Читать книгу Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom: Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable - Deb Marlowe - Страница 11

Lily closed her eyes and let her heart soar with the music. Happiness filled her and she didn’t even try to stem it—the ascending harmonies matched her mood so perfectly.

The last several days spent with Lady Dayle had been full—and incredibly fulfilling. The pair of them had shopped a little, and explored much of what the city had to offer. Lily had lost herself in fine art and turned her skin brown picnicking in the parks. They had encountered Miss Dawson again and Lily had struck up a fast friendship with the young lady, and she’d coaxed her into showing her all the fashionable—and safe—areas of the city.

Lily had laughed at the raucous prints lining the shop windows and lusted after the huge selections in the bookstores. Best of all, she had spent endless hours talking and talking with the viscountess. Seven years of questions, comments and contemplations had bubbled up and out of her and Lady Dayle had matched her word for word. And though she did not share in it completely, the viscountess had not once chastised her for her boundless energy or curiosity.

Lily had not forgotten her end of the bargain either. She’d taken Lady Dayle along to several meetings of charitable societies and introduced her to the hard-working, generous people who ran them. The viscountess appeared happy to be wading into these new waters, getting her feet wet and judging which of the endless charitable opportunities interested her most.

Tonight, though, came Lily’s first society outing. Lady Dayle had indeed chosen a musical evening. All about her sat people who took pleasure in each other and in the beauty of the music, and finally Lily felt the last of her restraints fall away. Her spirits flew free to follow the intricate melodies of the string quartet. Even the gradual darkening of the piece could not shake her enjoyment. The beauty of the mournful finish echoed within her and when the last haunting chord faded away she sat silent a moment, relishing it, and ignoring the silent stream of tears down her face.

‘Oh, my dear,’ Lady Dayle said kindly. She pressed Lily’s hand and passed her a linen handkerchief.

Lily smiled her thanks and dried her eyes. She was attracting attention. Two ladies behind the viscountess smiled indulgently at her, but further away she could see others watching with their heads together or talking behind their hands. She raised her chin. ‘That was absolutely beautiful, was it not, my lady?’

‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Lady Dayle. She got to her feet as the rest of the guests rose.

‘I’d forgotten that music could touch you so deeply.’ Lily sighed, following. ‘Will they be doing another piece?’

‘Before the evening is over they will. There is an intermission now, with food and the chance to mingle with the others.’ Lady Dayle flashed a smile over her shoulder. ‘Mrs Montague has asked that her guests also take part in the entertainment. Should you like to play? You mentioned the pianoforte, I believe.’

‘Oh, no.’ Lily laughed. ‘It has been so long since I played anything other than hymns, and I doubt the company would be interested.’

‘I think it would be very well received. This is the most fascinatingly diverse mix of people I’ve seen in a long time.’ She gestured to a corner where a footman with a platter of hot oyster loaves stood surrounded by eager guests. ‘Where else have you ever seen a bishop laughing genially with a patroness of Almack’s and a banking magnate? Mrs Montague’s acquaintances appear to come from nearly every walk of life.’

‘I think it must be the extensive work she does for the Foundling Hospital,’ Lily mused. ‘It is easier to approach people when you do so for a good cause, and you quickly learn who is like-minded and who is not.’ She took a glass of wine from a passing footman, and then stared at Lady Dayle. An odd smile had blossomed suddenly on the viscountess’s face.

‘There now, Lily, you must help me test my theory. Look over my shoulder towards the door and tell me if my son Jack has not just arrived?’

Lily started. A large part of her hoped that the viscountess would be proven wrong. She had not seen Jack Alden since the day of their first dramatic encounter. It was true that she had felt happier in the intervening days than in years, but too many times she had caught herself grinning at nothing, brought to a halt by a vivid recollection of that secret smile on his handsome face.

It still piqued her that this man—the first to awaken in her such an instant, physical response—should not also be the sort of man she could be comfortable with. She battled a sense of loss too, and a relentless curiosity. Why should Jack Alden—who appeared to have every advantage—have grown so closed? What could have happened, to cause him to retreat so far into himself?

