And Then She Fell

chapter Five



As instructed, James presented himself in the park the following morning and located Lady Louise Cynster’s carriage in the line of fashionable conveyances drawn up along the Avenue. Henrietta was sitting with her younger sister, Mary, on the rear-facing seat. Parasols deployed against the mild sunshine, both young ladies appeared to be idly scanning the lawns and the tonnish crowd strolling the sward while, seated opposite, their mother and old Lady Cowper chatted avidly.

Approaching from Henrietta’s back and still a dozen yards away, James paused beneath an elm to take stock. He had ground to make up, which was why he was there, but exactly how he was to win Henrietta over he hadn’t yet defined. His quest to find his necessary bride hadn’t changed, but the campaign he and Henrietta had devised was no longer relevant. That had fallen by his wayside, but how to communicate that to her—a Cynster who would, he was perfectly certain, only consent to marry for love—was a problem to which he’d yet to find an answer. He’d spent most of the night bludgeoning his brain into providing one, but in this matter—critical though it was—his imaginatively inventive rakish faculties, his usual unerring wolfish instincts, had been strangely silent. Indeed, uncooperative; when it came to Henrietta, his instincts urged a different approach entirely.

That was a large part of his problem. His instincts viewed her in a different light from any other lady he’d previously set his eye on. His instincts insisted that she was his, and regardless of what was required to make that so, his inner self thought he should just grit his teeth and do it. Securing her as his was, to that instinctive inner self, worth any sacrifice.

But there were some sacrifices a wise man did not meekly offer, did not readily make.

Especially not to a lady of Henrietta’s caliber, a strong-willed, intelligent, clear-sighted female.

Last night, quite aside from disrupting what had, until her appearance, been a highly encouraging evening, Miss Fotherby had reminded him of two immutable truths.

Cynsters married for love.

And gentlemen who vowed love too glibly were almost certain to be distrusted.

He had to somehow chart a course between those two rocks and convince Henrietta to smile upon his suit.

With that goal, at least, clear in his mind, he stirred and strode on to the Cynster carriage.

Henrietta knew James was approaching some moments before he appeared beside the carriage; she’d felt his gaze on her back and had had to fight the urge to look—too eagerly—around.

After the disappointment of last night, the dashing of her apparently unfounded hopes, she was determined to allow no sign of susceptibility to slip past her customary, no-nonsense façade. She intended to keep their interaction firmly focused on their mutual goal—on finding him his necessary bride.

Consequently, she met his eyes with an easy smile and inclined her head politely. “Mr. Glossup.”

His eyes met hers, studied them; for a fleeting instant he hesitated, then he nodded in reply and, lips curving, murmured a greeting, then turned to greet her mother and Lady Cowper.

Hands clasped about her parasol’s handle, Henrietta sat stiffly upright and watched critically as James deployed his usual charm, delighting her mother and Lady Cowper, glibly deflecting them from dwelling overlong on the incident at Marchmain House. But her mother would have none of it, roundly thanking him for his bravery in coming to her—Henrietta’s—aid. James accepted the accolades but quickly steered the talk into more general avenues. For which she was grateful; she’d had her fill of having to assure everyone that the accident hadn’t overset her nerves and scarred her for life.

With the older ladies satisfied, James turned to her and arched a brow. “Would you care to stroll the lawns, Miss Cynster?”

“Thank you, I would.” She shifted forward.

As James reached for the door, Sir Edward Compton, who’d been standing nearby and, it seemed, biding his moment, stepped forward and made his bow to Louise and Lady Cowper, then inquired if Mary might like to stroll as well.

The implication being with Henrietta and James. While Henrietta could stroll alone with a gentleman, Mary was still too young to be allowed such license, at least not in the park, directly under the censorious noses of the ton’s matrons.

Henrietta didn’t expect Mary to accept; her sister wasn’t one to waste time where she had no true interest, and Henrietta was sure Mary had no interest in mild-mannered Sir Edward, but after an instant’s pause, Mary smiled and inclined her head to Sir Edward. “Thank you, Sir Edward. I would be delighted to stroll on your arm.”

