Читать книгу The Outrageous Debutante - Anne O'Brien - Страница 10

Lady Beatrice finally gave up on appearances, closed Miss Austen’s Emma, which she had been assured was most refined and enjoyable, but over which she had been yawning, and allowed her eyes to close. After an exhausting morning spent choosing a new pair of evening gloves to wear at Lady Aston’s drum, Lady Beatrice desired nothing more than to settle on to a comfortable sofa in a quiet parlour with the shades drawn and rest her eyes. She certainly had no intention of being at home to visitors. Instead, within minutes, she found herself playing hostess to Judith, who arrived in a flurry of energy to discuss with her mama their new friends. And then, following quickly on her heels, Lord Nicholas Faringdon.

‘Nicholas. I had quite given up hope of seeing you this week. When did you arrive?’ Lady Beatrice stretched out her hands in sincere pleasure, but did not bother to struggle to her feet. ‘Ring the bell, Judith, for tea.’

‘Would I dare ignore your summons, Aunt? I came yesterday evening.’ Nicholas strode across the room to where his aunt was seated, raised her hands and kissed her fingers with rare grace. ‘You look in excellent health, as ever.’

‘Never mind my health! Let me look at you.’ But she smiled almost girlishly at her nephew’s elegant gesture as she surveyed him from head to foot. It was a relief to see him in town rig. For although he was no dandy and might have rusticated at Burford for over a year, there was nothing of the unfashionable country squire in the gentleman who graced her withdrawing room. The close-fitting coat of dark blue superfine, with all the hallmark of Weston’s exquisite tailoring, was unexceptional. As were the pale biscuit pantaloons, polished Hessians and the sober but tasteful waistcoat. His neckcloth had been arranged with meticulous attention to detail. Altogether, a Man of Fashion.

‘Very fine!’ was the only comment she made. ‘My letter was not in any way a summons. Merely a request. And, yes, you have been ignoring my advice for any number of years. Ever since you attained your majority, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘I was not aware that I was so disobliging.’ Nicholas turned to drop a light kiss on his cousin’s cheek. ‘Judith—and how is the heir to the Painscastle acres?’

‘Giles is in excellent form. You must come to visit us, of course.’ She patted the seat next to her. ‘It is good to have you here Nick. We had thought you were becoming buried alive at Burford. Don’t tell me that you have a young lady there who lures you into rural seclusion.’

‘I shall tell you no such thing.’ He showed his teeth in a quick smile, refusing to be baited.

‘So you don’t have a lady who is the object of your gallantry to while away the winter evenings?’ She laughed, slanted him an arch look, glinting with mischief. ‘I cannot believe that the ladies of Herefordshire are so blind to your charms. No cosy armful tucked away in the depths of Aymestry?’

‘Judith! Such levity! It does not become you.’ Beatrice frowned, rescued Nicholas and steered the conversation into the area of her own choosing. An area no less full of subtle—or not so subtle—suggestion.

‘Now, tell us—how is Henry? And Eleanor. We have not heard for some months.’

‘Hal is very well.’ Nicholas leaned back and prepared to do his bit for family news and deflect any personal comments from either his aunt or his cousin. ‘And he is now in possession of a thriving business, it seems. They have moved into the house. Eleanor said she was delighted to have her own front door at last. Her letter was full of furnishings and decorations as I recall. Hal’s pockets will have to be bottomless if she is to have her way.’

‘Eleanor is in an interesting condition, I believe.’

‘Yes. She is. They are very happy.’

‘As they deserve to be.’ Beatrice nodded. ‘What a blessing it was that they escaped the toils of that truly appalling man Edward Baxendale.’

Baxendale!

The name would have twisted Lord Nicholas’s lips into a snarl if he had not been sitting in the civilised surroundings of Lady Beatrice’s withdrawing room. Even now, after two years or more, it had the power to heat his blood and fill him with immoderate fury.

Sir Edward Baxendale had claimed that the marriage of Eleanor to Nicholas’s eldest brother Thomas was illegal, and thus her baby son not, as all believed, the Marquis of Burford, but stained with the stigma of illegitimacy. He’d presented his own wife Octavia, with diabolical cunning, as Thomas’s true wife, the true Marchioness of Burford. Since Thomas had died in a tragic accident, the shocking tale had cast the family into instant scandal, only salvaged by the efforts of Nicholas and his brother Hal proving that Eleanor’s marriage to Thomas had indeed been valid and Baxendale nothing but a malevolent trickster. Hal had then declared his love for Eleanor and, with typical highhandedness, taken her and the baby off to New York. But all could so easily have been a disaster if Baxendale had triumphed. So much pain deliberately inflicted by the greed of one man. No wonder Nicholas detested Sir Edward with every sinew in his body, every drop of blood.

By sheer effort of will, Nicholas forced his muscles to relax, his hands to unclench, as Lady Beatrice continued with her social catechism, unaware of the impact of her chance comment.

‘And Tom. He will be more than three years old now.’

‘Four more like. Time passes. Eleanor said that Hal was teaching him to ride.’

‘Do you think they will ever return?’ Judith asked a little wistfully.

‘No. I do not. I think Hal’s life is there in America.’

‘And the estate?’ Disapproval was clear in Beatrice’s tight-lipped mouth. She simply could not accept that the young Marquis of Burford should be allowed to live in America, far from his family, his land and his responsibilities. It was beyond anything. ‘What will happen to it? It is all very well—’

‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas broke in before she could get into full flow. This was not a new situation over which they disagreed. ‘That is for the future. For the present it is carefully administered. I shall not permit anything other. What Hal will choose to do is entirely his own concern. And nothing to do with me—or, with respect, with you, Aunt Beatrice!’

Which statement, Lady Beatrice decided with something akin to shock, was certainly guaranteed to put her in her place!

‘No. And of course you will act in the best interests of the family. I would expect no less and I intended no criticism of your trusteeship.’ Beatrice controlled her concerns, leaned over to pat his arm. ‘There is no point in discussing it further. Forgive me, Nicholas.’ With respect, indeed! Now here was a novelty! ‘Now, since you are here at last, perhaps you can escort us to Almack’s one evening.’ She hesitated only momentarily before launching in. ‘There are some very pretty débutantes this Season.’

‘I am sure there are.’

‘One or two are quite exceptional. Sir John Carver’s daughter, for instance.’

Nicholas raised his hand, turning a stern gaze on his aunt. His eyes, often so friendly and full of laughter, had the quality of ice. As had his voice. He may as well, he decided, nip this in the bud immediately. ‘Aunt Beatrice, I wish that you would not. I am perfectly capable of selecting a wife for myself without any help from you, when I decide that I wish to marry. I agree with you that I should consider it, but it will be in the time of my choosing, as will be the identity of the lady who I eventually ask to become my bride. Do we have an understanding?’

