And Then She Fell

chapter Three



Lady Marchmain’s rout was one of the traditional highlights of the Season. That said, it wasn’t an event patronized by the very young ladies only just out, but rather by those no longer caught up in the first flush of the Marriage Mart. Among the sea of well-coiffed heads gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers, in between the black-clad shoulders of fashionable gentlemen in evening attire and the stunning gowns in more intense hues worn by dashing matrons and more mature ladies, could be glimpsed the definite-yet-still-pastel-colored creations favored by young ladies with several Seasons under their belts but as yet no offer for their hands.

“Just as I thought.” Clad in blue silk in a shade deeper than her eyes, Henrietta tipped her head toward the melee, then leaned closer to James, standing alongside her, the better to be heard over the din created by hundreds of wagging tongues. “We’re sure to find several good candidates in this crowd.”

James eyed the shifting throng with a jaundiced eye. “The trick will be winkling them out from the herd.”

“Never fear.” Eyes sparkling, Henrietta grinned, transparently in her element. “Trust me—it won’t be that difficult.”

They were standing by one side of the massive ballroom, with a wall of long windows at their backs. Beyond the windows lay a wide lawn rolling down to a stream; the darkening shadows of extensive gardens stretched into the distance beyond.

Marchmain House stood outside London proper, at a bend along the river near Chiswick. James had arrived reasonably early, wanting to be there when Henrietta walked in. He’d assumed she would be attending with her mother and sister, but instead she’d appeared at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom alone; a slender figure in the blue silk gown that echoed the soft shade of her eyes, a gold-spangled shawl draped over her elbows, she’d instantly commanded his attention. He’d watched her greet Lady Marchmain, a motherly lady of the grande dame variety, with open affection, then move on to peck Lord Marchmain’s cheek before, with a laugh, descending to the ballroom.

James had been waiting for her by the bottom step.

The smile she’d bestowed on him when her gaze had alighted on him—the quick glance she’d sent skating over him and the approval that had flared in her eyes—had left him feeling a tad off-balance. Knocked askew. How he was supposed to command his unruly senses to focus on any other young lady was beyond his comprehension.

But . . . “There’s Miss Alcock.” Henrietta shifted closer still to point out a young lady in an apple green gown. “We should definitely consider her. And . . .” She wove away, then back, peering past the shoulders, simultaneously playing havoc with James’s distracted senses; her perfume, a subtle blend of citrus and rose, wreathed his brain and trapped his wits. “Yes, that’s Miss Ellingham over there—I had hoped she would be here.”

Henrietta turned to him. “Come along. I’ll introduce you, and then, unless I miss my guess, and I rarely do, the musicians will start playing and the dancing will begin, and there’s no better opportunity to assess a young lady than while you’re waltzing with her.”

Inwardly grim, he nodded. Wondering just what she meant by “assess”—what criteria did she think he might explore?—he manfully accompanied her into the crush.

Within ten feet, he’d been forcibly reminded just why he normally avoided such events. It was heavy going, tacking this way and that through the shifting mass, trying to keep alongside Henrietta while simultaneously not taking her arm. Time and again, when they paused to exchange greetings, occasionally stopping to chat, he was forced to clasp his hands behind his back simply to stop himself from reaching for her arm and drawing her protectively nearer.

Many young ladies would have shrunk toward him, would have relied on him to steer them through the throng, but Henrietta was entirely at home amid the surging bodies and forged ahead unperturbed; in this arena, she needed no protection. If anything, the shoe was on the other foot, and he needed hers.

That was a reality played out again and again, one that subtly grated on some heretofore unregistered instinct.

Yet she was as good as her word, and he found himself standing beside her in the circle in which pretty Miss Alcock stood animatedly chatting. When the first strains of the violins floated out above the heads, it was a simple matter to request Miss Alcock’s hand. With a sweet smile, Miss Alcock accepted, and he led her to the dance floor—all too conscious of Henrietta’s encouraging smile following him into and through the resulting waltz.