James opened the carriage door and handed Henrietta down, then Sir Edward stepped forward and performed the same office for Mary.

Mary smiled at him sweetly, placed her hand on his arm, and promptly steered him out over the lawn.

Mystified, her hand resting on James’s sleeve, Henrietta strolled beside him as they followed Mary and Sir Edward across the neatly clipped grass. Her gaze on Mary, Henrietta murmured, “I wonder what she’s up to.”

James glanced at her. “Why would you think she’s up to anything?”

Because otherwise Mary would not have done anything to interfere with Henrietta’s time alone with James . . . Henrietta tipped her head toward her sister. “Just wait—you’ll see.”

Sure enough, they hadn’t strolled far when Mary pointed ahead, spoke to Sir Edward, then looked over her shoulder to inform Henrietta and James, “Sir Edward and I are going to join that group over there. Miss Faversham and Miss Hawkins are there, too, and we’ll still be within sight of Mama and the carriages.”

Despite remaining unsaid, the words so you don’t need to play chaperon could not have been clearer.

Henrietta scanned the group in question. As well as Miss Faversham and Miss Hawkins, it contained several eligible young gentlemen, chief among them the Honorable Julius Gatling and Lord Randolph Cavanaugh, second son of the late Marquess of Raventhorne, yet the company was suitable and innocuous enough. Henrietta nodded. “Very well. I’m sure Sir Edward can be trusted to return you to the carriage in due course.”

Mary smiled beatifically at the clearly smitten Sir Edward. “You will escort me back in due course, won’t you, Sir Edward?”

Henrietta inwardly snorted and didn’t bother listening to Sir Edward’s earnestly bumbling reply. She had business to which she needed to attend; meeting James’s eyes, she arched a brow. “Might I suggest we stroll on and find a place where I can tell you what I’ve learned thus far about Miss Fotherby?”

Somewhat to her surprise, his lips tightened fractionally, but he nodded and led her on.

Once past the knots of younger ladies and gentlemen dotting the areas adjacent to the carriages, the lawns were much less crowded, and it was possible to stroll and converse freely without fear of being overheard. Turning her to promenade parallel to the avenue, now at some distance, James finally asked, “So what have you learned?”

“Miss Fotherby’s case is exactly as she stated it. Apparently her mother has an unfounded and unreasoning fear that her second husband will be captivated by Miss Fotherby and transfer his affection from mother to daughter. No one who knows the family believes this to be the case, but as you might imagine it’s made Miss Fotherby’s situation very difficult. Consequently, she is seeking a husband so she may leave her stepfather’s house, and Miss Fotherby’s mama has, of course, insisted on remaining in the country, keeping her husband with her, and has packed Miss Fotherby off to find her own way forward under her aunt’s aegis.”

Glancing at James, Henrietta saw his lips twist. Looking ahead as they strolled on, he murmured, “So Miss Fotherby is something of a damsel in distress who needs saving?”

Henrietta inclined her head. “You could paint her in that light.”

And in so doing . . . Henrietta had no difficulty seeing that James might consider rescuing Miss Fotherby, while simultaneously rescuing himself and his people from the requirement imposed by his grandaunt’s will, to be a reasonable bargain all around.

Yet she had to be impartial, and impartiality demanded she report on Miss Fotherby favorably. From all Henrietta had gathered in the short time she’d had the previous evening, Miss Fotherby possessed a spotless, entirely blameless reputation, and the difficulty she found herself currently facing was no fault of hers. Henrietta had heard not one adverse comment against Miss Fotherby, which left her with the unenviable conviction that both duty and honor dictated that she assist both James and Miss Fotherby by reporting the unvarnished truth, and subsequently, if James was so inclined, by fostering a match between them.

Both he and Miss Fotherby deserved no less.

Even if fostering a match between them was the very last thing she wanted to do.

They’d been strolling in silence. After a moment more, James asked, “Did you learn anything else?”

While Henrietta reported, in careful and neutral terms, what she’d thus far gleaned as to Miss Fotherby’s standing, character, and personality, James found himself increasingly biting his tongue.

