop with his fist, determined to steer the conversation onto a more sensible track.

‘That he is, on all three counts.’ Beaufort leaned back in a casual pose that marked him a man at ease with his subtle girth.

‘I remember Oliver being quite fond of his brothers. Which sibling is it?’ Penwick looked to Jasper for explanation.

‘The older brother, Randolph.’ Jasper made no attempt to stifle his amusement.

‘Another Randolph?’

‘It seems everyone is named Randolph of late. Quite fashionable moniker. No matter Oliver’s brother dresses as a dimber damber, my wardrobe is superior.’ Beaufort adjusted the knot of his gingerline cravat and straightened his shoulders. ‘What you need, Penwick, is a pre-marriage celebration, an homage to bachelorhood… in other words, a fond farewell to freedom.’

‘Now there’s a jolly idea.’ Jasper’s expression displayed unmitigated enjoyment at the opportunity to goad. ‘Every fellow should have one last rout before volunteering for the parson’s mousetrap.’

‘And did you?’ Penwick’s quick repartee caught his friend unexpected. ‘Before vowing your eternal affection to Miss Shaw, did you sample the sweet offerings at one of Beaufort’s frequent diversions?’

‘Mrs. St David and I constitute a rare union. I speak in generalities, nothing more.’ Jasper’s assertive declaration was spoiled by his broad grin.

‘But I speak in specifics.’ Beaufort warmed to the subject, anxiously rattling off a list of suggestions for debauched pleasure. ‘Every man needs a singular experience to celebrate the end of bachelorhood before becoming a tenant for life. It all comes to a fiddlestick’s end, after all.’

‘How we’ve digressed.’ Penwick smirked as he dismissed the conversation. He’d grown accustomed to Beaufort’s uniquely scattered conversation since their fast friendship a year ago.

‘It’s an art form.’ Jasper arched a brow and canted his head towards Randolph. ‘He can send a discussion downhill like a runaway cart with three wheels.’

‘Beaufort?’ Penwick chuckled the question.

‘Beaufort.’ Jasper nodded in the affirmative.

The next morning, Livie sat in the library at Kirby Park, a fresh edition of Ackermann’s Repository nestled in her lap as if she guarded precious treasure. The illustrated periodical featured a fashion plate on the cover, the lady dressed in an extraordinary creation, sewn from sumptuous layers of satin, blue as a robin’s egg, to rival the most beautiful ball gowns Livie had ever seen. The daring neckline revealed a glimpse of cleavage, the model’s bosom displayed with flirtatious elegance, while the sleeves were no more than sheer wisps of fabric trimmed with the same detailed lace found in the bodice. The skirt flowed elegantly from an empire fall adorned by delicate floral embellishments with crystals and seed pearls. She followed the gown to the hem where the toe of a gorgeous pearl-white slipper caught her eye as if a flag waving her into surrender by temptation. This dress surpassed anything she’d worn or coveted on the pages of the Repository. With all her fashion sense, she couldn’t have created a better design of perfection.

What an entrance she’d make descending Kirby Park’s grand curved staircase in the centre hall on the evening of her debut. She’d pause halfway to gaze out at the guests and allow them a collective breath. How she’d dreamed of the moment when she was bedridden and bored, unsure she’d ever walk again. Those daydreams, along with Randolph’s letters, had been the best part of her confinement.

She brushed the pad of her finger over the pearl shoes displayed on the cover and in a flash remembered the glistening shoe clips she’d thrust into her skirt pocket before Whimsy rushed through her bedchamber door yesterday afternoon. She’d changed clothes several times since then. With any hope Dinah hadn’t discovered the clips because, at present, Livie had no answers to difficult questions. She hadn’t returned the walking boots Mr Horne handed her in error, nor had she decided precisely what to do with the exquisite accessories. How wrong to keep them and equally devastating to relinquish their beauty, most especially now that she’d found the ideal gown for her celebration. Perhaps if she wore the shoe clips once, at a single function, she could return them without despairing the loss, a reaction she abhorred to confront too closely.

She returned her gaze to the cover design. What would it feel like to wear such a breathtaking gown? Every eye would be drawn to her, every guest would take notice as she danced in the arms of a handsome stranger. Her eyes fell closed and a vivid image of Lord W clarified as if he’d waited patiently all the while for her to get on with her romantic imagining.