There it was, laid out for her. Beatrice stiffened at the snub, taken aback for the second time since Nicholas had entered the room. She had forgotten that her nephew was no longer a young and impressionable boy. It was so easy to forget when he was the youngest in the family. But the years had moved on and he had put her firmly in her place twice within as many minutes with a perfect exhibition of suave, cool—and implacable—good manners. Beatrice took in the stern mouth, the austere features, and wisely retreated.

‘Of course. I would not dream of interfering in your affairs, my boy—’

‘Yes, you would. But I ask that you do not. I would not wish to feel obliged to refuse your kind invitations. And I will if necessary.’ He was clearly not prepared to compromise over this. ‘I am sure that you take my meaning?’

Oh, yes. She took his meaning very well—and realised that she must reassess Lord Nicholas Faringdon. She raised her hands and let them fall in her lap. ‘Of course. I will do nothing that you do not wish for, Nicholas.’

‘I should be grateful, Aunt.’ He deliberately changed the subject. ‘So, how is Sher? I have not seen or heard from him for well over a year.’

Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon. Undoubtedly the black sheep of the otherwise impeccable Faringdon family. And the bane of Lady Beatrice’s life.

‘My son Joshua is still in Paris.’

‘Is he well?’

‘I presume.’ The response from the less than doting mama was tight-lipped. ‘All we hear is scandal and gossip.’

‘He has a new mistress,’ Judith added with an irrepressible twinkle. ‘An actress, we understand.’

‘I think that is not a subject for my withdrawing room, Judith. Joshua will go to the devil in his own way. There is no need for us to show interest in it. Now … did you know that Simon has been to Newmarket? One of his horses is expected to do particularly well on the Turf this year …’

The conversation passed into calmer waters, Nicholas turning to Judith for news of Simon and the promising stallion.

Beatrice watched the pair as they sat at ease, reliving old times, discussing friends in common. It was time Nicholas married. He needed a family. Not merely the responsibility of the estate—God knew he had enough of that!—but responsibility for a wife and children. He had been too long pleasing himself. He needed someone to ruffle his equilibrium, to shake his self-confidence. It appeared that he could be as difficult and opinionated as all male Faringdons. Look at Henry. A law unto himself, taking himself and Eleanor and the child off to New York without a word to anyone! And as for her own dearest husband, now long deceased, and her son … whom she did not even wish to contemplate. They were all the same—excessively handsome with all the charm and address in the world, but all with that fatal streak of arrogance and self-worth. And Nicholas, to make matters more difficult, had that cool reserve which was difficult to shake. When that had developed she did not know, but the aura of cold detachment and control coated him with a hard brilliance.

At least Judith was easy to deal with—she was like an open book! Beatrice watched with affection her daughter’s expressive face as she laughed at some comment from Nicholas. That was from her side of the family, of course, just as much as the red hair and green eyes. Nicholas was a Faringdon from his dark hair and equally dark brows to his toes of his polished boots. And he needed someone who would challenge his intellect and keep him on those toes—give him something to think about other than farming and cattle and such.

She watched, tapping her lorgnette against her lips as she studied him, the lad whom she had known from birth and had watched grow into this spectacularly handsome young man. Even tempered, easy to converse with, but underneath … Well, they said still waters … She was quite sure that he could acquire a bride with an arch of those expressive brows or a crook of his finger. But not any débutante would do. He needed someone to stir him out of his complacence. He was too much in the habit of going his own way with no one to question his decisions or his opinion.

Lady Beatrice blinked as the thought slid so simply, so effortlessly into her mind, the image as clear as an etching on crystal. Now there was an interesting prospect. Beauty. Money. Excellent breeding. But also strong-willed, independent, outspoken and … Well! What could be better?

‘Nicholas …’ She interrupted the exchange of news between her nephew and her daughter. ‘Will you be very busy during your stay in town?’

‘Nothing out of the way. I have an appointment to see Hoskins. My tailor will no doubt see me. Friends, of course. I have no definite plans. Why?’

‘No reason.’ Her smile was pure innocence. ‘Perhaps you would care to attend a number of social engagements with us? An extra gentleman is always valuable in a party. And you dance so well.’

‘Why not? Since you are concerned to flatter me …’ His tone and demeanour had reclaimed their habitual warmth, the chill forgotten. He saw nothing suspicious in Beatrice’s bland smile and innocuous request, believing that he had made his opinions on the matter of marriage quite clear. Why should he harbour suspicions? And it would be good to circulate in society again.

‘Tomorrow we are engaged to attend Lady Aston’s drum. A large affair, totally lacking in exclusivity as such things usually are, but entertaining enough. I have got up a small party. Perhaps you would care to join us? We have some new acquaintance in town. One of them is to be our Royal Ambassador to the Russian Court. I am sure you will find him interesting company.’

‘I am sure that I shall.’

Beatrice glanced over at Judith, smiled, her eyes guileless. And Judith, in spite of no words being spoken between them, was in no doubt as to exactly what her mama’s plan might be.

‘Do come.’ Judith turned her persuasive gaze on her cousin. ‘It should be a most entertaining evening.’

Unaware of the machinations of his female relatives, ignorant of the trap about to close over his head, Lord Nicholas bowed his agreement.

In Grosvenor Square on the following morning, very early, it was brought home to Nicholas how long it had been since his last visit to town. His body and mind were not in tune with town hours where it was customary to sleep and rise late. A combination of rural habits and the early sun through his bedroom window over and above the array of noises of a large city awakening to a new day—all assaulted his senses to ensure that he was wide awake. So he rose, dressed and headed for the stables behind Faringdon House. He might as well make the most of the opportunity to ride in Hyde Park so early as it would be mostly deserted; since he had no particular desire to converse with those who wished to parade and make a fashionable statement, it was the ideal time. There was a young horse that would benefit from a confidence-boosting outing without the habitual bustle and racket of London streets.

It was a perfect morning. He breathed deeply, encouraging the mare into a brisk walk through the light traffic. Through the ornamental gates and there, with an easing of the reins, he allowed the horse to break into a sedate canter along the grassy edge to the walk. And smiled his satisfaction. She was just as fluid and easy in her action as he had hoped.