He wanted to ask Henrietta point-blank whether she truly wanted him to marry Miss Fotherby.

He wanted, badly, to ask the confusing female walking so fluidly—so confidently and easily—by his side what she’d thought about the kiss they’d shared. Whether she’d felt anything at all—anything like the cataclysmic and ineradicable shift in focus that that kiss had imposed on him—and whether, just possibly, she might consider marrying him herself.

He wanted to ask her all those things—wanted to look into her soft blue eyes and say the words, direct and without any obfuscation—but he couldn’t.

Not while she was strolling beside him singing Miss Fotherby’s praises and all but specifically encouraging him to look at Miss Fotherby as his prospective bride.

Confusion wasn’t the half of what he felt. Frustration roiled, mixing with a wholly unfamiliar panicky fear—a fear of not acting and through that losing her, which itself was solidly counteracted and blocked, stymied, by the weight on his shoulders and the horrible prospect raised by the question, What if she said no?

If he asked, and Henrietta refused him . . .

“I’ll inquire further at the teas this afternoon, but I suspect Miss Fotherby really will prove to be the most outstanding candidate.”

His temper snapped and flicked him on the raw. Goaded, he said, his tone terse and harsh, “All right. Enough of Miss Fotherby.” He looked at Henrietta. “Who else should I look at?”

Me. Say, Me.

She’d been looking down while she’d been speaking; now she drew in a deep breath as if girding her loins—and his heart leapt in hope.

“Well, we still have Miss Chisolm and Miss Downtree on the list, so I’ll ask after them, too.”

Hope crashed and died on the rocks of futility. The deflation that hit him left him feeling hollowed out inside.

“And you really should look further afield—we have Lady Hamilton’s ball tonight, and that’ll be another crush, so we may well find more suitable candidates there.” Raising her gaze from the grass, Henrietta was about to glance up at James—unsure of what might show in her own eyes, she hadn’t allowed herself to do so while speaking of Miss Fotherby—but as her gaze rose, she saw the lady in question standing a little deeper into the park and speaking with a very recognizable gentleman: Rafe Cunningham, gazetted rake, profligate gambler, and all-around hedonist.

The pair weren’t conversing; they were facing each other, several feet apart, and Rafe was clearly arguing. Hotly. Miss Fotherby had her back to Henrietta and James, but from the angle of her head, and her gestures, she was arguing just as hotly back.

A swift glance at James’s face confirmed that he, too, had spotted the pair.

Then Rafe spread his arms to his sides, hands open as he made some dramatic appeal.

Miss Fotherby threw her hands in the air, swept violently around, and strode swiftly toward the Avenue; all angrily swishing skirts, her face pale but with flags of color flying in her cheeks, her lips set in a trenchant line, her gaze fixed unswervingly ahead, she marched toward the carriages, where, no doubt, her aunt was waiting. She didn’t glance back once, and she didn’t notice Henrietta and James where they’d halted a little way away.

“Ah.” Henrietta glanced at Rafe, then looked at Miss Fotherby’s retreating back. “I suspect we can guess which gentleman has made Miss Fotherby an offer she doesn’t trust.” Rafe Cunningham was well-born and wealthy, the twin characteristics that, in a gentleman, made him eligible no matter his character.

Wondering how the information that it was Rafe who had approached Miss Fotherby might affect James’s view of that lady, Henrietta refocused her attention on him—and registered the tension investing his long frame. Glancing at his face, she saw that he was studying Rafe.

Was James already feeling possessive over Miss Fotherby?

To Henrietta’s dismay, her stupid heart lurched downward—which only proved that it hadn’t yet come to its senses over James. Inwardly sighing, she looked back at the carriages.

James watched Rafe Cunningham—standing stock-still in the park, his hands on his hips, visibly exasperated and openly frustrated as he stared after Miss Fotherby, his dark features set in an expression of utter incomprehension—and experienced a deep and undeniable surge of fellow-feeling.

Jaw setting, he steered Henrietta away from Rafe and the revealing look on his fellow wolf’s face. “Come on. We’d better get back or your mother will start getting impatient.”