In truth, she thought of Lord W and their enchanted dance frequently, though she knew the entertaining fantasy was all for naught. She’d never see the gentleman again and didn’t know his name. Nor could she pursue the subject. Her not-so-subtle enquiries into Randolph’s identity last year had yielded nothing but odd looks and questions she wouldn’t, often couldn’t, answer. Wilhelmina behaved as persistently as a bloodhound with the scent of fresh prey when she protected her younger sister, and everything Livie did seemed to fall under the category of sibling surveillance. And she understood why. Despite numerous conversations to the contrary, Wilhelmina still harboured misplaced guilt over the carriage accident that had damaged Livie’s legs. Dashwood’s protective supervision was another subject entirely. While she appreciated his role as protector, master of the house and brother-in-law, his well-meant interference at times seemed overbearing. Must she be the object of everyone’s concern?

She loved her sister and brother-in-law thoroughly. Their generous welcoming of her into a new, wonderful life surpassed most all of Livie’s dreams, yet her greatest hope held fast. To be independent and adored as well as Dash loved Wilhelmina, perhaps beyond the idyllic examples before her – Livie dreamed of this daily.

She blinked behind her spectacles and gave her head a little shake.

‘Good heavens, that must be the most captivating design. You’ve stared at that illustration for no less than ten minutes with a faraway expression on your face.’

‘Aunt Kate,’ Livie answered with pleasure, her words loud and clear to compensate for her aunt’s hearing loss. ‘I was lost in a daydream, but you are correct. This gown is exquisite.’

‘Let me see.’ Aunt Kate accepted the magazine and settled on the cushion beside Livie. ‘Oh my, you are correct. I’ve never seen such beautiful detail.’

Livie nodded. ‘I have the perfect slippers to match.’

‘My dear, you have the perfect slippers to accompany every dress.’ Aunt Kate barely managed the words as she laughed at her reply.

The two were lost in a fit of giggles when Wilhelmina entered, a smile on her face as soon as she spied them huddled over the magazine and cheerfully recovering their composure.

‘Wonderful. I’ve found you together.’ Wilhelmina raised her right hand where she clasped a folded note. ‘Whatever has captured your attention and tickled your fancy will soon be forgotten when I share the news in this message.’ She took a seat across from them before she opened the white paper and skimmed the words. Then she eyed them with a glint of mischief in her eye. Silence stretched taut.

‘What is it, Whimsy?’ The words burst out before Livie could stop them. ‘It’s cruel to make us wait when you promise your announcement will be delightful.’

Her sister smirked in a fashion only older siblings accomplished and then cleared her throat to read aloud the invitation in her hands. When she finished all three ladies chattered at once.

‘A masquerade. How exciting.’

‘It’s barely the start of the season. Lord and Lady Dabney must wish to capture attention straightaway. I know everyone in my tea circle is overflowing with well wishes concerning your debut, Livie.’ Aunt Kate beamed with the comment.

‘That’s because they’ve known me for years and…’ – Livie hesitated, unsure of the proper way to express her realisation that most friends and relatives had accepted her as lost to dancing, socialising and independence – ‘…my circumstances have been far from the usual.’

‘Which makes your come-out all the more extraordinary and celebratory.’ Aunt Kate wrapped an arm around Livie’s shoulders and hugged her tight. ‘London may try to throw a rival affair to the gathering we’re planning, but it will only be on your special evening that others realise previous invitations were mundane practice for the event of the season.’

‘I’ve never seen you so devious and vehement,’ Livie answered through her laughter, although a thrilling spiral of anticipation wound its way around her heart.

‘Oh, you have no idea,’ Wilhelmina chimed in. ‘While I might pester you with decisions about flowers and decorations, Aunt Kate has overseen each choice, insisting on the best and, of course, I agree.’

‘You will be the crowning jewel of the season, a diamond of the first water.’

The mention of gems nudged Livie’s memory of the shoe clips and her daring move to wear the accessory before returning them to Lott’s Majestic Shoe Shop. The masquerade posed the perfect opportunity. If anyone were to notice the clips or question her, she’d be completely concealed by her mask and costume, able to spin a tale suited to the reply.

‘A masquerade will be great fun. The theme of Aesop’s Fables is intriguing. I’d like to be the Peacock, although the lesson of the fable will not favour me.’