In Upper Brook Street, Theodora woke from a restless sleep, certain that she would positively burst if she did not escape from the house and take some exercise, unwatched by either her mama or the ever-vigilant Agnes Drew. London was noisy, exciting, fascinating, all that she had hoped. But the restrictions irked. She was never alone. If she set foot outside the front door, Agnes had been instructed to be in attendance, even if all she did was step out to Hookham’s Circulating Library, no further than Bond Street. She found it difficult to accept this necessity. She was hardly likely to be accosted by armed tribesmen or bands of fearsome robbers as might have been expected anywhere on their perambulations through Arabia. She closed her mind against that thought with a little shake of her head. She would not think about it … not now.

Therefore, driven by a need for open space and not a little adventure, Thea rose early before even the servants were afoot. No one would know if she rode in Hyde Park. She would be home long before one of the maids brought her morning cup of hot chocolate, long before anyone else—Agnes!—had the opportunity to miss her. And there would be no one in the park at this hour who would even take note of her, much less recognise her in the future. Perfect!

Thea stood before the doors of her closet. Then her face lit with mischief on a sudden thought. Of course. Why not? No one would ever know. She closed the door on her riding habit and, in a moment of delicious rebellion, turned from the closet and unearthed her travelling clothes from the chest in her dressing room. Without another moment to consider the impropriety of what she was about to do, she donned a long-sleeved shirt, a striped loose-weave waistcoat, loose breeches and boots, covering all with the light cloak she had worn in the desert, finally wrapping the long scarf round her hair. There. Her disguise was complete. She postured before the mirror. She would defy anyone to recognise her in future, at some social event, even if they did catch a glimpse of her that morning. Had she not been so very good and accommodating of her parents’ plans for so long? Days at least! She deserved a treat, a moment of freedom.

Even the stables were deserted. She saddled her own mount, The Zephyr, one of the grey Arabs that they had shipped to London who was also in need of a good run, tossing her head and snatching at the bit with anticipation. It took no time at all to negotiate the empty streets, and if the shrouded figure earned some surprised glances and muttered comments, Thea was either unaware or simply did not care. The magnificent gateway opposite Apsley House beckoned. Once through Thea took a deep breath. She had been right to come. This was just what she needed. She eased into a canter, and then, the breeze tugging at her robes, she pushed the horse on into a gallop. The Arab responded with alacrity, leaping forward against the bit, its neat hooves skimming the ground as it fought for its head. Thea leaned into the movement with a little crow of pleasure, revelling in the speed and excitement. Exhilaration sang in her blood, rich as red wine, just as intoxicating. She gave herself over to the splendour of the moment, oblivious to everything around her but the pound of the hooves, the whip of the soft air on her face, the satin-smooth ripple of the horse’s muscles beneath her.

Nicholas’s mind was filled with nothing very much, apart from the excellent confirmation of his young mare as she answered the demands of heel and thigh. Nothing to disturb the placid tenor of the morning until he heard the sharp beat of hooves on grass, at speed coming from his left. He turned his head, his attention immediately caught. At considerable speed, he realised. He reined in the mare to look, squinting against the early rays of the sun, and saw a figure approaching at an angle, surely at full gallop, the rider crouched low in the saddle as the animal extended until it flew across the ground. Surely it was out of control. No one galloped in Hyde Park as though it was the hunting field. Or more like the Turf at Newmarket, given the speed of the animal. No one would choose to ride hell for leather here.

For the briefest moment Nicholas allowed himself to admire the fluid lines of the grey, the excellent conformation, the sheer beauty of the sight, but for a moment only. On a rapid decision, he kicked his mare on to intercept as the prospect of danger touched his spine with a shiver of unease. If the rider fell at that speed, there could be serious consequences. The animal could stumble, shy—and it seemed that the rider had no chance of drawing it to a standstill. Nor would intercepting be an easy matter on an untried young horse. But he must try.

Since the galloping animal kept up its headlong flight, Nicholas was forced to extend to head it off. His mare responded readily. The grey became aware of his approach, her ears twitching, even if her rider did not appear to react. She veered as he drew abreast but did not check her stride. If anything, she increased her momentum.

For what seemed like minutes—but was more likely seconds only—the two horses galloped side by side, the enforced rivalry adding an edge to the grey’s speed, until Nicholas moved close enough that he could lean across the gap between them and grasp the bridle just above the bit, trusting his own animal to remain on course. She did, allowing him to tighten his muscles in arm, shoulder and thigh, grimacing at the strain as he drew both horses to a more seemly speed and finally to a trembling halt, their sides heaving with effort, nostrils wide, eyes rolling. At the same time he grasped the wrist of the rider in a firm hold, in case the grey jinked in sudden panic.

‘You are quite safe. You are in no danger now.’

Nicholas’s breathing was a little unsteady as he continued to control the reins of both horses. He looked down at the rider—a young boy, he thought, at closer inspection—to see if his reassurances were necessary, only to be struck by a pair of furious blue eyes turned on him, blazing with … what? Anger? Shock? But also more than a hint of fear.

‘You are quite safe,’ he repeated. Of course, the rider would be unnerved after such an uncontrolled bolt across the Park.

Before he could say or do more, the boy raised a riding crop and brought it down in a deliberate and painful blow across Nicholas’s hand where he still had hold of the rider’s wrist. Nicholas flinched, hissed, took a sharp intake of breath, perhaps more in amazement than pain, as a red welt appeared across the width of his fingers.

‘What the devil …!’

‘How dare you! Take your hands off me!’ The rider pushed back the scarf—and Nicholas looked down into the face of a woman.

‘How dare you interfere!’ Her blue eyes were dark, almost black with emotion.

‘I thought, madam, that your horse was out of control.’ It was difficult to know what other to say. The last thing Nicholas had expected was to be under attack for his gallant, and supremely successful, attempt to rescue a damsel in distress. The absurdity of the situation might have amused him. It might if the blow on his hand was not so searingly painful!

‘No, I was not out of control.’ There was now the hint of a tremble in the angry voice. ‘You had no right.’ He watched as a range of emotions flitted across her face. Uppermost it seemed to him was a determination to regain control of a fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

He discovered that he was still grasping her wrist.

‘I said, let go!’

Their eyes met and held for a long moment which seemed to stretch on and on. They remained frozen in the little tableau as the air positively sizzled between them, around them, as when lightning strikes in a summer storm—rapid, without warning, and possibly devastating. Nicholas was the first to break the contact.

‘Forgive me.’ He released her, cold now, all humour banished under the lash of her words and the shock of his reaction to her. ‘I thought you were in distress.’

‘No, I was not.’

‘My mistake.’ Reserve infiltrated his voice, but he still watched her carefully. There was some problem here of which he was unaware. ‘Next time I will allow you to fall and break your neck.’

‘Do so. There will not be a next time. I do not need your help. How dare you put your hands on a lady in this manner!’