From there, the evening progressed with Henrietta steering him into circle after circle, guiding him to one potential candidate after another. He danced with Miss Chisolm, whom he’d met in the park that morning, and also with Miss Downtree and Miss Ellingham.

By the time he drew Miss Swinson into his arms and started them revolving, his conversational gambits had grown somewhat tired. At least to him. Luckily, Miss Swinson found his deliberately charming smile and his pleasant inquiry as to how she was enjoying the evening entirely appropriate.

“It’s the devil of a crush, isn’t it? Oh!” Her eyes rounded, then filled with rueful laughter. “Pray excuse me! I know I shouldn’t say that—devil, I mean—but with so many brothers, it just slips out.”

James grinned quite sincerely. “Pray don’t censor your words on my account.”

She tipped her head, regarding him, then asked, the laughter still in her eyes, “In that case—are you enjoying the evening? It seems an unlikely event to attract one such as you.”

“You are clearly perspicacious. I have to admit that I’m finding the crush rather draining.”

“Yes, well, it is one of the main events of the Season, at least for all those not immersed in the Marriage Mart.” As they whirled, a ripple of reaction among the other dancers distracted Miss Swinson; she looked across, then returned her gaze to James’s face. “A case in point—that was Sir Peter Affry and the lovely Dulcimea Thorne waltzing by. Word is that he’s dangling after Cassandra Carmichael, but Dulcimea isn’t one to let any other steal a march on her.”

The revolutions of the waltz brought the couple in question into James’s sight. He recognized the gentleman Henrietta had pointed out that morning, and took due note of the predatory way Miss Thorne had all but draped herself over Sir Peter, the niceties of proper waltzing etiquette notwithstanding. “Miss Thorne certainly appears to be making a strong argument for Sir Peter’s attention.”

As they whirled again, Miss Swinson craned her neck to see. “It’ll be all over the at-homes tomorrow morning, no doubt.”

James could almost find it in him to be grateful to Sir Peter and his pursuit of the beauteous Miss Carmichael; with all eyes, however discreetly, watching the developments between Sir Peter and Miss Thorne, no one was inclined to pay all that much attention to the strange circumstance of one of the ton’s acknowledged wolves running on The Matchbreaker’s leash.

Henrietta watched from the sidelines. Although she maintained her part in a steady stream of conversations, she was aware that James remained the true cynosure of her senses, even while he was circling the dance floor with another lady. She wasn’t sure she approved of her senses’ apparent fixation, but she wasn’t particularly adept at lying to herself; that moment when she’d seen him as she’d walked down the stairs . . . if she’d been carrying a fan, she would have used it.

James Glossup in evening attire, looking up at her, his lovely brown eyes, their soulfulness tonight entirely unmarred by temper, fixed on her, was a sight designed to make her heart leap, then speed into a ridiculous cadence, to make her lungs seize and her wits grow giddy . . . luckily he couldn’t know the effect he had on her. She was perfectly sure no good would come of him gaining such revealing knowledge.

Indeed, when it came to that, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know—in fact, she wasn’t at all certain what her strange reaction implied.

The waltz currently in progress ended. James bowed to Miss Swinson, raised her from her curtsy, and escorted her back to the group where Henrietta, still chatting easily, waited. As he released Miss Swinson and took up his previous position by Henrietta’s side, she surreptitiously arched a brow at him. He saw it, but other than briefly meeting her eyes, he didn’t respond.

Once the group had re-formed, at her instigation they excused themselves and moved on into the, if anything even denser, crowd. “Now . . .” She looked about her with what was fast becoming feigned interest. “Who can we assess next?”

She felt James glance at her, then he murmured, leaning close so she could hear, so the waft of his breath swept the shell of her ear and sent shivery tingles coursing down her spine, “Perhaps we should take a moment to compare notes—before I forget which of my observations refer to whom.”