‘Aah, yes. Fine feathers don’t make fine birds. You are indeed a fine bird.’ Wilhelmina laughed before she continued. ‘Dash and I have decided to depict the Dove and the Ant. The grateful heart will always find opportunities to show its gratitude.’

‘You don’t know every moral by heart, do you?’ Livie couldn’t resist the tease. Despite the long term she’d spent confined to bed, it was Wilhelmina who’d read endlessly and possessed vast knowledge of the works of notable poets and authors. She twisted on the cushion to face Aunt Kate. ‘What will you be?’

‘Something enchanting and bold.’ Aunt Kate’s face lit with a mischievous desire for adventure. ‘I don’t often have a chance to dress anonymously and steal a dance from a handsome suitor.’

Exactly.

‘What are you thinking?’ Wilhelmina leaned closer, as intrigued as Livie.

‘Perhaps I’ll become a beautiful shepherdess or bejewelled queen.’ Aunt Kate straightened her petite frame and notched her chin higher.

‘I don’t believe there’s a fable written about either, but I’ll dedicate myself to research before we prepare for the party,’ Wilhelmina assured her.

Livie hardly tended the conversation. The masquerade offered at least two opportunities for her to practise the waltz along with a number of other numbers once her dance card filled. Bravo to the Dabneys for their excellent timing. If Esme also received an invitation and Livie remained by her friend’s side, there would be an overflow of suitors who defaulted to claim a dance once Esme’s card was complete. No doubt, Esme would enchant in a costume that rivalled everyone else’s. Her friend possessed an unmatched allure and beauty. It did Livie well to watch Esme closely and polish her social graces now that she’d be attending formal functions.

‘You should be a darling little fox, Livie. Your sable pelisse would be the perfect addition to your amber gown. With your face hidden behind an elaborate mask and fur-trimmed combs in your hair, there won’t be another costume as lovely.’ Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes as if envisioning the costume.

‘I will have to conceal my spectacles under the mask. Do you think it will be difficult?’ The necessary eyewear threatened to dampen Livie’s previous excitement, and her enthusiasm faltered.

‘Not at all. We’ll be sure to measure the ribbons carefully so you’re not uncomfortable. You could never go without them.’ Wilhelmina adopted her mothering tone.

‘No, of course not. I’d truly miss my dance steps then.’ She adjusted the glasses on her nose as if to emphasise her point.

‘When is the party? Will we have enough time?’ Aunt Kate, forever intuitive, steered the conversation towards the particulars.

‘Tomorrow evening at nine o’clock. The affair was first planned for three days hence but Lord Dabney has been called away on important business and, in a drastic measure to salvage the preparations, Lady Dabney has amended the date.’ Wilhelmina stood, her fingers ticking off tasks as she moved to the door with a mutter. ‘Our masks and costumes top the list. I will enlist the help of several maids to organise our disguises.’ Then she was gone as suddenly as she’d arrived.

‘Sometimes I feel as though Whimsy hardly remembers being an unmarried miss.’ Livie’s comment held a wistful tone.

Aunt Kate softened her chuckle by taking Livie’s hand in her own. ‘She worries about you after all you’ve been through. You may wear the spectacles in this family, but it’s your older sister who needs to refocus her vision. You’re all grown now and she must allow you room to flourish. Especially as your debut draws near.’ Aunt Kate’s smile held the gentle gift of unconditional love.

‘I know. It comes from her feelings concerning the accident, but none of what happened on that horrible night is Wilhelmina’s fault. I wish she’d free herself from the guilt.’

‘It’s as ingrained as her sisterly love, but worth it all the same.’ Aunt Kate added a small nod of reassurance. ‘Do not worry of it. It will diminish in time.’

Chapter Five

‘Give me the diamonds and don’t test my patience. My time is valuable and yours is borrowed.’

The cold directive sliced through the dense fog in the concealment of a cluster of pines at the south end of Hyde Park. The weather and late hour guaranteed their anonymity, yet if unlikely circumstances prevailed and anyone happened upon their circumspect conversation, the two men existed as distant spectres lost in the shadow of overgrown tree limbs.

‘There’s a slight problem.’ Hawkins despised delivering the news and accepting responsibility when Booth’s carelessness had caused the derelict mistake. ‘The package will be detained.’

‘You assured me this matter would be handled without complication. I’m on a schedule and your bloody mistake is set to ruin everything. Get me the diamonds or you’re not going to like the new rules.’