Any latent sympathy Nicholas might have felt promptly vanished. ‘You must excuse my concern, madam.’ He looked her over from head to foot, taking in the whole of her appearance. ‘I did not realise. I would not expect to see a lady galloping in Hyde Park. Please accept my apologies.’ The emphasis in his words was unmistakable and made Thea flush, angrier than ever.

‘Let go of my reins.’

He did with alacrity and reined his own animal away from her. In that one moment he thought, although perhaps he was mistaken, that there was a hint of tears in those eyes, which still snapped with temper.

The lady, if such she was, gathered up her own reins, kicked the still lively grey into action and set off in a canter towards the distant gate without a backward look.

Leaving Nicholas to sit and stare after her.

Thea arrived home, delivered The Zephyr into the hands of a sleepy groom who gazed at her in wordless astonishment, fled to her room and locked the door. There she stripped off her incriminating garments, folded them back into the chest and tied a ruffled, feminine muslin wrapper around her. Then, as the furious energy drained away, she sank on to the bed and covered her face with her hands.

What had she done? Not the gallop in the park. She could never regret that. How the grey had flown, fast as a desert hawk towards its prey. But she had struck him. The man who had come to her rescue. However unnecessary it might have been, he had thought she had been in danger and had ridden to her rescue. And what had she done? She had marked him with her riding whip. And then she had been so rude. Unforgivably so. She could not remember her exact words, uttered in the heat and confusion of the moment, but knew that they had been ungracious. Vicious, even. What would he think of her? How could she have allowed herself to do that?

But she knew why. And whatever the extenuating circumstances, she blamed herself totally.

She relived the events in her mind as she curled on to the bed in that sunny room. She had been unaware of his approach, so lost in the unity of horse and rider, in the glorious speed. But then, in that moment when his horse had stretched beside hers, when he had leaned and grasped her reins, his strong hands forcing her to come to a halt, the past had rushed back with all its pain and fear. She had thought it was forgotten, or mostly so, pushed away, buried deep within her subconscious, only to emerge with infrequent intensity when nightmares troubled her sleep.

She had been very young, hardly more than a child. On one of their journeys they had been beset by robbers in spite of the size and strength of their entourage. Forced to halt, to dismount, to stand and watch as her mother’s jewellery was stripped from her, as her father was threatened at the point of a knife. The fear had been intense. They had been allowed to go free at the end, but the terror of that moment when they were held captive and in fear for their lives had not quite gone away.

Thea shook her head, scrubbed her hands over her face as if to dislodge the thoughts. She should not be so fearful now—but she had been only a little girl, after all. And her arm had been broken when she had been pulled from her horse. She rubbed her forearm as if the pain, inflicted so long ago, still lingered, as the image still lingered in her mind.

So when he had forced her to halt, had grasped her wrist in such a strong hold, the memory of the robbers, of being constrained and hurt and frightened, had rushed back and she had struck out blindly. At an innocent victim.

And he had reacted with disgust at her bad manners, her lack of gratitude. Her face flushed again with humiliation as she remembered the look of astonishment on his face. And what a face. Strikingly handsome. Heart-stoppingly so. But how he had looked down that high-bred nose at her, with such chilling hauteur. Eyes as glacial as chips of ice. Lips thinned in distaste—and probably pain, she was forced to admit. And she remembered his voice. Warm, reassuring at first when he had thought to comfort her, then cold and flat when she had actually accused him of trying to harm her.

She groaned aloud and twisted to bury her face into the coverlet. If she tried to put the blame squarely on her unknown rescuer for daring to interfere, her innate fairness quickly stopped her. Her behaviour towards him had been despicable. He had suffered for his quixotic actions because she had used enough force to mark his skin and inflict pain.

And then there was that strangest of moments. A little shiver ran over her skin as she felt again the force of it. She had no experience of such things. But as her eyes had met his, she could not look away, her breath had foundered in her lungs. She could still feel the hard imprint of his fingers around her wrist. What was it that had united them in that one moment of uncontrolled emotions, had robbed her of words, of actions? All she had seen was the beauty of his face, the run of emotions across it. And in that one fleeting moment she had wondered what it would be like if those firm lips had moved a little closer and actually touched hers.

Thea stood up, astounded at the direction of her thoughts.

All she could hope for was that she would never have to meet him again! In her usual forthright manner, Thea knew that she could not worry over what she could not undo. She must compose herself or her mother would ask far too many questions.

But she could not forget him, and her heart was sore.

Lord Nicholas Faringdon rode back to Grosvenor Square deep in thought, allowing the mare to choose her own pace. All he could think about was that lovely face when she had removed the enveloping scarf, and her hair—short and shining like a golden halo round her head. But she was no angel. He smiled a trifle grimly at the thought. Those furious eyes. Imperious as she lashed at him with whip and words. And there had been fear there. And at the end—distress? Had she actually flinched from him, cowered even for that one moment when he grasped her wrist? And whereas he might have expected her to be flushed from her exertions, her face had been white, all the blood drained from her cheeks as she had looked up into his face, until she had recovered and wielded her riding whip with considerable force and accuracy.

He was not sure, but her violent response seemed to be as much from fear as from anger. But why? Apart from bringing her horse to a halt, he had done nothing to threaten her. Could she really have believed that he was attempting to molest her, to force himself on her in so public a place? Or anywhere for that matter!

Take your hands off me!

Her tone and words were clearly imprinted on his mind. She had been terrified. Furthermore her whole appearance was—unusual, to say the least. Remarkable clothes, enveloped in some sort of eastern robe. And alone. No sign of a maid—not surprising in the circumstances—but neither was there an accompanying groom, not even in the distance. And—of course! Something else that now struck him: she had been riding astride. And if he had not been mistaken, there had been no sign of cumbersome skirts and petticoats. She had been wearing breeches and boots! Well, now!

Perhaps, then, she was merely some less-than-respectable woman to indulge in behaviour so particular—yet he did not think so. The impression was that she was undoubtedly a lady. Certainly not in the style of the notorious Letty Lade, who might have been an excellent horsewoman but who also had claims to being a highwayman’s mistress before her advantageous marriage. No—there was a distinct air of class and style attached to this mysterious horsewoman who had just crossed his path. Moreover, the grey Arab had taken his eye. Now there was an example of superior horseflesh and breeding. And whoever she might be, he had to admit that the lady could ride!