“Yes, of course. An excellent thought.” Her voice was weak, nearly breathless. She cleared her throat and dragged in a breath. “I could do with a break from the relentless conversations. Can you see a spot where we might talk without being overheard?”

The next instant, his fingers closed about her elbow. She very nearly startled, shocked by her instant response to his touch, totally innocent though it was. Heat and a sensation that strung her nerves tight streaked up her arm, then spread in a slow wave through her, dissipating, yet in its wake leaving her aware as she’d never been before. Aware of the heat and solidity of his body close beside her in the crush. Aware of the strength in his hand, his fingers, even though he was barely touching her gloved arm.

She glanced at him. He’d straightened and was looking over the heads, searching for a solution to her request. She could only hope he’d missed her odd reaction entirely; she didn’t think she’d actually jumped.

Once again, she rued the fact she’d long ago given up carrying a fan.

“There’s an alcove over there. Not large, and no potted palm to hide behind, but at least it should get us out of this accursed crush.”

She summoned enough strength to say with passable normality, “Lead on.”

He didn’t, of course—he steered her on—but he knew what he was doing, and in short order they’d laid claim to the shallow alcove at the end of the room, and could breathe more freely. Even though the long windows had been propped open to the night, with so many now crammed into the ballroom, fresh air was in short supply.

“I’d forgotten how the perfumes rise with the heat, then coalesce into a miasma.” James glanced at her, straight-faced. “You’re not feeling faint, are you?”

She almost bridled. “Good heavens, no! It’s only a ball.”

She saw his lips twitch and realized he’d been teasing her.

But all he said was, “Good to know that you’re not the fainting sort. Miss Alcock, however, apparently is, so I think we can leave her name off our short list. Swooning females can be distinctly wearying.”

“Indeed. But what about Miss Chisolm, now you’ve danced with her?”

“She . . . can remain on the list, at least for the nonce.”

They went through the other young ladies with whom he’d spent time, but other than Miss Downtree, none had passed muster with him. Henrietta frowned. “I had hoped we’d find more candidates here, but at least we still have two.”

“Hmm.”

She glanced sharply at him; he was looking out over the crowd and didn’t seem overly concerned with what she considered their still too short short list. She wondered what was distracting him; he certainly seemed to be thinking about something else.

As if he’d read her mind, he murmured, “Actually, I’m rather amazed the pair of us, given the unlikeliness of my appearance here, let alone what by now must have been noted as your assistance, haven’t raised more eyebrows.”

“Ah—that’s because I took care to plant the right seeds at luncheon and at the three teas I attended this afternoon.”

He glanced down at her. “Three teas?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to spread the word widely enough.”

“And what was that word?”

“That I’ve agreed to help you look over the field because your mother is so rarely in town these days and isn’t here at the moment, nor expected up this Season, and as your next nearest useful connection—correct me if I’m wrong—is Lady Osbaldestone?” She paused and arched a brow at him. When he looked appalled, but nodded, she went on, “Well, given that, it wasn’t all that hard to suggest that after your retreat from Melinda Wentworth, you turned to me, Simon’s sister and someone very well acquainted with the unmarried young ladies of the ton, for assistance. Mind you, I took care to paint your interest as being merely idle—the sort of thing a gentleman might do at a certain age, that sort of thing.”

“So you concealed that I have a deadline looming?”

She nodded decisively. “You were perfectly correct in thinking it won’t do for the matchmakers to get wind of that. If instead they believe you have nothing more than a vague interest in matrimony, they won’t rush you all at once in case you balk, fling up your hands in horror, and run away to the country.”

“Ah—I think I’m getting the hang of this now. They’ll happily parade their charges before me in the park and at whatever events I attend, but they won’t see any pressing need to force their charges’ claims to my attention down my wolfish throat.”

“Precisely.” She paused, then allowed, “Actually, it doesn’t hurt at all that you are an acknowledged wolf. It makes them think twice before offering up any of the very young and truly innocent.”