He escorted her back to her mother’s carriage, handed her up, and made his good-byes.

With a brisk salute, and a last look at Henrietta, he forced himself to turn and stride away.

He’d hoped to regain some of the ground he’d lost last night, but instead . . . as far as he could see, he was further than ever from getting Henrietta to look at him as a potential husband. She seemed to have seized on the advent of Miss Fotherby as a solution to his problem, as a way of accomplishing her task of assisting him to find his necessary bride . . . but he didn’t want Miss Fotherby; indeed, he wished Rafe the best of luck with her.

He wanted Henrietta.

As he crossed the lawns, he consulted his inner self, but the answer was unequivocal. He wasn’t about to retreat, to back away and let Henrietta go—not now he’d found her, not now he’d finally recognized her as his.

So he was going to have to come up with some more definite way of reshaping her view of him.

Something powerful enough to change a Cynster female’s mind.

From her seat in the carriage, Henrietta watched James go, watched him stride off without once looking back. As the carriage rumbled into motion, avoiding Mary’s questioning gaze, Henrietta looked away across the lawns . . . and wished with all her unrepentant heart that Miss Millicent Fotherby had never crossed their paths.

Fate, Henrietta decided, was smiling on Miss Fotherby and her bid to become James’s bride. Most helpfully, that afternoon saw Henrietta, along with her mother and Mary, attending an at-home at Lady Osbaldestone’s house; her ladyship’s drawing room was crammed with every last grande dame Henrietta might wish to question.

Reminding herself she was honor-bound to do her duty by James, she duly set about inquiring as to what the assembled ladies could tell her of Millicent Fotherby.

Of course, in the way of ton ladies, gaining information required offering information in return. In that distinctly august company, her request for information on Miss Fotherby necessitated explaining what had caused what was, for her, a distinctly novel tack; as The Matchbreaker, she more customarily inquired after the bona fides of gentlemen, not young ladies. By and large, as she worked her way steadily around the room, going from group to group, she managed to excuse her query by simply stating that she’d agreed to help James, a friend of Simon’s, with his quest to find a suitable bride, and, if necessary, deflecting attention by asking about Rafe Cunningham, who, as she’d suspected, was, indeed, no better than she’d supposed. Most ladies swallowed her half-truths whole and happily related what they knew of Miss Fotherby, her family, her antecedents, her expectations, and her present situation.

Sadly, what Henrietta learned wasn’t quite definitive and definite enough for her to deem her job done and recommend that James make an offer for Miss Fotherby without further ado. Even more unfortunately, again and again she was directed to seek further clarification from the very two ladies she’d hoped to avoid.

There was no help for it; if she wanted the last word on Millicent Fotherby’s eligibility for the position of James Glossup’s wife, she was going to have to approach Lady Osbaldestone, who, as well as being a distant cousin of Viscount Netherfield, James’s grandfather, was apparently also distantly connected to the Fotherby family.

Henrietta wasn’t overly surprised by that; Lady Osbaldestone seemed to be connected to fully half the ton.

Having to inquire of Lady Osbaldestone was bad enough, but seated beside her ladyship was Henrietta’s aunt Helena—which meant the chaise on which the pair of grandes dames sat held one too many sharp-eyed older ladies than Henrietta was at all comfortable with.

Her aunt Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, had the most lovely pale green eyes—and a gaze that seemed to see straight through any assumed façade. She was widely acknowledged as perspicacious to an almost mythical degree. Her son, Devil, Duke of St. Ives and head of the Cynster family, had similarly pale green eyes, but he had yet to develop the same perspicacity, much to the relief of the rest of the family.

Steeling herself, Henrietta presented herself before her hostess and her aunt. Both smiled with transparent delight and recommended she sit on a nearby chair and tell them what she wanted to know.

Henrietta obeyed and, despite her trepidation, felt she acquitted herself reasonably well in framing her questions and leading Lady Osbaldestone and her aunt to tell her what she needed to know.