Barely controlled anger edged the words. Hawkins pressed his fingernails into clenched palms, unwilling to show weakness but equally unnerved by the result of the conversation thus far. No one would hear the echo of a pistol shot nor see the slice of a knife. He well understood the stakes of the game played. Yet he needed more time. Given that, he could deliver the diamonds as promised. ‘A minor oversight and no need for alarm.’ His voice cracked and he damned himself with a litany of silent curses.

‘Smuggling and thieving are hanging crimes.’ The rustle of fallen leaves and snapped twigs signalled his lordship’s approach. ‘Not your usual stint in Newgate.’ His presence crowded Hawkins’ peripheral vision, not allowed to turn and face the man who paid for the deed. ‘When the bottom falls out, no one will accept the word of a common dipper over the testimony of a respected member of society.’

‘Understood, sir.’ Then, as an afterthought exposing cowardice more than solution, Hawkins continued, ‘Booth is at fault, but I’ll reclaim the delivery and remedy the situation. He lost track of a shipment.’

‘He lost track of a fortune and I’ve very little time to see it recovered because...’ The low-voiced answer signalled dismissal, the padded sound of departing footsteps accompanied by one last comment. ‘I won’t be the one dangling from the noose if this falls apart.’

Penwick considered the open invitation on his desk. A masquerade at the start of the season was an intriguing proposition, the ideal distraction before leaving for Clipthorne to visit Claire. He tapped the corner of the folded note against the desk top. What were these restless feelings and why had they reared their ugly head all asudden?

His soon-to-be wife deserved better. No matter he was a respectful suitor who as a habit followed etiquette’s rules to the letter, unnerving regrets were still very much with him, anxious to haunt whenever he dared let down his guard. He owed his intended truer commitment. Perhaps he should purchase a gift to prove his devotion. Not that a present would erase his conflicted ennui, but it might assuage his own discomfort. Still, he wouldn’t wish to appear contrite.

Loathing his self-recrimination and unusual contrariness, he flicked the corner of the invitation with the tip of his finger, his behaviour of late out of character and ill-fitted. He’d done little of which to feel penitent, but the very devil, when had he become so indecisive, his mind and heart misaligned?

He rubbed his temples in hope of banishing the unwelcome condition and his eyes returned to the desk blotter where Dabney’s invitation waited. He couldn’t stop living because of an inconvenient irascibility. He was an earl with a world of responsibilities. Besides, a masquerade provided the fortuitous opportunity to practise his waltz and better prepare for his wedding day, all the while disguised. He opened the inkpot and signed his acceptance with a sweeping stroke. Then, with the tilt of the candle at his elbow, he pressed his signet ring into the wax and sealed it done. Hell, he needed to clear his mind of the muddle that somehow had taken hold.

Closing his eyes to summon peace, he relished the dark until an image of the beguiling beauty from the dance studio formed with startling clarity. Who was the lady? Her eyes glittered with delight behind petite, wire-framed glasses, her smile capable of enchantment. He’d never forget the way they’d moved across the dance floor, as if created to exist within each other’s arms. Was she the reason he no longer felt comfortable with his impending future?

He forced his eyes wide and mentally listed Claire’s attributes to chase away a sense of disagreeable guilt. Claire claimed all the required components of an earl’s wife from demure laugh and sharp intelligence to amenable nature. On the best of days this exercise served sufficiently to chase away lingering hesitation on his part. His marriage plans were arranged and settled. Yet he’d never danced with his intended, not having the opportunity as of yet, and knew not their compatibility beyond a formal parlour or arranged social function.

From his understanding of the responsibilities of title, marriages were arranged much like business transactions. He’d already blurred the line of proper courtship by choosing a bride who lacked standing, no matter she possessed innate poise, a lovely face and limitless fortune.

Their relationship had grown beyond friendship to admiration, one of mutual respect after introductions at a charity event where financial status outweighed lofty title. Still discomforted with his newly forced responsibilities, he’d enjoyed Claire’s connection to the alternate and more normal world he’d left behind. And there was no overlooking the wealth her family possessed, her father’s diamond jewellery business highly respected and remunerative throughout England.

With regret, he hadn’t a brother, father or uncle alive with whom to confer concerning his odd view of marriage. No family member remained to offer trustworthy advice and he was too embarrassed to approach Jasper with a subject that should have proven instinctive and ordinary.