James laughed—he couldn’t help it. “What a very nice way of putting me in my place—and ensuring I remain tame.”

“I wasn’t so much thinking in terms of ‘tame’—more of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Before he could reply to that piece of impertinence, the strains of a waltz filled the air—and his response was there, ready-made, before him. He turned to her, bowed, and held out his hand. “I believe that’s our waltz.”

“What?” She looked stunned. “No . . . that is—” She dragged in a breath. “You should waltz with one of the possible candidates for your short list.”

He watched as she looked about, searching the throng almost desperately. “Henrietta—it’s just a waltz. And I’m tired of having to converse appropriately and otherwise assess my partners. Come and put me out of my misery, and let me enjoy one waltz for the evening.” He made the last words sound almost whiny, a plea for relief—all pretense, of course. The notion of this waltz—of waltzing with her—had been fermenting in his brain since he’d first set eyes on her as she’d descended the ballroom steps.

He’d promised himself this in payment for his earlier toeing of her line. He’d done as she’d asked, now it was her turn to play to his rules.

She glanced at him uncertainly, then her resistance fell. “Oh, very well.” She resettled her shawl, then reached out and set her gloved hand in his.

He closed his fingers about her slender digits and felt triumph surge inside. But it was such a small win—just a waltz, nothing more.

Holding her hand high, he led her onto the clearing dance floor, then turned and swept her into his arms, and into the swirling pleasures of the dance. Capturing her gaze, letting his own lock with the soft blue, he let his lips curve, appreciative and encouraging, sensed the lithe tension in her svelte form, and gave himself up to the heady delight—and drew her with him.

He was a past master at the art of circling a ton dance floor, of using the waltz to his own ends . . . but tonight, he discovered, the shoe was on the other foot, and the waltz used him. Worked on him, certainly, and on her, too; he couldn’t recall ever being so immersed in the moment, so caught in the effortless action, in the swooping glide, the swirling turns, the sheer power that flowed when he had her—Henrietta—in his arms.

It had never been like this before; no waltz had ever captured him before. His senses had coalesced and locked, fixed, so deeply engaged with her and the moment that there was nothing left of him, of his awareness, for anything else. The world fell away, and they were the only two people revolving down the floor, and he was lost, trapped, in her eyes.

Caught, ensnared, by the effortless way she matched him, light on her feet, instantly responsive to every subtle direction he gave. He hadn’t expected her to be . . . such a perfect match.

She, and the waltz, took his breath away.

He’d wanted a distraction from the other young ladies, a reward for his diligent application over the past hours, and she’d agreed and given him all he’d wished for; wholly focused on her, on the waltz, on the welling pleasure, he shut his mind to all else and enjoyed.

Henrietta couldn’t catch her breath, but not breathing didn’t seem to matter. She felt light as thistledown, floating and swooping in a deliciously delightful way—carried in his arms, swept along by his strength, cradled and protected and powerfully directed, yet free in a way she’d never felt before. As if her senses had expanded and broken their fetters and were no longer restricted to the mundane world.

The waltz was eye-opening on several fronts. She’d waltzed times without number, with gentlemen beyond count, but none before had held the key to this new and novel and wholly beguiling landscape. The sensations of his hand firmly clasping her fingers, of his other hand at her back, entirely correctly supporting her yet with his touch all but burning through the layers of fine silk, registered, impinged, yet they were only one set of waves amid a sea. The brush of his thigh between hers as they whisked through a tight turn, the sheer power of their movement up the floor, thrilled in ways she hadn’t before experienced.

And she was enthralled. This was waltzing at a different level, of a different degree.

Some part of her levelheaded mind wanted to observe and catalog each aspect, yet his eyes were on hers, and the tug of the soul that shone through the brown tempted and lured, and she dispensed with all anchors to reality and let herself follow him, let her senses soar.

Let the dance, and him, sweep her away.

Into uninhibited enjoyment.