Nicholas turned out of the park and allowed himself to think of that instant of—of connection, he supposed. He had not imagined it. It had held them both in thrall as the world continued round them. Shrugging his shoulders against a slight chill of discomfort, he pushed the memory away of the sudden heat that had spread through his blood as he had tightened his fingers around her wrist and felt the beat of her heart through her pulse. It had taken him aback. But it did not matter since they were unlikely ever to meet again. And what did he want with a woman who galloped her horse across Hyde Park, clad in unseemly garments, and responded to kindness with rude and insulting words? Yet a tinge of admiration crept under his skin, recognition of her courage and spirit, until he deliberately, ruthlessly thrust it away.

Lifting his hand from the reins, he stretched it, then made a fist with a grimace. The welt was red, a little swollen where the blow had broken the skin. He swore at the sting of pain.

Of one thing he was quite certain, he decided, as he turned into the entrance of Grosvenor Square. He had never met the woman before. And he would not be sorry if he never saw her again.

‘It is a very pretty dress,’ Thea acknowledged with what could be interpreted as a most accommodating smile, if one did not know the lady. ‘And I am sure that the colour is most suitable and flattering to any young girl. But I will not wear pale pink.’

‘But it is Maiden’s Blush, miss.’

The four ladies all surveyed the gown being displayed in the arms of the assistant at Madame Therese’s in New Bond Street with varying degrees of appreciation. The assistant frowned, impervious to the débutante’s smile. As Madame Therese’s senior assistant, she was used to dealing with their noble customers with superior and knowledgeable condescension. Dealing with this exacting, although exceedingly polite young lady, she felt her temper was beginning to fray.

‘Maiden’s Blush it may be, but it is still pale pink. It is entirely inappropriate for my colouring, either my hair or my skin. I will not wear it.’ Thea’s opinion was expressed in the gentlest of tones, almost apologetic in its denial, but her refusal could not be in doubt. The assistant’s frown had no effect.

‘Perhaps this would be better suited to you, miss.’ The harassed lady laid the offending gown with its delightfully ruffled skirt and pearl-buttoned sleeves—the epitome of the art of dressmaking and one of their finest designs—across a chair and lifted another with tender care. ‘This is Evening’s Kiss. A most fashionable colour this year. A most exclusive garment, as you can see.’

‘That is pale blue.’

‘Indeed, it is very attractive, Thea. Such precise but delicate embroidery, don’t you think? Will you not try it?’ Lady Drusilla saw the set of her daughter’s lovely mouth, despite the smile, and her heart sank. Not stubborn exactly, just … well, decided. Dressing Thea was never easy.

‘I do not wish to wear pale anything, Mama. How can you ask it of me? You know that I look far better in something with a little—intensity, with depth.’

‘But it is most becoming for a débutante.’ The assistant appeared close to tears. This was the sixth gown that had been rejected out of hand and one of them had been Damsel’s Dreams. How could any young lady reject such a confection of white organdie sprinkled with knots of forget-me-nots?

‘No.’

‘Jonquil?’ suggested Judith. ‘It is such a soothing colour, I always think, and unexceptional for morning wear.’ The Countess of Painscastle had joined them at Madame Therese’s with apologies for her late arrival. Simon had returned home earlier than she had expected, she explained, with a becoming flush to her cheeks. She had been detained.

Thea turned unbelieving eyes on Judith. ‘Pale yellow? It will rob my hair of any colour at all! I shall look even more sallow. How I wish that I had been born a brunette with dark eyes! Or a redhead like you.’ She turned her gaze back to the blue creation, determined that she would not grace Almack’s, or any other occasion, in such an insipid dress, however fine the embroidered hem.

Lady Beatrice sighed and shuffled on her chair. This was going to be just as difficult as she had expected. Theodora had a most unfortunate strength of will. And her mama had apparently encouraged her to exert it with flair and confidence at every possible opportunity. The Evening’s Kiss had been so pretty …

They were interrupted from any further discussion over the maligned gown by a slight, dark lady coming into the room. Her face was thin, her features narrow and prematurely lined, but her eyes were quick and assessing of the situation.

‘Madame Therese.’ Lady Beatrice hailed her in the light of a saviour. ‘Yours is just the advice we need. Here we have Miss Wooton-Devereux who is to go about in society. She is reluctant to wear the dresses we have seen that are suitable for a young girl who is to make her début. Perhaps you can persuade her where we have failed.’

Madame Therese smiled a greeting. ‘I will try. Let us consider what we might achieve for the lady.’ Her accented voice was genuine. A French emigrée who had fled from her home in Paris, she had been forced to sell her skills. She had a decided air of fashion and an excellent eye for what would suit, so she was soon in demand when she opened her select little establishment in the heart of Mayfair. Rumour said that she had been a countess in her past life. It added a cachet so she did not disabuse her customers.

‘Come, mademoiselle.’ She took Thea’s hand to draw her to her feet. ‘If you would stand. And turn a little. You have an excellent figure, if I might venture. And such a slender neck. It will show to good advantage in the low necklines that are so fashionable this year. And with your hair so short—c’est magnifique. You are tall enough to carry the slender skirts with style. I think we shall manage very well. Tell me what you would choose to wear.’

The result was a comfortable and detailed conversation between Madame Therese and Miss Wooton-Devereux, which resulted in the hovering assistant being dispatched to collect a number of garments from the workroom at the back.

‘You are not the traditional débutante, not the shy ingenue. I agree.’ Madame Therese spoke her thoughts. ‘I think we should—ah, experiment a little. I believe that we should try for a little restrained sophistication. For youth, of course, but with a layer of confidence. We will keep it simple but add a little gloss—how you say—town bronze.’ She nodded, pleased with the direction of her thoughts. ‘What a challenge it will be to promote a new style for a young lady who is not merely a child. I think that we might take the town by storm. I vow that you will wear any of my creations with panache, mademoiselle’

‘I do not think that we wish to draw too much attention …’ Lady Drusilla was quietly horrified. It would take little to encourage Thea. Taking anything by storm was not a careful mama’s intention. A quiet, demure introduction would be much more the thing and far more likely to attract the titled gentleman she had in mind.

‘No, no, Mama.’ Thea’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm for the first time since they had set foot inside the establishment. ‘Madame Therese understands perfectly.’

‘I do indeed.’ The dark eyes reflected the sparkle. ‘There is no need for concern, my lady,’ she was quick to reassure Lady Drusilla. ‘We shall consider nothing outrageous or unseemly. All will be tasteful and elegant. Now. Might I suggest …’

The next hour passed rapidly. An array of dresses appeared as if by magic for mademoiselle to try. Dresses for morning wear, for afternoon visits, for walking or driving in Hyde Park. Silk spencers for when the day was inclement. Gowns for an informal soirée at home, or an evening at Almack’s. Even for a formal ball with a matching cloak and satin slippers. The prevailing style suited Thea to perfection, Judith had to admit with only a hint of jealousy, as she watched her new friend execute a sedate twirl in a high-waisted, low-necked column of shimmering gold with a transparent gauze overskirt. She was as tall and stately, as coolly elegant, as a regale lily until you saw the flash of fire, of sheer enjoyment in those dark blue eyes.