With surety, a night of distraction would soothe whatever ailed him. He looked to the seal where he’d pressed his ring into the heated wax, bound by tangible, immovable responsibility. Indeterminate behaviour would rattle one’s brain if left unresolved. Better to ignore the malady until it failed to exist.

He placed the reception acceptance on a silver salver awaiting a servant’s attention. A distorted image of his expression reflected as he performed the task. At the least, certain items remained remarkable and clear. He’d made a commitment to Claire and a gentleman’s word was the very core of civility and integrity. An unexpected beat of melancholy coloured the realisation and he remembered the letters of his past, sentiments and words that lingered within him still. He needed to let go of the past and, most vital, he must cease reading the letters locked in his wardrobe drawer.

At half past eleven and not one minute sooner, for Mr Horne kept a fastidious schedule, Livie approached Lott’s Majestic with the erroneous leather boots, now returned to their original package minus the small burlap pouch. She’d left Dinah sulking in the carriage, unwilling to take the chance someone might spy their entry into the shoe shop and remark during congenial conversation on the occurrence to Wilhelmina, or worse, her sister’s husband, Dashwood. Best to stay as inconspicuous as possible within the morning crowd. With her gaze fixed and making purposeful strides towards the shop door, Livie crossed the street.

Never mind she couldn’t bear for her sister to believe she’d broken her promise. In truth, Livie now worked to right a wrong and return the boots, not the usual objective when she visited the favoured store. She’d left the shoe clips at home, unwilling to part with them just yet. The masquerade this evening provided the perfect opportunity to adorn her slippers and feel a tad regal, even if they served as part of her disguise. She’d send Dinah to return the clips come morning and claim an oversight on her part. She placated her conscience with the plan.

She’d almost reached the store’s entry when a stranger, a man dressed in somewhat ordinary attire, intersected her path and purposely bumped into her person, or at least she assumed so as he made no attempt to step aside as was proper. Worse yet, he stepped on the toe of her right slipper and the cream-coloured nankeen wasn’t styled to be trod upon.

‘Good heavens, you should watch where you’re going.’ Livie shifted the box to one hand and used the other to adjust her spectacles. ‘The streets are crowded enough without your careless misbehaviour.’ Perhaps she’d reacted too severely as the man eyed her long and hard, his eyes squinted in narrow assessment as if he studied her appearance before grunting a low pardon and continuing into the throng of passers-by.

Sparing not another thought to the intrusion, she bustled into Lott’s and straight up to the counter where Mr Horne waited. The interior was otherwise empty. She didn’t dare shift focus to the shelves. She’d made a promise, after all.

‘Miss Montgomery, what a delightful surprise. I didn’t expect you this morning or I might have prepared the newest designs for your perusal.’ In kind to most visits, the shoemaker scurried to the rear wall where a display of popular selections sat on a shelf as if waiting on a throne overlooking the masses. ‘Were you interested in slippers or boots today?’ His smile grew larger with each hopeful word.

‘Actually…’ Livie drew a fortifying breath. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a pair of butter-yellow kid slippers with ornate heels, but she forced her eyes to Mr Horne’s expectant face. ‘I’ve come to return this package. I left with it yesterday, but there must be some kind of mistake. The selection I purchased isn’t inside.’

‘Indeed.’ The cobbler hurried forward and lifted the lid as he placed it atop the counter. ‘We must remedy this problem at once. Let me check the boxes on the side shelves. Just a moment.’

Livie wandered away from the counter to the large glass window, which offered a wide view of the busy London thoroughfare; its goal was to entice customers, and oh, how it worked its magic and cast its spell upon her.

As she watched from the inside out, determined not to examine the slippers calling her name from the back wall, an elegant carriage with a bright crested emblem on the door stopped across the street at the city’s finest haberdashery. The driver hopped from the seat to extend the steps and open the coach door. Livie had no explanation for her sudden fascination with the procedure as it was ordinary in every way; for some reason, however, she kept her eyes glued to the process despite Mr Horne’s voice continuing behind her. A plump orange tabby cat scampered from the curb and settled under the carriage as soon as the steps hit the cobbles. A gentleman exited a moment later, his shiny boot and walking stick claiming freedom first before his broad stature crowded the view. Livie swallowed, her mouth gone dry and brain defunct.