She would likely never know. But even though she knew that such a man was not for her, still she was plagued with sudden memories of the intensity of his hazel gaze, the heat of his touch upon her arm, the low rasp of his voice as he leaned close …

Stop, she ordered herself.

She took an unobtrusive step to the side and let her gaze drift towards the door. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is Mr Alden.’ Her pulse tripped, stumbled and then resumed at a ridiculously frantic rate.

He stood framed in the doorway, casually elegant and annoyingly handsome. Though he focused on greeting their hostess, even from here she could see the cool remoteness in his gaze. He was the only man of her acquaintance who could manage to look both intense and aloof in the same moment. It irritated her beyond reason.

She stepped back, placing his mother between them so he was no longer in her line of vision. She cast a curious look at Lady Dayle. ‘You are facing away from the door. How ever did you know that he had arrived?’

Lady Dayle laughed. ‘A tell-tale gust of wind.’ She nodded to the guests grouped behind Lily. ‘Jack walks in and we are treated to a phalanx of fluttering fans, flittering eyelashes and swishing skirts. It is a sure sign when I feel a breeze tugging on my coiffure.’

‘Is Mr Alden considered such a good match, then?’ Lily asked. She grinned. ‘I don’t mean to offend; it is just that Lady Ashford indicated otherwise—and in quite certain terms.’

‘Warned you off, did she? It’s to be expected. She had hopes once, you see … Well, never mind, that’s all ancient history.’ She leaned closer. ‘Jack is not approaching, is he?’

Lily carefully glanced over her shoulder. ‘No. He’s just moved past Mrs Montague. He doesn’t look at all happy to be here, I must say.’

He looked across and met her gaze right at that moment. Her composure abruptly deserted her. Face flaming, she nearly took a step backwards just from physical shock. Reminding herself to breathe, she wrenched her gaze from his, concentrating on his mother once more.

‘Good. Look at them.’ Lady Dayle indicated the gaggle of girls who were focused subtly, and in some cases downright overtly, on her son. ‘It’s because he’s so elusive, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a rare enough occasion that his brother or I can convince him to attend an event such as this. And with his name being bandied about lately after that contretemps at the Egyptian Hall, he seems to have become even more interesting.’

Lily stared thoughtfully at the hopeful girls. ‘I assume Mr Alden enjoys the attention,’ she mused.

‘I wish he did,’ Lady Dayle said flatly. ‘Truthfully, I don’t think he has the faintest notion of their interest. A fact that I believe sometimes spurs the young ladies on.’ She sighed. ‘He presents something of a challenge.’

Lily glanced carefully back in Mr Alden’s direction. She might feel a bit of sympathy for him, if she could believe him to be as unmindful of them all as his mother thought. But her own experience had shown him to be intelligent and a keen observer.

She shook her head. She did not believe it. Mr Alden simply could not be oblivious to the fervent interest directed his way. Not even he could be so selfishly unaware.

Only consider their last encounter. Her desire to accompany her mother and Lady Ashford on their trip had been obvious, yet he had not hesitated to thwart her. The thought that he might toy with these girls in a similar fashion only fuelled her aggravation with him.

Lady Dayle had turned to glance behind her. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Here he comes now.’

‘Good evening, Mother. Miss Beecham.’ Mr Alden bowed low. Her heart thundering in her ears, Lily made her curtsy and tried not to notice the way the candlelight glinted off his thick dark hair.

‘I do not have to ask if you ladies are enjoying yourselves,’ he continued. ‘Our hostess has already informed me and anyone else who would listen that Miss Beecham found herself transported by the music tonight. She is touting it as a sure sign of the success of the evening.’

Lily raised her eyebrows. ‘Mrs Montague has no need of my approval, but I should be happy to provide it. The music tonight has been stunningly beautiful—I am sure I am not the only one to be so moved.’

‘You were the only one moved to tears, it would seem.’ He spoke politely, but Lily thought she caught the hint of disapproval in Mr Alden’s tone. He looked to the viscountess. ‘I hope that you warned her, Mother—’

‘Warned me?’ Lily interrupted.

He glanced about as if to be sure no one listened. ‘I understand that you have been little in society, Miss Beecham—’

He got no further before Lily interrupted him. ‘Pray do not concern yourself, Mr Alden.’ She tossed her head. ‘I believe we established your inexperience with women of my stamp during our last conversation.’