When the music finally ended and they whirled to a halt, and, breathless, she had to step out of his arms and curtsy, all she felt was disappointment that the moment had ended.

That they were back in the real world, with its attendant demands.

“Thank you.” She could have waltzed with him for at least another hour; she smiled in honest and open appreciation. “That was indeed a pleasure.”

He was watching her, as if seeing her anew, but he inclined his head and smiled easily in reply. “It was.” He looked around, surveying the crowd about them. “Perhaps we could simply stroll for a while, without any defined agenda?”

She was ready enough to set aside looking for more young ladies, at least for the moment. “If you wish.”

He offered his arm. She hesitated for only an instant before accepting and placing her hand on his sleeve; she’d managed to survive a waltz, after all. And if her fingers tingled at the feel of the hard muscle beneath his sleeve, and her still giddy senses purred at the sensations engendered by him standing so close, crowded even closer by the press of bodies all around, she would, she decided, find some way to cope.

They strolled easily, joining this circle, then that, stopping to chat with acquaintances—some hers, many his, most known to them both. Neither of them was all that young and, socially, they moved in similar circles.

Henrietta relaxed, and found herself enjoying the interactions, engaged and drawn in, both wits and senses more acute, heightened in an unusual way as she bantered with James, even outright flirted, exchanging views and barbed comments, her attention wholly focused on him . . . they’d been strolling and chatting for nearly half an hour before the warmth of the necklace, especially of the rose-quartz pendant dangling above her breasts, registered, and she remembered she was wearing the charm. . . .

Oh, God! She stared at James, who at that moment was speaking with George Ferguson and thankfully didn’t see her sudden shock. But even as she tore her gaze away and schooled her features into a pleasantly smiling mask, her mind was scrambling, tripping . . . this couldn’t be what she was thinking, could it?

Hell and the devil, could it be?

Was the damned necklace working on her after all?

She didn’t know whether to feel aghast or ecstatic. But when she looked again at James . . . it was as if the proverbial scales fell from her eyes and she saw him in an entirely different light, from an entirely new perspective.

The shift in view was disorienting.

But before she’d done more than frame the obvious questions—What should she do now? Should she act on her newfound understanding, and if so, how?—a stentorian bellow of “Ladies and gentlemen!” rolled across the room.

Conversations broke off and the crowd turned toward the source of the salutation—Lady Marchmain’s butler, standing to rigid attention at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom.

Alongside her butler, Lady Marchmain stood beaming. She raised both arms in a commanding gesture. “Friends, all, it’s time for the highlight of our evening—the fireworks! If you could all make your way onto the lawn—and yes, the best view will, as usual, be had from the bridge over the stream. If you would?” Her ladyship made a sweeping gesture, directing the crowd out of the French doors that had been opened to the terrace and the lawn beyond.

As one, the crowd turned and obediently started shuffling out.

With James, George, and the others in their group, Henrietta had been standing not far from the long windows; they were among the first to gain the terrace. They descended quickly to the lawn and strode toward the wide stone arch that spanned the stream bordering the other side of the lawn.

On James’s arm, grateful for his support amid the jostling throng, Henrietta leaned closer to say, “Head for the left side of the bridge—the fireworks will be set off from the gardens further down the stream on that side.”

“Good notion,” George, walking on James’s other side, replied.

Their group, all much of an age, lengthened their strides, picked up their pace, and succeeded in claiming a prime position on the bridge, not as far as the top of the arch but along the raised stone side to the left. Although ancient, the bridge had been built wide enough to allow drays to pass, and so could accommodate quite a crowd across its span. There were, however, more guests than there was space on the bridge; as, eager to gain the best view, more people squeezed on, the crowd shifted and rippled, and Henrietta, James, and the others found themselves strung out in single file along the bridge’s side.