With odd remembrance, a whisper of one of her cherished letters wafted to mind…

I’m a man who stands on my own two feet in that I haven’t much family to rely on. I imagine someday I may affect a walking stick, not out of necessity, at least not for a physical ailment as one might suspect, but for reason of the unconditional support it would provide, much like a social sword.

She blinked a few times as if to wash away the foggy remnants. How she’d have liked to meet Randolph. He sounded the most dependable and sensible man and, despite telling herself repeatedly to forget the past and focus on the exciting days ahead, a little piece of her heart remained impervious to the advice, leaving the wish unfulfilled, another despairing regret in the lost list that had made up her inner contemplations since the accident occurred. Her stomach turned over with the same forlorn disappointment she experienced whenever she considered Randolph’s letters and the missed opportunity of knowing his person.

Mr Horne cleared his throat and called her name at precisely the same moment the gentleman in the roadway turned towards the window. Her pulse did a little dance as awareness took hold, though she suspected she recognised the heroic breadth of his shoulders more than his handsomely carved features and coffee-coloured hair. His profile was unmistakable. There stood Lord W in plain view. Her eyes widened as if they sought to absorb every aspect of his appearance before he vanished inside the haberdashery, which he did in less than two palpitations of her heart.

‘Miss Mongomery?’

Dear heavens, how rude she must appear. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Horne.’ She whipped around as if to snap her attention away from the window and into the current circumstance, tucking Lord W’s image away for closer inspection later.

Mr Horne wore a frown of apology, two empty boxes held in his hands. ‘I cannot explain the mistake and regret to tell you the orchid silks you meant to purchase are not here. I suppose we will have to wait and see if they are returned in good faith.’

Who would ever return such stunning shoes? As Livie recalled, the footman who had interrupted her purchase left with his arms piled high. The lady he served was likely as addicted to footwear as she. One glimpse at the orchid slippers and all hope of their return would be lost. Her only expectation of recovery was if the slippers proved the wrong size. Mr Horne hadn’t mentioned the shoe clips. She could only surmise he had no knowledge of them being inside the box. He didn’t seem concerned in the least.

‘Then I won’t dare mention my disappointment.’ Clever the way she was able to continue the conversation though her mind spun in an alternate direction. Perhaps she should venture across the street and into the same shop she’d seen Lord W enter. There was no harm in following the path of curiosity, was there? The memory of their daring waltz stayed with her as if the melody continued. She’d never been so close to a man before. Well, not in the fashion in which he had held her. She found it difficult to assign a label to explain her reaction. Her pulse had leapt, skittered and vibrated during their dance, a series of thoughts and emotions erupting like fireworks in her brain, and his abrupt departure from the hall once he discovered he’d pulled her too close revealed the most significant detail of all.

He’d experienced the same.

‘May I show you something else while you’re here? I have a darling pair of walking boots in byzantine suede and, if they do not suit, you may prefer the high-throated design with black-striped silk and covered heel.’

Huffing a satisfied breath, she dismissed Mr Horne’s suggestion with a waggle of her fingers, her feet already aimed towards the door. ‘Never mind.’ She couldn’t think to explain otherwise and left the shop straightaway, imposing the slightest pause to glance both ways before jetting into the roadway. A little voice reminded her that Dinah waited in the carriage down the street and that she needed to return home to complete her costume for this evening’s masquerade, but the sensible suggestion fell on deaf ears.

Adopting an attitude of fortified determination, she twisted the brass knob and entered the haberdashery with cautious steps and bold ideas. No one was visible, although she could hear the tailors at work in the backroom and a deep, rich voice that instantly identified Lord W as one of the customers being fitted. Lud, she hadn’t thought to note the crest on the carriage door. She needed to do so as she left. For curiosity’s sake, and no other reason. She shifted from one foot to the other. What would Dashwood say if she were discovered in a men’s tailoring parlour? Perhaps the idea wasn’t her smartest. She’d wait one minute, no more. Wilhelmina’s strict reminder that she must protect her reputation above all else rang loud in her ears.

When it became painfully clear Fate would not present Lord W in a serendipitous coincidence and that she would have to summon a clerk by ringing the bell on the counter, Livie backed towards the door, all at once aware of how silly she must appear. Better she left undetected than be caught stuttering at the counter with no real reason to be inside, victim to a damning rumour.