His mouth quirked. ‘Your stamp, Miss Beecham?’

She glared at him over her drink. ‘Yes, sir. My stamp. My education has not been limited to embroidering samplers and learning a smattering of French. Besides charitable work, my mother and I have duties to the lands my father left and the families upon it.’

‘Very commendable, I am sure—’ he began.

‘Thank you,’ she interrupted. ‘Though you may smirk, you would be shocked at the lists of tasks that must be seen to on a daily basis, all while attempting to persuade the land steward that there is no shame in consulting a woman on crop rotation and field drainage. In the same vein, I have occasionally had to cajole proud but hungry tenants into taking a loan so that they may feed their families. I’ve been called to coax the sick into taking their medicine, persuade duelling matrons into working together on a charity drive and I have even spoken publicly against the evils of slavery. I think you can trust me to keep my foot out of my mouth at a musical evening.’

Mr Alden did not appear to be impressed. ‘All quite admirable, Miss Beecham, but you’ve never before encountered London society, and that is a different animal altogether.’

‘People are people, Mr Alden.’

‘Unfortunately not. In society you will encounter mind-numbingly bored people—arguably the most dangerous sort. You must understand, they are looking for something, anything, to divert them. I would not wish to see you targeted as a new plaything. Ridiculing a new arrival, painting her as a hopeless rustic, ruining her chances of acceptance—for many this is naught but an amusing pastime.’

Lily stared. Fate, chance and the heavens had finally conspired to set her free—at least for a few fleeting weeks—and he thought to tell her how to go on? It was the last straw. Jack Alden needed to be taught a lesson, and without a doubt Lily had enough of her old spirit left to be the one to give it to him.

She straightened her shoulders. When she had been young and in the grip of this determined mood, her mother had told her that she was worse than a wilful nag. Well, she had the bit in her teeth now. Jack Alden was a fraud. He showed the world a mask, exhibiting nothing but dispassion and uninterest, but worse lay underneath. He was as quick to condemn as the most judgemental of society’s scandalmongers. Well, Lily would give him a taste of his own, and she highly doubted he would enjoy the flavour of either uninterest or censure.

‘Jack, dear,’ the viscountess spoke before Lily could. ‘Do you really think I would allow Lily to do herself harm?’ She cocked her head at her son. ‘And in any case, I do not think you are in a position to speak to anyone about calm and rational conduct, not when you consider your own erratic temper over the last few weeks.’

He had the grace to redden a bit, but he ignored the jab at his own behaviour. ‘Well, there is that old Eastern philosophy—the one in which a person who saves a life becomes responsible for it thereafter.’

‘Let us not forget that you were driving the vehicle that threatened me,’ Lily said. ‘In fact, you saved me from yourself.’ She raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘What does your philosophy say about that?’

‘Oh, dear,’ Lady Dayle intervened. ‘If you two are going to squabble like cats, then I am off to speak with Lord Dearham. He is a great lover of music …’ she cast her son a speaking look ‘… unlike others I could name.’ Patting Lily affectionately, she said, ‘I shall meet you back at our seats when the music begins again, shall I?’

Lily watched her go before turning back to her victim. ‘If you do not enjoy music, Mr Alden, then I confess I am curious to hear why you would attend a musical evening.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘In fact, I do like music. But my mother will not forgive me for eschewing the operas that she so admires. I find that sort of entertainment too … tempestuous.’

‘I see,’ Lily said reflectively. ‘Not having experienced the opera myself, I must reserve judgement. Still, one wonders if something other than the music drew your interest here tonight.’

He stiffened, obviously a little puzzled by her hostility. ‘You are very perceptive, Miss Beecham.’ He glanced after Lady Dayle. ‘I find that I’m quite interested in the Evangelicals. I would like to know more about them.’

Lily lifted her chin. ‘We are not specimens to be examined, Mr Alden.’

‘Nor do I think so,’ he replied easily. ‘My brother mentioned their works and their intriguing notions on how to reform society.’ He shrugged. ‘I am here to learn.’