It helped that, being connected with the Glossups, Lady Osbaldestone already knew the full tale behind James’s need to wed. Which meant that Helena knew it, too; the pair rarely kept secrets from each other. Consequently, once they’d drawn from Henrietta the unadulterated story of how she came to be involved in James’s quest, both older ladies fully concurred that James approaching Melinda Wentworth was entirely inappropriate for his situation, and confirmed that Millicent Fotherby was an excellent candidate for James to consider, but . . . it was at that point that Henrietta felt as if the conversation stepped sideways, into what arena she wasn’t quite sure.

“Of course,” Lady Osbaldestone said, “one needs to pay due attention to the reason James’s hunt for a wife came to be.”

“Indeed.” Helena nodded sagely, her gaze growing distant. “It was . . . peste, what was her name? His sister-in-law, the one who was murdered?”

“Katherine—Kitty as she was called,” Lady Osbaldestone supplied. “Precisely.” Lady Osbaldestone caught Henrietta’s gaze and continued, as if tutoring her, “Kitty is the reason James . . . how should I describe it? Pulled back from the general social round. In essence, pulled back from marrying or even socially consorting with suitable ladies of his class with whom he might form an attachment. Kitty, you see, was a much-indulged beauty, and she married James’s older brother Henry for wealth and position, but once she had Henry’s ring on her finger, Kitty set her sights on other gentlemen and, ultimately, her eye fell on James.

“The poor boy paid no attention, of course—Glossups are loyal to the bone. Kitty, sadly, understood nothing about such decencies and set herself to seduce James by whatever means possible—but then a previous lover murdered her. I was staying at Glossup Hall at the time, and it was all quite tawdry. We’ll never know if Kitty’s pursuit of James was in order to abrogate her pregnancy by that previous lover, but I strongly suspect that, when the whole sorry story came out, that notion did occur to James. It would have been a dreadful situation and would have torn the family apart—but that was Kitty. She was entirely self-absorbed.”

“That was when Simon and Portia got engaged,” Helena put in. “So all this took place nearly two years ago, just before they married, and since then James has . . . stood outside society, and only, at least as far as marriage and young ladies are concerned, looked in.”

“Which,” Lady Osbaldestone said, “is precisely why Emily, James’s grandaunt, wrote her will as she did. She was disappointed not to have been able to dance at James’s wedding, but she did what she could to ensure that that wedding took place.”

“Emily was, indeed, a loss.” Helena smiled mistily, but then her gaze fixed on Henrietta, trapped before the chaise, and Helena’s lovely smile took on a different shading. “And so now you are here, helping James to find his bride, and that is entirely as it should be.”

Henrietta saw both older ladies glance at her throat, at the necklace that rested there; she waited for some comment, but none came. Instead, the pair exchanged a glance, then as one they sat back and regarded her.

“It occurs to me,” Lady Osbaldestone stated, “that in your quest to assist James, and, indeed, Millicent, too, you would do well to dwell on the inescapable truth that in our circles, young ladies, these days especially, must be very clear in their own minds as to what they truly want.”

“Yes, indeed.” Helena nodded, her expression serious. “It is often the case that young ladies fail to question their own wants and desires—and even more specifically, their hearts—and so do not realize when fate steps in and hands them the chance to seize all they might wish of life.”

Lady Osbaldestone snorted. “A common failing, that—to not stop and think enough to be sure of what one actually wants. How on earth any young lady can expect to gain the life she wishes without exerting herself even to define it, the heavens only know.”

“Oh, the gentlemen are equally bad.” Helena waved dismissively. “But in their case it is often willful blindness, which is rarely the case with young ladies. No, their problem is generally a lack of forethought—indeed, a lack of understanding that thought is required—combined with an assumption that life will somehow miraculously evolve in the way they wish it to without them having a clear idea in their minds what sort of life it is they wish, and then being prepared to actively go out and push and shove whatever needs to be pushed and shoved into place for that ideal life to take shape.”

“Well said!” Lady Osbaldestone thumped her cane on the floor and caught Henrietta’s eye. “And if you’ve a mind to be helpful, you might think to repeat that to your younger sister. She’s hiding over there with the other young ladies thinking we haven’t noticed what she’s about, but she’s one who definitely needs to put more thought into what she truly wants before she starts pushing and shoving.”