She closed the door with a click and nearly tripped over the same plump, ginger-coloured cat who’d now dropped itself to the floorboards directly outside the haberdashery’s entrance. The creature deemed her worthy of an insolent yowl, although the tabby didn’t move and Livie muttered a complaint, as if the cat would learn a lesson from her sage advice. Shaking her head with exasperation she turned towards her waiting carriage, a little smile twisting her lips. Good heavens, at times she was just as flighty and ridiculous as Whimsy believed her to be. She’d best get home and prepare her costume. It was her first ever masquerade and the possibilities were limitless.

Chapter Six

I’ve never attended a societal event in the city. Have you? I assume they are very crowded and one must dress in one’s finest attire, assert the very best behaviour and remember which spoon to use for the soup. How complicated and utterly fascinating by half. Sometimes I imagine meeting you at a grand gathering. We would share clever conversation and the last dance of the evening. The final waltz is believed to hold unfailing charm for the participants.

Penwick adjusted his ornate mask, the slow roll of carriage wheels an indication his driver inched towards the Dabney estate. Coaches, horses and servants clogged the hawthorn-lined gravel drive, the sides flanked by acreage which stretched farther than he could see from the square window, no matter he’d opened the glass and slanted his head to gain a better vantage point. Instead, brisk night air invaded the interior to remind the season began in earnest. Gone were the extended country parties at quiet pastoral estates where society exercised a more relaxed schedule. Tonight’s affair signalled a frenetic series of events from opera house showings to private family functions, gallery openings and overcrowded ballroom assembles.

The Dabneys represented old money and the elaborate affair they hosted this evening would set a precedent for the ton’s social calendar. He laced his fingers and adjusted his gloves. Strickler had arranged his costume for the masquerade and, with a modification in tolerance, Penwick agreed. He seemed forever cloaked in some type of disguise or another, his true self having fallen into a deep slumber, or worse, become permanently dormant during the time he’d assumed the earldom and rearranged his life. Perhaps Strickler sensed this disquiet. The servant had arranged a lion creation and matching gloves to accompany his gold-threaded waistcoat and jacket. Facing the crowd masked as the king of the jungle suited Penwick.

At last the clink of the handle and clap of wooden steps being extended signalled he’d arrived. He adjusted his gloves, tugging at the hems a final time, and descended from the carriage into a sea of Aesop’s fabled animals. Ahead of him a dove conversed with an ant, alongside the walkway two eagles laughed at a story told by a frog, and near the door a quartet of guests clustered, two owls, a cat and a fox, the backlight of several paper lanterns illuminating the group in a soft, golden glow, as if prominently featured and offset from the others.

The crowd moved with vigorous anticipation towards the huge cherry-wood doors manned on both sides by livery dressed in assigned uniforms, although a plain black mask had been added to complement their navy blue and burgundy attire. At the foot of one of the servants sat a plump ginger cat. It flicked its long tail when each guest passed, as if keeping tally.

Penwick knew Lord Dabney from their association at Boodle’s, though this was the first time he’d visited the estate. The milieu simmered with an ambient hum of conversation and anticipation. The first event of the season produced a flurry, or so Strickler had advised, as the crowded festivities were new, an instant immersion into the vigorous demands of socialising.

With effort, he advanced to the entry and through the foyer, decorated in voluminous drapery of shimmering silver silk, where he again waited, this time a few strides behind the chattering quartet of three ladies and one gentleman he’d noted earlier. Something about the fox sparked a note of familiarity, whether the elegant tilt of her chin or poised steps, as graceful as if she glided across the marble tiles. If he gained a better view, perhaps the illogical perception would make sense. He studied the fox through his mask, all at once content to be hidden by disguise and offered the freedom of curious voyeurism without societal censure.

She wore a golden brocade pelisse trimmed in sable or mink, an expensive fine fur. The same edged a glittering mask of amber silk perched on her delicate nose. Tiny pointed ears were woven into her flowing tresses, every shade of late autumn, and he was reminded of the paperbark maple tree that grew outside his bedroom window at his childhood home. The boughs would turn the warmest shades of brown near the season’s end, and fascinated by the myriad leaves of russet and brown, he’d stare out the window and daydream. This particular memory never failed to comfort and remind of simpler times.

His eyes searched her figure from head to toe and back again.

Realisation came as a direct hit.