‘You chose well, then. There are several influential Evangelicals here tonight.’ She nodded across the room. ‘Mr Macaulay, in fact, would be an ideal person for you to speak with. I dare say he can tell you everything you need to know.’ She smiled ingratiatingly. ‘He looks to be free right now.’

‘Yes, he does indeed.’ He smiled and she received the distinct impression that he was trying to win her over. ‘But I came over here seeking a restful companion.’ His gaze wandered briefly over her. As if he had physically touched her, Lily felt her skin twitch and tingle in its wake. She had to fight to keep him from seeing how he affected her. ‘May I say,’ he continued with an incline of his head, ‘that I could not have found a lovelier one.’

‘Thank you.’ She kept her tone absent, as if his compliment had not set off a warm glow in her chest. ‘I should think that this line of inquiry is very different from your usual research. Your mother tells me that you are a notable scholar.’

He nodded.

‘You mentioned the ancients at our late supper a few days ago. Is that your area of specialty?’

‘Yes, ancient civilisations.’

She eyed him shrewdly. ‘I imagine you find it much easier to shut yourself up and study people of long ago than to deal with them in person. Real people can be so … tempestuous.’

That sardonic smile appeared. Lily’s heart jumped at the sight of it. ‘I do get out and amongst people on occasion, Miss Beecham. Thank goodness for it, too; I would not have missed making your acquaintance for the world.’

She ignored the good humour in his voice and let her gaze drop to his injured arm. ‘Yes, but I do hope you did not strain your arm in doing so.’

‘No, it is fine, thank you. I should be able to remove the sling in a week or two.’

‘When your mother told me of your profession, I asked her if you had sustained your injury in a fall from a library stepstool.’

Mr Alden choked on a sip of his wine. Lily saw his jaw tighten and when he spoke, his light tone had been replaced with something altogether darker.

‘No. Actually I was shot—while helping to prevent a group of thieves from making off with some valuable antiquities.’

‘So Lady Dayle tells me! I was quite amazed, and a little thrilled, actually.’ She smiled brightly at his reddening countenance. ‘You give me hope, you see.’

‘Hope?’ he asked, and his voice sounded only slightly strangled.

‘Indeed. For if a quiet scholar like you can find himself embroiled in such an adventure, then perhaps there is hope for a simple girl like me as well.’

It was a struggle, she could tell, but still he retained his expression of bland interest. Curse him.

‘Do you crave adventure, Miss Beecham?’ he asked.

‘Not adventure, precisely.’

‘Travel, perhaps? A flock of admirers?’ He was regaining his equilibrium, fast. ‘Or perhaps you simply wish for dessert?’ He flagged down a passing footman with a tray of pastries.

Lily had to suppress a smile. This oh-so-polite battle of wit and words was by far the most fun she had had in ages. She eyed the footman and decided to take the battle to the next level. She selected a particularly rich-looking fruit-filled tart. ‘Travel,’ she mused. ‘That would be delightful. But since I have it on good authority that I am of no age or situation conducive to easy arrangements, I suppose I must wait until I am older.’ She raised her tart in salute. ‘And stouter.’

Her eyes locked with his while she took a large bite, only to gradually close in ecstasy. She chewed, sighed and savoured. ‘Oh, I must tell your mother to try one—the burnt-orange cream topping is divine!’ Breathing deep, she held her breath for several long seconds before slowly exhaling. She opened languid eyes, taking care to keep them half-hooded as she glanced again at Mr Alden.

And promptly forgot to take a second bite. That had done it. At last she had cracked his polite façade. He stared, the green of his eyes nearly obliterated by pupils dilated with hunger. It wasn’t the tart that he hungered for, either. His gaze was fixed very definitely on the modest neckline of her gown.

‘So if travel must be a delayed gratification …’ he said hoarsely, then paused to clear his throat ‘… what will you substitute, Miss Beecham?’

‘This,’ replied Lily instantly, waving her free hand. ‘Delightful company with warm and open-minded people. The chance to exchange ideas, enjoy music and good conversation.’

‘I hear that Mrs Montague has opened her gallery to her visitors tonight,’ he returned. ‘She has several noteworthy pieces. Perhaps you will enjoy some good conversation with me while we explore it?’