“Being, as she is,” Helena added, “so very good at pushing and shoving.”

Henrietta found herself smiling and promising to pass on the message to Mary, who had spent the entire visit chatting in a corner with several other young ladies, then she happily accepted a dismissal and escaped from the two grandest grandes dames in the room.

Only later, when she was heading for the door in her mother’s train and turned her mind to summarizing all she’d learned, did it occur to her that she wasn’t at all sure who had been the principal target of Lady Osbaldestone and Helena’s warning: Millicent Fotherby, Mary . . . or herself.

The thought distracted her, but once they’d settled in their carriage and it was rolling over the cobbles, carrying them to their next appointment, she mentally shook herself and refocused on the indisputable facts.

Rafe Cunningham notwithstanding, Millicent Fotherby appeared to be the answer to James’s prayers.

And equally undeniable was her own welling desire to push Millicent aside and take her place.

Pushing and shoving?

Henrietta inwardly snorted, and stared out of the window as they rocked along.

Lady Hamilton’s event that evening was a ball masque. Having realized that fact and recognized it as a godsend, James arrived at Hamilton House in good time to stand idling just inside the ballroom, indistinguishable from countless other gentlemen in domino and mask, waiting to pounce the instant Henrietta arrived.

When she did, shrouded in a hooded domino with a pale blue mask fixed across her face, he nevertheless recognized her instantly and swooped immediately she parted from their host and hostess and turned to survey the ballroom—already a sea of hoods, masks, and black cloaks.

He’d previously thought ball masques boring, their current resurgence in popularity distinctly ho-hum, but tonight . . . tonight, he hoped this ball masque would facilitate his salvation.

Halting beside Henrietta, grasping her elbow through her domino, he dipped his head to murmur, “Good evening.”

She looked at his masked face, looked into his eyes, and smiled; relief tinted the gesture, which seemed almost absentminded. “I’d forgotten it was to be a ball masque until it was time to dress. I wondered how I was going to find you in all this.” She waved at the anonymous crowd.

“Indeed—and speaking of that, I’ve had a revelation.” He drew her aside, out of the press of incoming guests. Steering her toward the wall, he elaborated, “A ball masque is completely useless in terms of further assessing others—even if we think we know who someone is, we won’t be certain, not until the unmasking at midnight. The odds that we might merely waste our time are high. Hence, for tonight, I propose that we set aside all thoughts of broadening my horizons and extending my short list, or even further discussing Miss Fotherby, and instead simply allow ourselves to enjoy the evening and the pleasure of each other’s company.” Halting by the wall, where the crush was less evident, he smoothly faced her and arched a brow, visible above his minimal mask. “What say you?”

She stared up at him, slowly blinked, then her gaze refocused and raced over his face. She hesitated, then glanced out at the crowd, surveying the shifting, anonymous throng before, finally turning back to him, she said, “I think . . . that’s an excellent suggestion.”

Henrietta wasn’t sure what had most prompted that answer—her own inclination or the echoes of Lady Osbaldestone’s and Helena’s voices still ringing in her head—but the instant the words left her lips, she felt certainty and assurance well. She’d felt the lack of both in recent days, so she welcomed and embraced them, and beamed at James. “All right. So tonight it’s just us, and all for fun.” She spread her hands. “Where do we start?”

The answer was an exploration of her ladyship’s rooms and the various entertainments offered therein. Neither felt drawn to the card tables set up in a minor salon, but they filled glasses at a fountain overflowing with champagne, and sampled the strawberries footmen were ferrying through the guests on silver salvers. The dance floor, occupying the half of the large ballroom before the raised dais on which a small orchestra labored, captured them. And held them.

“I’d forgotten that at a masked ball one can dance however many waltzes as one wishes with a single partner.” Henrietta laughed as James responded by whirling her even faster through a turn.

“And,” he replied, his eyes finding hers as they slowed and joined the stream of other couples more sedately revolving up the room, “at a masked ball, you can laugh and express delight without restraint.” His eyes held hers for a moment more, then he murmured, “I love hearing you laugh.”