Here stood the lady he’d danced with at Monsieur Bournon’s hall, the woman who’d somehow spoken to his soul though she remained silent in his arms. A woman composed of tempting sensual suggestion; strictly forbidden to a man eleven days from the altar.

He pivoted, sharp and abrupt, to collide with an elderly man dressed as a stork. Mumbling his apology, he strode towards the nearest set of French doors, away from the continuous flow of partygoers who sought the opening strains of the orchestra’s melody as if entranced. Yet it was he who needed the slap of fresh air provided on the terrace. He inhaled and exhaled twice to cleanse away stray thoughts.

Nature had other plans for the evening and the sky opened with a drenching rain soon after. He’d sought refuge from the front hall, but now forced inside, he escaped the weather but not the rapid fire of suggestions that ricocheted within his brain. Summoning the demeanour of his title and grateful for his disguise, he rejoined the herd as it meandered towards the reverie, and while he forbade himself from seeking the beguiling ears of a heart-stopping beauty, he couldn’t resist sweeping the room with his gaze as soon as he entered the ballroom.

‘The lion is staring at you as if he’s stalking prey on the savannah.’

‘Esme.’ Lavinia adopted her most prudent tone. ‘What a ridiculous suggestion.’ A little thrill shimmied throughout with her friend’s assertion. She bowed her head and peeped the tip of her slipper from beneath her hem to admire the glistening shoe clips like a well-kept secret.

‘I’ve kept a close eye on his behaviour since I stole you away from Whimsy’s strict chaperone. Thank heavens the Dabneys had the sense to invite such a crush. With Dashwood’s dislike of dancing, and our goal of the opposite, we’ve found sanctuary here the ballroom.’ Esme swivelled a demure glance, executing a survey of the surroundings in a manner suggesting she remained oblivious to all, though she examined every detail with a sagacious eye. ‘How curious. He watches you, but does not wish to be known.’

‘You sound like a description from a gothic novel promising suspense, duplicity and intrigue.’ Laughter bubbled inside her. ‘Perhaps he watches you, Esme. I know of no other woman who could dress as a Juniper tree and appear as delicate and refined. Whoever decided to weave those little pearled buds through your hair evinced genius.’

Esme’s slender figure was wrapped in the latest design, a sheath of heather-coloured satin, in imitation of the tall trunk of a juniper tree. A collection of leaves, gauzy and feather-soft, floated around her shoulders to mimic foliage caught in a playful breeze. She looked stunning and her costume caught the eye of every passer-by so Livie couldn’t imagine how her friend managed to assume the lion singled her out. Besides, their dances had been claimed with expedience and only two slots remained on Livie’s card.

‘No, he’s definitely watching you, not me.’ Esme’s insistent whisper brooked no argument. ‘Look at his build. Such a tall, handsome beast given his mask isn’t hiding a long, hideous scar or horrid disfigurement. These masquerades can be tricky.’

‘I’ll never understand how your brain works, but now I know for certain you’ve read too many gothic novels. And please stop staring or the handsome beast will believe you’re inviting his attention.’

‘Too late.’ Esme dared the words in a singsong tone that announced she’d succeeded in her predetermined goal. ‘He cuts a dashing figure in his costume, does he not? King of the jungle, king of the ballroom.’

Livie dared a glance, unable to withhold her curiosity. The lion waited near the hearth, his shoulder against the woodwork, his gloved hands interlaced. If Livie ventured a descriptor, undecided leapt to mind. Lud, Esme had not exaggerated in her assessment of his physique. He looked regal, powerful, and as she snuck another glimpse through her mask, her pulse gave a jolting leap.

He was tall. His broad shoulders near met even with the mantel, the grand fireplace a master of the room, a king on a throne, built to be noticed and command attention, just as this gentleman. His clothes were elegant and aristocratic, yet while expensive they lacked the pretentious frippery so many dandies flaunted. His body appeared all hard muscle and splendid form. She wondered at his preoccupation, for his shoulders filled his coat without help from creative tailoring, no pads or seams to manufacture an outstanding shape. His chest tapered to a lean waist, where the waistband of tight fitted buckskin breeches encased muscular thighs. High boots completed the picture, so shiny they reflected the candlelight on their tips, and she dared a fond smile at the similarity to her shoe clips. Yet he was no dandy. Like the animal he’d chosen, this man represented natural masculinity, uncommonly handsome yet refined and polished like a treasured gemstone coveted by the crown.

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