Lily smiled at him. She popped the last bit of tart into her mouth and dusted the crumbs from her gloves. ‘Thank you, Mr Alden …’ she shook her head as he offered her his arm ‘… but I must decline. I see an acquaintance from the Foreign Bible Society and I simply must go and congratulate her on her gown.’ She dipped a curtsy and, fighting to keep a triumphant smile from her face, turned and set off.

Flummoxed, Jack watched Lily Beecham walk away. This was not at all going the way he had planned. He’d mapped his strategy so carefully, too, and the troublesome chit had derailed him completely.

Aberrant—that’s what she was. If it wasn’t against all the laws of nature for one female to inspire so many conflicting reactions in a man, then it should be. She acted in a manner completely unpredictable. Her sharp wit and quirky humour kept him perpetually unbalanced—just as he desperately sought an even keel.

His nightmares had grown worse over the last few days. He couldn’t sleep and had no wish to eat. Worse—he couldn’t concentrate on his work. The ability to form a coherent written thought appeared to have deserted him.

Things had grown so bad that scenes from his youth—memories of his father’s disdain for his third son—had begun to haunt him even while he was awake. But Jack had not allowed his father’s casual cruelty to touch him while he’d been alive, and he would be damned before he let the old codger torment him from the grave.

He’d focused all of his energies instead on the thought of capturing Batiste. One advantage Lord Dayle’s ‘damned bookish’ son possessed was a wide correspondence. Jack had contacts all over the world and, though it had been a painfully slow process, he had been for several weeks laboriously writing and put them all on notice. If Batiste put in to port near any of them, Jack would hear of it.

His next step was to track down Matthew Beecham. The shipbuilder had had extensive dealings with Batiste, and he might just be able to lead him straight to him. But first Jack had to get through Lily Beecham.

He circulated amongst Mrs Montague’s guests and tried not to be obvious in his observation of the girl. He’d taken note of her altered appearance straight away. She had a number of new freckles sprinkled across her nose, if he was not mistaken, and her red-gold mane had been tamed into a sleek and shining coiffure.

He thought he detected his mother’s hand in the new style of gown she wore. She still dressed conservatively, but the gown of deep blue poplin represented a vast difference from the shapeless sack she’d worn when they met. The white collar, though high, served to draw the eye unerringly to her substantially fine bosom, and the soft and sturdy fabric snuggled tight both there and down the long, shapely length of her arms.

She looked quiet, constrained, the veritable picture of restraint—until she spoke. Then a man found himself either cut by the razor edge of her tongue or riveted by her marvellously expressive face. Nor was he the only one affected. She made the rounds of the room, talking easily with everyone she encountered, and laughing with uninhibited abandon. Clearly she had a gift. Every person she spoke with ended up smiling right along with her. The ladies gazed fondly after her and the gentlemen stared, agape and entranced.

Jack hovered across the room, in complete sympathy with the lot of them. Like a naturalist who had discovered a new species, he could not look away. The girl appeared perfectly comfortable conversing with strangers and seemed to be on the best of terms with Minerva Dawson, too. He’d heard some nonsense about those two being distantly related. They flitted about the room like a couple of smiling butterflies, one darkly handsome, the other shining like a crimson flame. Jack saw Miss Dawson’s mother gazing fondly on the pair, but her companion—her sister, he thought—observed them with a frown. Well. Perhaps not everyone in the family was enamoured of their new connection.

Jack, watching closely as well, failed to see why. To his relief and chagrin, Miss Beecham never made a mis-step—until an elderly couple, arriving late, paused on the threshold of the room.

Obviously, she knew them. Mrs Montague had begun to herd her guests back to their seats in preparation for the music to begin again, but Miss Beecham struggled against the flow of people to fight her way to the newcomers. Her eyes shone and her sparkling smile grew wider still as she embraced them both with enthusiasm.

It looked to be a happy reunion. Jack watched surreptitiously as they talked. A few of the other guests had glanced over at the chattering threesome, but he thought he was the only one still paying attention when the older lady sobered, laid a gentle hand on Lily’s arm and said something in a soft voice.