While the bridge was solid enough, the low stone sides reached only to the top of Henrietta’s calves; she shuffled into a better, more balanced stance. Beside her, the side of his arm pressed to her shoulder, James glanced at her, sharply assessing in a protective way; the press of the crowd had forced him to lower his arm. Settled and stable, she smiled reassuringly back. He met her eyes, then his lips curved just a touch, and together they looked out over the swiftly running stream to the swath of dark gardens further along the bank.

As if detecting some inexplicable sign, the crowd quieted.

A brief flare broke the darkness, then the first rocket hissed and surged into the sky, trailing tongues of flame as it soared into the velvet blackness before exploding in a corona of golden light, throwing out a shower of bright red and gold sparks that slowly fell, winking out as they trailed back to earth.

A communal “ah” of appreciative delight welled from the watching crowd.

They all stood with their faces upturned, watching successive fireworks light up the sky. A particularly bright rocket had just exploded when someone in the crowd behind Henrietta slipped and staggered, causing others to jerk and turn, some crying out in surprise.

Henrietta glanced around, started to turn—

A sudden shove sent the lady and gentleman behind her cannoning into her.

Henrietta tipped—fought for balance.

Lost.

On a gasp, she fell—desperately, she reached for help. For James.

She saw his shocked face, saw him reach for her, but they were both too late.

On her back, she hit the water with a splash, and sank into the racing stream.

In the instant before the waters closed over her face, she managed to get her lungs to work enough to haul in a breath. She held it and struggled to right herself and regain the surface.

But the stream was running high—there’d been rain earlier in the week—and this close to the river, the streamlets had coalesced and were racing strongly for the Thames; the tumbling waters tossed her like flotsam and dragged at her limbs. Her skirts trapped her legs; her spangled shawl tangled her arms.

I can swim!

She screamed that at herself, fought desperately to push away the enveloping panic.

But—oh, God!—the currents were so strong, and she could already feel the cold sinking into her flesh, feel heat and strength leaching away.

Still she fought.

On the bridge, horrified beyond thought, James dallied only long enough to toe off his shoes and jerk off his coat before diving into the swiftly running stream. Henrietta had already disappeared, swallowed by the darkness and the rushing, tumbling waters. The stream might be only ten yards wide, but this close to the river it was deep.

James struck out strongly, swimming downstream as fast as he could, trusting that she would be flailing at least enough for him to find her in the dark.

He didn’t let himself think—couldn’t afford to let the myriad thoughts shrieking in his brain distract him . . . he only allowed one through. He couldn’t afford to lose Henrietta.

He didn’t fight the current but harnessed it and let it sweep him on. Panic was nibbling at the edge of his mind when he sensed movement in the water ahead—and then he was on her.

Reaching for her, he scooped an arm around her waist, caught her firmly to him, then surfaced, hauling her up before him.

Her face broke free of the water and she gasped and dragged in air, and he all but sagged with relief.

“Stop struggling!” He had to shout to be heard over the noise of the stream and the cacophony coming from the shocked guests, many of whom were now streaming along the banks.

She gasped again, then he felt her fight her own instincts, trying to ease back from her panic.

“That’s right,” he encouraged, gathering her even closer. “Just relax—go limp—and let me get us to the bank.”

She complied as best she could, but by the time he managed to angle them out of the raging currents and over to the bank, she was tense and shivering uncontrollably.

His feet finally found solid ground, but that wasn’t the end of the ordeal. Kneeling in the shallows, holding her close, trying to impart some of his own fading warmth to her while simultaneously shielding her with his body, he had to wait while Lady Marchmain and her staff shooed the onlookers back and away. The staff had brought flares, the light from which James and Henrietta would need to climb the bank safely, but the water had turned her gown all but transparent, and on top of everything else she didn’t need to feature in tomorrow’s more scandalous on-dits.

Lady Marchmain wasn’t a major hostess because she couldn’t rise to the challenge of a near disaster averted. In strident tones, she ordered all her other guests back to the house and waited, hands on broad hips, until they complied. Then Lord Marchmain came puffing up with the blankets he’d clearly been dispatched to fetch. He handed them over to his wife with a meek “Anything else, dear?”