The gowns were, as Madame Therese had promised, simply constructed, with little decoration except for some silk lace to trim, a row of scallops or a neat ruche of ruffles. Perhaps a little satin ribbon or tiny pearl buttons, but nothing outré. But what an air. What style. And in such colours. Celestial blue, as deep as a robin’s egg. A rich, clear pink, nothing like Maiden’s Blush, but one which glowed like a newly unfurled rose in morning sunshine.

Thea was even talked into the palest of eau de nil silk, Breath of the Sea, she was assured—deliciously enhanced by an overskirt of spangled lace. It glittered as the light caught the spangles, gleamed as if under water where the light refracted into a million facets, turning her into a veritable mermaid. Who could resist such gowns?

Finally Madame Therese stood back, hands folded in complete satisfaction.

‘Enchanté! It has been a pleasure to dress you, mademoiselle.’

If she knew the fashion world, as she undoubtedly did, she would wager the cost of the deep blue gown, which, at this moment, was turning Thea into the breathtaking image of a stately but delicate delphinium, that there would be any number of mamas wearing a path to her door to demand that she dress their daughters in such understated but sophisticated glory. But not all would carry off such simplicity as superbly as Mademoiselle Wooton-Devereux.

And as Sir Hector was generous to a fault where his daughter was concerned, Thea had no compunction in giving in to overwhelming temptation and purchasing a number of gowns for immediate delivery to Upper Brook Street.

There was relief on all sides. Not least Lady Beatrice, who responded to the final decisions as if she herself had achieved the unachievable. Miss Wooton-Devereux was now presentable. She raised the lorgnette, admiring a delectable cream and gold creation, most discreet, with a ruched satin border and a neckline enhanced by tiny satin pleats. And if it was made known—the quietest of whispers, in confidence, would do the trick—that the lady was set to inherit a considerable fortune from her beloved papa, Lady Drusilla might just achieve her heart’s desire. Theodora might prove to be quite irresistible.

‘I think that you are now ready to be presented, Theodora.’ Lady Beatrice inclined her head in approval, the ostrich plumes in her bonnet nodding.

‘So do I.’ Thea surveyed herself in the long mirror. Her lips curved. Her mother had been right. London had much to recommend it.

Lady Aston’s drum was everything that Lady Beatrice Faringdon anticipated it to be and more.

Dazzling. Crowded. Humming with gossip, intrigue and comment. Attended by every member of the haut ton who happened to be in London. Lady Aston would be able to crow with delight to the discomfiture of other hostesses who had enjoyed far less success since the beginning of the Season. It provided an excellent opportunity to bring Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux to the combined and critical attention of the Polite World and launch her into society.

‘Are you nervous?’ Judith asked. ‘You don’t appear to be so. How lowering!’ Thea and Judith waited in a little anteroom as a flock of servants descended to relieve the party of their evening wraps. ‘I remember some of my first balls and soirées. I was horribly nervous, almost so much that I did not enjoy them. Once I spilt a whole glass of lemonade, all down the front of a new gown. It was very expensive with Brussels lace over the bodice and—’ She caught the amused glint in Thea’s eyes. Short though their acquaintance might be, Judith’s obsession with pretty clothes was an open secret. ‘Well! Anyway, Mama was furious and threatened not to let me out of the schoolroom again until I could behave with more elegance.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I suppose I was too naïve for words, but I was only seventeen.’

Thea nodded in sympathy as she arranged her stole and unfurled her fan. ‘No. I am not nervous. But then I have an advantage over your position. I have attended any number of such events as this. I presume that I am suitably got up for this momentous occasion?’ She arched her brows in gentle mockery, held out her arms for Judith’s inspection. ‘My mama considered me to be in relatively good looks and Sir Hector huffed at the bills, but did not object.’

Judith could not help but laugh. ‘I think that Lady Drusilla had the right of it. You look quite the thing!’

Thea was in her guise of mermaid in the deliciously spangled eau de nil body with the delicate lace overskirt. She had competed her toilette with long silk gloves, a pretty beaded reticule and the ivory-and-feather fan. The spangled scarf from Madame Therese matched the overskirt. A pearl necklet and pearl drops in her ears completed the ensemble with the exact touch of sophistication. Judith was left to contemplate that in relatively good looks did not quite do justice to this apparition, but she had already come to the conclusion that the relationship between Thea and her mother was not of the common order.

‘Good. Now I can enjoy myself.’ Then the two young women turned to follow Lady Beatrice into the ballroom where their hostess was in the process of receiving a steady stream of guests, the majority of whom she had no idea she had invited.

The Faringdon party found itself absorbed happily into the throng and it was soon abundantly clear that Theodora was in her element in such surroundings. It was also abundantly clear that she would not lack for partners. She was introduced to so many gentlemen, all eager to salute the fingers of the willowy golden-haired beauty who would one day inherit a fortune, that she all but lost count. She chatted, sipped champagne and promised herself for any number of dances, with grace and aplomb and all the assurance of having acted as her mama’s deputy in formal and diplomatic circles.

Lady Beatrice subjected her to more than one sharp glance, but soon was forced to accept that there was no cause here for anxiety that the girl might not know how to conduct herself. Her upbringing might be unusual, she might be of a forthright disposition, but her social skills were excellent and she would do nothing to bring a blush of mortification to her hostess’s face. True, there might have been some concern over whether she should grace the ballroom in the waltz or not. But Lady Drusilla approved. If Theodora could waltz in Paris, she could waltz in London. So waltz she should, and most competently, thus Beatrice shrugged off all responsibility. After which decision, there was nothing to spoil the night.

For her part, Thea took her place in one country dance after another, never flagging. Sufficiently experienced, she did not lack for conversation, but could mind her feet and her tongue at the same time as she twirled and stepped with precision and elegance. Nor was she averse to a little light-hearted flirtation. She could use her fan most adeptly to draw attention to her glorious eyes, whose sparkle rivalled the crystal drops above her pretty head. Laughter and a bright spirit flowed from her. Who would not desire to dance with such an enchanting young lady? No fear that she would ever be a wallflower, destined to sit and watch as others trod the stately or lively measures. And if no unwed earl was present so far to ask for Miss Wooton-Devereux’s hand in the next waltz, not even the Earl of Moreton, still Lady Drusilla could not be disappointed with the proceedings.