Jack stood too far away to hear the words she spoke, but he could see that they were not welcome to Miss Beecham. She paled, instantly and noticeably. All of the joy faded from her face and her hand trembled as she grasped the other woman’s.

Mrs Montague chose that moment to notice her new arrivals. The little tableau broke apart as she greeted the couple heartily and began to pull them forwards towards the seating. Miss Beecham did not follow. Blank disbelief coloured her expression as she stared after the couple. She flashed a glance his way and Jack averted his eyes, pretending to be scanning for a seat. He looked back just in time to see her slipping away into the hall.

Jack’s heart began to pound. She was clearly distressed and probably sought a quiet moment to herself, but this was it—his chance to get her alone and talking about her family. He had to take it. He edged towards the door and followed.

The tinkling and tootling of tuning instruments followed him into the hall. The few people left out there began to move past him, into the music room. Jack could see no sign of the girl. He glanced up the stairs. Several women still moved up and down, seeking or leaving the ladies’ retiring room. No, not there. Instinct pointed him instead down the dimly lit hallway leading towards the back of the house.

He found her in the bookroom. Only a small pair of lamps fought the dark shadows here. Her head bowed, she stood, poised in graceful profile at the window. One hand stretched, holding the heavy curtain aside, but she did not look out. Jack’s breathing quickened. Flickering light, reflected from the torches set up outside, danced like living flames in her hair. He stopped just inside the door. ‘Miss Beecham? Are you all right?’

For a long, silent moment, she did not respond. Then she simply drew a breath and looked back at him, over her shoulder.

Jack, about to step closer, froze. There it was again, in her eyes. Pain, sorrow, loss. It had been the first expression he had seen on her face and it had struck him hard then. Now, when he could so closely contrast it with the joy and animation that had shone from her all evening, it hit him a staggering blow.

‘Good God,’ he said involuntarily. ‘What’s happened?’

She dropped the curtain. ‘I … that is … Nothing, thank you. I am fine.’

The urge to know, the compulsion to help her, fluttered in his breast. He realised that it happened every time he was with her. She forged in him a disturbing and unfamiliar yearning for a connection. He had to ignore it, to find a way to remember his purpose. To regain control.

‘Come, Miss Beecham, I’m not a fool. I can see that something has upset you.’

A china shepherdess graced the table next to the window. She avoided his gaze and touched the delicate thing with the lightest touch of her fingertips. Jack watched them glide over the smooth surface and swallowed.

‘It’s just … some disturbing news from a friend, I’m afraid,’ she said, still not looking at him.

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

Now she looked up. She set the figurine aside. Her chin rose and the icy coldness of her glare held him fast. ‘I should think you’d be happy to find that I am following your advice.’

‘Advice?’ Once again she had him at a loss. Ancient Sumerian was easier to translate than this girl’s fits and starts.

‘Yes. You see—here I am, hiding away, keeping my unsuitable emotions private.’

Stunned, Jack stared at her. Was this the reason for her hostility? Had he hurt her? He considered stepping closer, taking her hand, but he felt inept, clumsy. ‘I do apologise. If you thought I meant to criticise … I hope you will understand, I only meant to help you.’

She crossed her arms defensively in front of her. ‘Help me what?’

He took a moment to answer. ‘Protect yourself, I suppose.’

Her arms dropped. Her eyes grew huge and some emotion that looked dangerously like pity crossed her face. ‘Protect myself from what, Mr Alden?’ She gestured towards the door. ‘In there is a roomful of people come to pass a pleasant evening and enjoy some good music. It is not a den of monsters.’

She was so young. So naïve. Jack wanted to wrap her in swaddling and spirit her away, to somehow keep her safe in this pristine, happy state.

He took a step back. He was doing it again. She was doing it again. This was not why he had come here. He sketched a quick bow. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to insult you.’

She inclined her head a little. He took what he could get and forged ahead. ‘Your mother, she is well? I hope that was not the nature of your news?’

‘Oh. No. Mother is fine. I had a letter from her yesterday. She and Lady Ashford appear to be enjoying themselves. They have met many new people and even approve of a few of them.’

‘And the rest of your family?’ he persisted. ‘I hope they are well, also?’