He twirled her again. Henrietta was grateful for the momentary distraction; she’d suddenly lost her breath, lost her voice . . . lost touch with rational thought. He loved hearing her laugh . . . what did that mean?

She returned her attention to him, and fell into his eyes. And realized that her focus on him, and his on her, had deepened, had gained new depth.

And that mutual connection had gained even greater power to hold them both, to draw them in, heightening their awareness, each of the other, immersing them together in those moments of shared experience.

Weaving ribbons of mutual delight into a net that ensnared them.

They danced until they could dance no more, then wandered again, catching their breaths in the large conservatory into which countless couples had drifted to stroll in the moonlight streaming through the glass panes. Conversations there were muted, private exchanges that no one else needed to hear. Windows were open, so the air was fresher, and carried the scents of green growing things tinged with the exotic fragrances of night-blooming flowers.

To Henrietta, the night had taken on a magical quality. She’d lost track of time; since agreeing to James’s proposal of how to spend the evening, she’d thought of nothing beyond the next moment, the next experience, the next aspect of their mutual enjoyment.

She’d allowed herself to be swept away—something she couldn’t recall ever doing before. It was most unlike her, the practical and pragmatic one, to embrace a come-what-may philosophy and willingly plunge off the structured path. Tonight, she didn’t have an agenda; she had no goal, no aim in mind. She wasn’t pushing and shoving anything . . . but, she realized, she was learning.

Learning what she might desire in an arena she hadn’t, until very recently, allowed herself to explore.

She felt the warm weight of the necklace circling her throat, the touch of the crystal pendant above her breasts. Strolling beside James in the moonlight, her hand on his arm, his hand lying warm over hers, she thought about that, and about what more she needed to learn.

James paused. She glanced at his face. He’d tipped his head and was peering past a collection of palms. Then he straightened. His teeth flashed in a smile. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“What?”

He glanced around; she did, too, but there were no other couples near. Then he lowered his arm, caught her hand in his, and drew her around the palms—and through the door that had been concealed behind the large, strappy leaves.

The room beyond proved to be her ladyship’s orangery. A narrow stone-walled chamber, it ran across one end of the terrace bordering the ballroom. Glass-paned doors could be opened onto the terrace but were presently shut. Two rows of potted orange trees marched neatly down the room, scenting the air. The only source of light was the moonlight slanting through the glass doors; the shafts struck the pale stone flags, resulting in a soft, diffuse illumination—enough to see by, but not enough for them to be seen by the few couples strolling on the terrace.

Releasing her, James shut the door.

Henrietta went forward, down the aisle between the rows of sculpted trees; glancing at the wall opposite the terrace, she spied a small sofa set against the wall beneath a rectangular window. Stepping out of the aisle, she walked to the sofa; curious, she peered out of the window, then sighed. “Oh—this is beautiful.”

The window overlooked an ornamental lake. Sinking onto the chaise, she looked the other way—she could see all the way along the terrace—then she glanced at James as he prowled up to join her. “This sofa is perfectly set.” She gestured with one hand to the rectangular window. “The view is simply lovely.”

James looked down at her and smiled. “Indeed.” After an instant of appreciating her upturned face, masked though it was, he turned and sat beside her.

Looking out along the terrace, she sighed. “It’s been an unexpectedly delightful evening—thank you.”

“It’s been entirely my pleasure, for which I thank you.”

He watched her lips curve, then she murmured, “Sadly, it’s nearly over.”

That was true, which meant . . . he was running out of time. The evening had gone perfectly to this point, but he couldn’t risk not capitalizing on the opportunity Lady Hamilton and fate had, it seemed, conspired to hand him. If he didn’t take the risk, accept the challenge, and take one more step forward, tonight and all the ground he felt he’d regained might well be for naught.

He had to push on, or his advance, and all advantage, might dissipate like mist come the morning.

This, he suddenly realized, was the moment. His moment of truth with her. If he took the next step, he might be damned, but if he didn’t, he almost certainly would be.