As for those who observed and assessed and might have stared in cold and stuffy disapproval, they came to the conclusion that Miss Wooton-Devereux was indeed something out of the way, but not unbecomingly so. And her mama. Well, perhaps Lady Drusilla was a little eccentric with the draped turban on her greying curls, all hung about with jewels and feathers, rather in the manner of an eastern potentate. And the quantity of gold chains on her bosom. Rather strange but … interesting. And Sir Hector—of course—so distinguished and responsible. If the Princess Esterhazy herself greeted Lady Drusilla with warm condescension and a light kiss on the cheek, then there was no matter for concern. And if the girl had been brought up in the courts of Europe, then that would account for any oddity in her manner. But her breeding and her appearance, it was decided, were beyond question. Of course, the prospect of money would win over even those who might still look askance at a girl who was one and twenty before making her formal curtsy.

At some point towards the hour when a light supper would be served, Thea returned from a sprightly reel with Simon, Earl of Painscastle, an enthusiastic if inexact exponent of the art of dancing, somewhat heavy on his own feet and those of his partner, to find Lady Beatrice, Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla in deep conversation with a newcomer to their party. He stood with his back to her. And laughed at something that had been said as they approached.

‘Ah!’ Simon pressed Thea’s hand as it rested on his sleeve. ‘Now here is a man I am pleased to see. And so will you be, I wager. Come—I will introduce you.’

He struck the gentleman on the shoulder, a light punch to draw his attention.

‘Better late than never, Nick. We had quite given up on you. Your dancing skills are needed here by the ladies—and I can retire for a hand or two of whist.’

The gentleman turned, his face still alight from the previous laughter.

‘Simon. Good to see you. Judith says that you are well.’

‘Of course. Burford Hall keeping you busy?’

‘A little. I have been told that I must visit you and admire your son.’

‘Without doubt. Judith invites everyone to admire him!’ But there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. ‘You should try it yourself, my boy!’

‘Not you as well!’ Nicholas smiled, a quick and devastating grin. ‘I am assaulted from all sides.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Simon risked a glance towards Lady Beatrice. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Never mind that. I hear you have a stallion for sale!’

‘For sale? Not at all. Unless you can tempt me with gold!’

‘I might, if he is superior to my own animals. Which I doubt!’

At which descent into purely masculine topics of conversation, which threatened to occupy them for the rest of the evening, Lady Beatrice grasped her son-in-law’s arm with one hand and tapped her nephew’s with her fan to remind them of their surroundings.

‘Don’t start talking horseflesh, for the Lord’s sake.’ But her tone was indulgent enough. ‘Nicholas. I must introduce you …’

During the whole of this interchange, Thea had been standing a little to the side, out of direct line of sight. Out of neither cowardice nor shyness, but standing rooted to the spot, her heart beating rapidly, her mouth dry, for here was the gentleman of the Park. And, she realised in that one moment, the length of a heartbeat, that any memory she had of him bore no comparison with the reality that now stood before her. He took her breath away. Splendidly handsome, as she had realized, but now she had the opportunity to study him in the dark severity and elegance of formal evening clothes, at the same time horribly aware that he could reveal her unmaidenly behaviour to all. She had hoped never to see him again, but there was no escaping this introduction.

‘Theodora, my dear.’ Lady Beatrice drew her forward. ‘This is my nephew, Lord Nicholas Faringdon. Nicholas, allow me to introduce Miss Theodora Wooton-Devereux, Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla’s daughter. This is her first Season in London.’

Nicholas turned to the lady presented to him—and found himself looking into the eyes—those deep blue eyes fringed with the darkest of lashes—that had last flashed with anger and fear as his hand closed around her wrist. But here any similarity ended. Here was wealth, understated taste, elegance. Yet he felt the strange affinity again, rippling over his skin as if brushed by a chill draught of air.

Good manners prevailed, of course. Theodora curtsied in her best court manner, eyes demurely downcast, a smile pinned to her lips, her pretty hand extended to the gentleman. Just as she ought. Nicholas took the offered hand in his own and bowed, a formal inclination of the head, just touching his lips to her fingers. The epitome of the well-bred gentleman of fashion. They straightened, disengaged, the tension between them invisible to all, but palpable none the less.

Thea waited, swallowing against her panic. Was this the moment when he would acknowledge that he had met her before? Would he announce to one and all that she had been galloping in Hyde Park—and wearing boots and breeches? She could not prevent her eyes dropping to his right hand where the whip mark was clearly visible, still a vivid red scar. When he did not and the moment passed, relief surged through her blood, but she did not enjoy the sensation. Her previous behaviour had effectively thrown her into his hands, at his mercy. Resentment quickly overpowered the relief.

Meanwhile Nicholas fought against an equally strong torrent of anger. So this was his aunt’s plan, in spite of his warning. It had all the hallmark of Beatrice Faringdon about it: devious, persistent, interfering. Introduce him to a débutante, wait for the knot to be tied and, in the event of any harm befalling Hal and the young boy in America, the Faringdon succession would be secured to her satisfaction. Furthermore, a débutante whose behaviour had been indecorous in the extreme. Well, he would not. He would not give Lady Beatrice the satisfaction of falling in with her plans. He might keep his face politely bland, his eyes flat, but inside he fumed.

Never had a meeting between lady and gentleman in a ballroom been so fraught with overtones and supposition.

‘Why don’t you invite Thea to dance, my dear Nicholas?’ Beatrice remained oblivious to the passions seething around her.

‘Of course, Aunt. It would be my pleasure.’ His lips curved into a semblance of a smile, but there was no warmth in it. He fixed his gaze on Theodora. ‘Although I presume that you do not waltz, madam,’ he remarked as the musicians struck up.

‘I do indeed, my lord.’ Equally cool.

‘Ah.’ His raised brows were not quite a criticism.

‘I have waltzed in Paris and Vienna, my lord. My mama sees no objection and I have every reason to believe that I have the blessing of the Princess Esterhazy. So I will willingly accept your invitation.’

‘Then I shall be honoured.’ Nicholas bowed in acknowledgement, led Thea on to the dance floor without further comment, where he turned her with one arm around her waist and began to circle to the music. She fit perfectly against him and moved smoothly, gracefully, through the simple demands of the dance. And as in Hyde Park he was stunned by his physical reaction to her. It was a body blow, like a fist to his gut, a tingle along his veins, an outrageous desire to lift her face and cover that enchanting mouth with his own. To kiss her slender fingers in a formal salute was simply not enough. No matter that the whole world might be watching—in that moment he did not care.