‘Thank you, but I have no other family. Mother and I have been alone since my father died.’

Jack’s fist clenched. His breath caught. It could not be. Please. He did not want to have been wrong about her connection to Matthew Beecham. ‘Just the two of you alone in the world?’ he asked past the constriction in his throat. ‘That is sad enough, in and of itself.’

‘Just the two of us,’ she said. ‘Unless you count my cousin Matthew—but he lives in America now.’

Jack almost slumped in relief. Almost. He grinned at her. ‘An American cousin? My brother’s wife boasts such a connection. I hope yours is not so, ah, vibrant a character as hers.’

He’d actually drawn an answering smile. ‘Oh, Matthew is a character, without a doubt.’ She laughed. ‘You would never believe me if I shared half the antics we used to get up to.’

‘Are you close, then?’ He held his breath.

She sighed. ‘We were. Matthew lived with us for several years after his parents died. I was just a girl and I thought the sun rose and set with him.’

‘I hope he returned the sentiment.’

‘He did, or close enough to please me.’ She smiled. ‘He taught me the most unsuitable things! And I loved him for it.’

‘Hmm, now he sounds like my brother Charles.’

‘Oh, I’ve already heard a few of the tales about Charles.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t think we could have kept up with him, even on our best days.’

‘Nor could I.’

She glanced sharply at him and Jack wondered if he’d revealed too much.

‘Matthew was special to me. Other than my father, I would say that he may be the only person in the world who has ever truly known me.’

Jack fought a twinge of conscience. He was too close to back down now. ‘Was special? Do you not keep in touch any longer?’

‘We exchange the occasional letter.’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘I confess, although I have altogether less to write about, I am far more likely to write him than vice versa. And though his correspondence has always been irregular and infrequent, it is always a delight when it comes.’ She grinned again. ‘American life has some rather droll differences from ours, based on his descriptions.’ Jack watched, hopeful and more than a little enchanted, as a tiny frown of concentration creased her brow. ‘But it has been months and months since last I heard from him. I don’t think I realised until now just how long it has been.’

‘And how does he find America, besides droll? Does he not miss his home?’

‘Not at all, as far as I can tell. He’s quite happy there. He’s a shipbuilder and doing tolerably well.’ She cocked her head. ‘Perhaps his business has increased and that is what keeps him from writing.’

Disappointment and hope warred in Jack’s chest. For a moment he considered telling her the truth, but cast the thought quickly aside. She obviously knew nothing of the trouble her cousin had tangled himself in. Matthew Beecham might just contact his cousin and ask for help. It would behoove Jack to stay close as well.

It was a sobering thought. She was damned perplexing. He didn’t know if he could win her confidence, and, more importantly, he didn’t know if he could keep a rein on his own unfortunate reactions to her.

He’d been quiet too long. She watched him, curiosity etched in her clear, fresh face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘thank you for distracting me from my sombre thoughts. I had best return to the music room.’ She glanced at him again and made to move away.

‘Wait,’ he asked. His conscience still pricked him. He could not forget the earlier hurt in her voice.

She paused.

‘About what I said earlier,’ he began, stumbling a little over the words. ‘I have no authority to dictate to you, or even advise you. Truly, I meant my words, as I said, as a warning. A friendly warning.’ She’d stopped on her way out and stood very close now. The darkened room contracted around them. ‘Perhaps you do not know, but my own family has shown a disregard for society’s expectations in the past—and been persecuted for it. I just wish to spare you that sort of pain.’

Her face softened. Jack’s gaze locked with hers. Her colour heightened and he noticed that those adorable freckles disappeared when she flushed. ‘I begin to understand,’ she said softly. Jack had the impression that she spoke as much to herself as to him. ‘Perhaps you will scoff—’ she spoke in nearly a whisper ‘—but we are very alike.’

A frown furrowed her lovely brow, and she caught that enticingly plump bottom lip with her teeth. Jack could not look away. Somehow the chit had turned the tables and was now worried for him. It was an intoxicating thought. Yet he was here with a purpose. He drew a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of anything else.

Her hand rose between them. Jack’s pulse began to race. Small and uncertain, that hovering hand drove all thought of his objective from his head. For a moment, he felt sure she meant to draw it back. His gut twisted inside out as part of him longed to jerk away—and the other waited in breathless anticipation for her to touch him.