“Yes,” her ladyship snapped. She pointed imperiously at the house. “Get all those malingerers inside, and then send them home. It was an accident, but thanks to James, Henrietta is safe, and they’re both in my hands, so there’s nothing more for the others to see, and they can all go home with my blessing.”

In the weak light, James couldn’t tell if Lord Marchmain smiled, but he sounded quite chuffed when he said, “Yes, dear. At once.” Turning on his heel, his lordship strode away into the darkness, back toward the house.

Lady Marchmain came down the bank as far as she dared. Setting the blankets down, she shook one out and held it wide. “There, now. Out you get, Henrietta—we’ll have you up to the house and into a hot bath in no time.”

James glanced down at the bedraggled lady he was still holding securely in his arms. He met her gaze, saw her lips weakly curve, then she nodded and, together, they struggled to their feet and clambered up the bank.

As Lady Marchmain decreed, so it was done. By the time, wrapped in the blankets but shivering hard, they staggered into the house—led to a private side entrance by her ladyship—carriages were rolling in a steady stream up to the front door, and then away down the drive and back out onto the road to London.

“I don’t know what Louise will say if I allow you to catch a chill—either of you.” Lady Marchmain shepherded them through the library, into a corridor, and around to a secondary stair, apparently unconcerned by the trail of drips they were leaving behind.

James still had his arm around Henrietta, and she was leaning against his side. She didn’t think she’d yet regained sufficient strength to stand on her own, much less walk. Much, much less climb the stairs.

She’d never have made it if not for James . . . she shuddered as she realized just how true those words were. Whether she would have made it out of the stream alone . . . in truth, she didn’t think she would have.

Once on the first floor, Lady Marchmain led her to a bedchamber ablaze with light and with a huge tub already half filled with steaming water. “There, now, dear—lean on me.” Sliding her arm around Henrietta, her ladyship drew her away from James. “James, dear, there’s another bath and some of my son’s clothes waiting for you next door.”

James nodded.

Henrietta met his gaze. She couldn’t yet find the strength to say thank you, but she let her eyes say it for her.

He smiled slightly and nodded at her to go on.

Turning, she allowed Lady Marchmain to steer her into the room. Two maids were waiting to help her strip off her ruined gown. About to step into the tub, she remembered, and suddenly frantic again, raised a hand to her throat—but the necklace was still there. She sighed with relief and climbed into the tub.

On a soft groan, she sat, then slid deeper into the welcoming warmth.

Lady Marchmain, deeming herself in loco parentis, fussed. More than an hour passed before Henrietta, dressed in a warm day gown appropriated from her ladyship’s daughter’s wardrobe and further bundled up in a warm pelisse, with a knitted scarf about her throat and wound over her still damp hair, with someone’s half boots on her feet, was allowed to walk down the main stairs to where James and Lord Marchmain waited in the front hall.

Henrietta noted that, although decently clad, the clothes James wore fell far short of his usual standards of sartorial excellence, a point over which he seemed supremely unconcerned.

His attention was all for her, his gaze streaking over her as if to reassure himself that she was indeed all right, taking close note of the way she moved, checking that she’d sustained no injury.

Beside James, Lord Marchmain beamed encouragingly.

James’s gaze returned to her face; he caught her eye, then swept her a bow. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

It was clearly an attempt to get things back on an even keel. She found a smile and inclined her head. “Thank you.” Her voice was slightly gruff, a touch hoarse. Turning to Lady Marchmain, she made her farewells, assuring her ladyship for the umpteenth time that she was indeed entirely recovered, and by tomorrow morning would be fully restored to her customary rude health.

After various repeated assurances from both her and James, they were finally allowed to climb into her parents’ carriage. The door was shut, the coachman gave his horses the office, and finally, finally, they were rolling home.

She sank back against the squabs with a sigh. “That was an adventure.”

Seated beside her, James replied, “One I, for one, could have done without.” After a moment, he asked, “What exactly happened?”