And then: I do not want this! His expression as he glanced down at her was almost fierce. Together with the overwhelming wave of lust came the knowledge that this girl was dangerous and his reaction to her was too extreme for comfort. He set himself to resist. He knew that her conduct could be far outside the acceptable and he could not afford to tolerate that. There had been enough scandal in the Faringdon family of late to last a lifetime. He must resist at all costs!

And Theodora? She was aware of none of these thoughts. Aware of nothing but the weight and strength of his arms around her, the clasp of his hand on hers, cool skin against cool skin, the slightest pressure of his body as it brushed hers in the demands of the dance. The memory of the touch of his lips on her hand still burned as a brand. She had waltzed with other partners with mild pleasure. But never anything like this. Lord Nicholas Faringdon quite simply caused her heart to beat against the confines of her bodice like a wild bird in a cage, until she was sure that he would feel the force of it against his chest when he held her close. Just as he had destroyed her composure when his hand had closed around her wrist with such mastery in Hyde Park.

This was no good! Thea knew that she could not remain silent.

‘I have to thank you, my lord.’ Thea raised her eyes to his as they settled into the rhythm of the music. Her colour was a trifle heightened, he noted as dispassionately as he was able, tinting her cheeks a delicious rose, but she was not shy. All he could think about was the sensation of holding her in his arms. He did not want this attraction.

‘Why?’

She was taken aback by this somewhat curt response. And were not his eyes unsettlingly, chillingly grey rather than blue? Perhaps she had simply mistaken it and struggled to find the right words. ‘I am not unaware of the debt I owe you. It would have been most uncomfortable for me if you had revealed the … the circumstances of our previous meeting. You deserve my gratitude, my lord.’

‘It is not necessary.’

And … and I should apologise for my … behaviour towards you,’ she persisted. ‘It was most regrettable.’

‘There is no need.’

‘But I hurt you!’ Her eyes snapped up to his in some confusion. She could not read his expression behind the bland mask. No, she realised, it was not bland but icy with controlled temper. ‘I see the evidence of it on your hand—you cannot deny it.’

‘Very well, then. Yes. You did. Unnecessarily, as it happened. I had no intention of either harming or molesting you, Miss Wooton-Devereux.’

‘I realise that … I should explain.’ She was getting nowhere here. ‘There were circumstances …’ What should she say? She did not wish to bare her soul over the matter of her past experiences, her innermost fears, and certainly not in the centre of a ballroom with a partner who had an amazing effect on her senses and who was less than accommodating to her attempts to make remission. She had apologised and he was totally insensitive to the fact. What could she say? How could she explain? In the event she did not have to.

‘I need no explanation, madam.’ If his eyes froze her, his voice would reduce her to an icicle if she allowed it. ‘You reacted as you saw fit.’ Why did those words have all the air of a snub rather than a soothing offer of forgiveness? She could not be mistaken. There was a cold condemnation in that smooth voice and she did not know what she had done to deserve quite so harsh a judgement. ‘I do not need to know,’ Lord Nicholas continued in preparation for launching the final deadly arrow. ‘But at least you are more conventionally dressed tonight than when we last had the misfortune to meet.’

Any number of sharp replies coming into her mind, Theodora opened her mouth to utter them. Then closed her lips. Since when are you free to comment on what I might or might not wear, my lord? She could not say that aloud, of course—or not here! This was not the time or place to create a scene. The fact that she had indeed been in the wrong ruffled her temper further but she kept a firm hold on it. She smiled, a miracle of control, and chose her words with deadly precision. ‘Yes, I believe that I am, my lord. Everyone who has danced with me has complimented me on my stylish dress à la mode and the appropriateness of this particular creation. Madame Therese is a true artiste, is she not?’

He could not deny the delicate gloss of sarcasm over her words and had the grace to wince a little. But only inwardly.

‘I am delighted that you approve my appearance, my lord. It gives me so much confidence. Without your approval I should be desolate indeed.’ Thea did not let up. But why was he so cold? Perhaps she must accept that, in all truth, being struck by a riding whip would make him so. She had read the contempt in his eyes as their first meeting drew to its unfortunate ending—an infinite quality of disdain—and there was no difference now. But she denied his right to taunt her!

‘I think that you do not lack for confidence, madam.’

A flash of anger darkened her eyes at this lethal sniping. She bit down on any further sharp response. She could not understand the reason for it, but gathered all her social skills about her.

‘Perhaps we should talk of something less controversial, my lord? A ballroom is no place for such a frank exchange of views.’ The smile was still in place. She would keep it there if it killed her!

‘Of course, Miss Wooton-Devereux.’ Nicholas, too, bared his teeth in what could have passed for pleasure if anyone was observing the handsome couple. ‘What do you suggest that we might have in common to discuss?’

Before she could think of anything polite to reply to this challenge, the waltz had drawn to an end and he escorted her with frigid good manners back to where her parents and the Faringdons were ensconced. He bowed to her, and with equal chill to Lady Beatrice. Thea’s hand was soon claimed. She saw Lord Nicholas treading the measure of a country dance further down the set with Judith.

Nicholas made no attempt to approach Thea for the rest of the evening. Theodora made sure that her eyes did not follow him as he danced with other ladies of his acquaintance.

‘Nicholas is quite my favourite cousin,’ Judith observed in a deceptively neutral voice in an interval between dances.

‘Is he?’ Thea studied her dance list intently.

‘And he is so handsome. Do you not agree?’

‘Certainly. I doubt any woman here tonight would disagree.’

Judith gave up, not a little surprised at the lack of interest between them. Nicholas had not set foot near Thea since that one first waltz. But there would be time and enough for them to get to know each other. She would see to it that they did.

Nicholas returned to Faringdon House in a thoroughly bad mood. He was furious with Beatrice. Even after he had warned her off, his aunt had produced a beautiful débutante—he could not deny her lovely face and figure—whom she considered suitable. Suitable? She had no idea! He was also furious with himself for taking out his ill temper on the girl. He might have kept the semblance of good manners, but his comments had been unwarrantable. And he was equally furious with Theodora Wooton-Devereux, whose presence in his arms had left a lasting and most uncomfortable impression on him. He resigned himself to an uneasy night.

Theodora returned to Upper Brook Street equally angry and confused, despite the success of her first public occasion in London. How dare he treat her so! She did not deserve his damning opinions of her or his icy set-downs. And why should he react quite so violently against her? Was he so dull and hidebound that he should condemn her for one social solecism? Well—she did not care! But she determined as she removed the pearl drops from her ears that she would get the better of Lord Nicholas Faringdon!