She did touch him. He saw the resolution in her eyes as she extended her arm and then he felt the butterfly touch of her fingers tracing a path along his jaw. His eyes closed. Her warm little hand slid over his shoulder and came to rest on his chest.

‘When my father died, I thought just as you do,’ she whispered. ‘It is a very hard thing, to feel alone in a room full of people.’

But Jack’s eyes were open again, and her words did not register. He could not think past the mix of empathy and desire swimming in the cool blue of her gaze, could not focus on anything but the movement of that tempting lower lip. Logic, his close companion all these years, screamed at him to stop, shouted a warning that, for the first time ever, he ignored. Her mouth beckoned. He had to taste it, mark it as his.

His gaze fixed, he mimicked her earlier movement, raising his hand and brushing the silky skin of her jaw. She gasped. He did not let it deter him. He ran his fingers into the smooth knot of hair at her nape and cupped her jaw. He leaned in, intent on his purpose—

‘Miss Beecham?’

She jerked back, her eyes wide. Jack blinked. Then he cursed. Ever so slowly, awareness began to return. She stepped quickly towards the door, but the alarm in his head did not fade.

‘Miss Beecham, there you are!’

It was one of the young pups who had drooled over her in the music room. He gave an extravagant bow and offered her his arm and a friendly grin. ‘Miss Beecham, I’ve been sent to fetch you. Our hostess hopes you will entertain us all with a song on the pianoforte.’

She glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. The boy’s gaze followed. His engaging smile faded.

Jack managed a grim nod. ‘There, Miss Beecham,’ he said, keeping his tone brisk. ‘Perhaps this young man will take you back to my mother while I find the footman seeking me? Thank you for informing me of the message awaiting me.’

The boy’s grin returned at the welcome request. ‘I would be happy to escort you, Miss Beecham. Mr Bartleigh is but newly arrived, but he tells us you have more than a passing knowledge of many of the older broadsheet ballads. He’s hoping you’ll share your rendition of “Ballynamony”.’

She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should not.’ She glanced at Jack again, and this time there was a challenge glittering in her eyes. ‘So many of the ballads are sentimental. I should not wish to expose myself to ridicule.’

‘Never say such a thing! A lovely young lady such as yourself, in genial company such as this? Impossible,’ he scoffed. ‘And should anyone dare to suggest otherwise, I will deal with them myself.’

Jack’s jaw clenched. Miss Beecham smiled up at her young admirer.

He had to escape. Logic whispered fervently in his ear again and this time he paid heed. Logic stood correct and unassailable as always. He should feel grateful for the boy’s interruption, not ready and willing to strangle both him and the baiting chit.

‘Miss Beecham—’ he could not look directly at her ‘—thank you for your kindness in coming for me. Please convey my farewells to my mother?’

‘Of course. Goodnight, Mr Alden.’

He ignored the thread of steel in her voice and brushed past them into the hall. He did indeed go searching for a footman and sent the man off after his coat and hat.

He should be thrilled. He’d accomplished the first step and verified Miss Beecham’s connection to his target. Now he only had to wait for him to communicate with her, or he might even prod her into discovering her cousin’s whereabouts. She might even know more, such as where the shipbuilder might have gone when he disappeared.

He was not thrilled. The vague restlessness that had been plaguing him roiled in his gut, transformed into something altogether uglier. He’d had a narrow escape tonight, on several levels. This could not continue. He must control himself around the girl, no matter what tender emotions lived in her blue eyes and in spite of that damned tempting mouth of hers.

Control. Restraint. They were his allies, his support, as necessary to his existence as air. He breathed deep. He could do this. Hell, he’d already spent a lifetime doing this.

The footman brought his things. As he shrugged into his coat, the first few strains of a sprightly song began in the music room. Miss Beecham’s bright, lilting voice wafted out and over him.

Wherever I’m going, and all the day long,

At home and abroad, or alone in a Throng,

I find that my Passion’s so lively and strong,

That your Name when I’m silent still runs in my Song.

Jack placed his hat firmly on his head and walked out.