He’d taken her hand to help her up into the carriage, and had followed close behind; he hadn’t released her fingers. His were still wrapped about them, his grip gentle, but warm and strong.

Reassuring. On multiple levels.

Making no effort to retrieve her hand, she thought back to the moments on the bridge. After replaying them several times, she shook her head. “Whatever caused it, it happened at least two people away from me. It seemed that someone tripped, or slipped and fell.” She thought some more, then said, “It was an accident—unforeseeable and unavoidable.”

“Hmm. Well, I heard Lord Marchmain giving orders to his steward to get an ironmonger in to look at putting up railings on the bridge, so I doubt that such an accident will happen again.”

She let a mile roll past in the comfortable dark, then said, “Thank you. I . . . am not at all sure I would have managed to get out of the stream on my own. And the Thames was only a hundred yards away.”

He glanced at her through the dimness. His thumb stroked gently, apparently absentmindedly, over the back of her hand. After a moment, he shifted and looked forward. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re helping me, so of course I helped you. That’s what friends are for.”

Friends? Is that what they were? He didn’t, she noted, let go of her hand.

Would a friend still be holding her hand, as he was? Would a friend have held her so tightly to him, as he had held her in the stream?

Would a friend have been nearly as terrified as she had been that she might drown?

She was too exhausted to work out the answers, much less define what she would prefer them to be. So she sat in the dimness of the carriage, his hand wrapped about hers, his presence beside her reassuring and anchoring, and looked out of the carriage window, watching as the outskirts of London gradually gave way to the streetscapes of the capital.

Eventually, the carriage drew up outside her parents’ house.

Reluctantly, James released her hand, opened the door and stepped down, then offered his hand again to help her to the pavement. He escorted her up the steps, using the moment to scan her face in the better light from the nearby streetlamp. She was still a trifle too pale for his liking, but otherwise she appeared to have recovered from her ordeal.

Inwardly, he suspected, she would still be shocked; he knew he was.

Gaining the top step, she turned to him. Drawing her hand from his, she met his eyes. “Again—thank you.”

He inclined his head, unable, for once, to find a flippant reply. “I’m just glad I was there.” And so very glad I was able to reach you in time.

Her lips curved lightly, then she gestured to the carriage. “Please—use the carriage to go home.”

He shook his head, smiled faintly. “I’m only in George Street—the walk will clear my head.”

She hesitated, but then nodded. “Very well. What have we organized for tomorrow . . . oh, I remember. Lady Jersey’s alfresco luncheon. If we leave here at eleven we should make it in good time.”

He frowned. “Are you sure you’ll be well enough?”

“Of course.” She looked faintly offended. “Falling into the stream was a shock, but I’ll be entirely recovered by tomorrow.”

He raised his brows, but capitulated. “If you’re sure.”

“I am—and we can’t afford to dally in assembling your short list. We really should try to have the best candidate selected by the end of this week.” She inclined her head in farewell. “Good night. And . . .” Holding his gaze, she paused, then softly said, “Thank you.” Turning away, she opened the door.

He watched her go inside, raised a hand in salute when she glanced back as the door swung shut. When the latch clicked into place, he turned around and went down the steps. Waving off the coachman, telling him he’d elected to walk, James wriggled his shoulders, settling the not-so-well-fitting coat, then set off for George Street, striding briskly along.

He wasn’t cold, yet he still felt chilled inside; the shock of nearly—so very nearly—losing Henrietta wasn’t going to fade anytime soon. Still, he had found her, rescued her, and they were both hale and whole, and he was inexpressibly grateful for whatever fate had smiled on them.

Which fact very neatly led him to the question he was going to have to find an answer to soon: How long could he pretend—to himself, to her, and to everyone else—that he wasn’t falling, in whatever way there was to fall, for The Matchbreaker?

Head down, eyes fixed unseeing on the pavement ahead of him, he strode quickly home.