Yet if he took this next step, there would be no going back, at least not for him. And if she approved and accepted . . . then there would be no going back for her either, even if she didn’t, immediately, recognize that . . . but he didn’t have time to think and rethink.

His time was now.

Relaxing against the sofa, he glanced at her face. “There’s one more thing we’ve yet to do—one more experience we’ve yet to enjoy.”

“Oh?” Shifting to face him, she widened her eyes. “What?”

“This.” He reached a hand to her nape, cupped the delicate arch, and drew her face slowly to his. They were both wearing half masks; they didn’t need to take them off. He gave her plenty of time to resist if she wished.

She didn’t. Instead, he heard her quick, indrawn breath, saw her gaze fix on his lips.

He lowered his gaze to her mouth, then drew her the last inch and covered her luscious lips with his.

And kissed her.

Properly, this time, yet still with restraint. He set his lips to coax, to tempt, to tease, and waited . . . until he sensed her tentative response, felt it well and swell and burgeon.

Until the pressure of her lips against his grew to be both invitation and incitement.

Only then did he take the next step, the first tiny step beyond innocent. Even then, he didn’t want to frighten her with any too-precipitate glimpse of the passion he held leashed, yet this time he had a point to make, a claim to stake, and he wasn’t going to retreat before he’d accomplished that. Slowly straightening, sliding his thumb beneath her jaw, he tipped her head up, angled his, and sent his tongue cruising over the fullness of her lower lip, tracing the seam . . . and she parted her lips, opened for him, and invited him in.

He wanted to plunge in, to dive deep into the heady delights she offered, but he hauled back on his reins, deployed all the expertise at his command, and smoothly, seductively engaged, traced, stroked, and tantalized.

Steadily, step by step, he led her deeper into the dance, into the subtle play of dueling tongues, the evocative delight of claiming her mouth, and the surprising pleasure of her questing response.

He introduced her to the complementary joys of him tasting her, and of her in turn tasting him.

Any thought that she wasn’t enjoying this, that she wasn’t as wholly engaged as he was, was shattered by her first more definite foray. Then she shifted; a moment later he felt her fingertips gently caress his cheek, and his awareness fractured.

Henrietta sensed it; she didn’t know enough to put a name to what she sensed—a sudden break in his control, of his careful leading—but something in her leapt with a never-before-experienced delight, a sense of victory. Of feminine triumph.

Yes—this was right.

Kissing him and being kissed by him felt inexpressibly right, in a way that resonated to her bones. She wanted to rush ahead, to learn more—much more—all that he could teach her, yet simultaneously she wanted to linger, to savor this, to exalt in this, to drag every iota of simple pleasure from this—to learn the ways how.

He showed her. He didn’t rush forward but lingered with her, savored with her.

They shared even that, openly and completely.

She had no space for thought in her mind, no scintilla of awareness left for reason, and certainly not for detached observation. She followed where he led, and when he paused, once she was certain she’d absorbed all there was to experience to that point, she pressed, and he responded, and they moved on.

So completely immersed in the kiss were they that neither reacted to the warning swissh.

But the explosion of the first rocket jerked them both back to the present—to the sofa in the orangery. They blinked across the shadowed room; looking through the glass doors, she saw the milling crowd now filling the terrace.

“Ah.” With James’s help, she sat up; she’d been leaning into him. His lips appeared softer than usual, his hair disarranged—had she done that?

He looked out at the gathering, then grimaced and met her gaze. “I just remembered—her ladyship has decided to enliven the countdown to midnight and the unmasking with fireworks. The twelfth rocket will be fired at midnight.”

She sighed, but not unhappily; pleasured satisfaction sang in the sound. “We’d better go out.”

“Sadly, yes.” James settled his mask, then rose and held out his hand.

She resettled her mask, too, then laid her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

He met her gaze, then raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and said, “We can talk tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you in the park.”

“Earlier. I usually ride twice a week, at about eight o’clock.”

The curve of his lips deepened. “In that case, I’ll meet you at eight by Rotten Row.”

She nodded, then faced forward and walked beside him as he led her to the glass doors, opened one, and escorted her through and into the crowd thronging the terrace flags. She needed to think about what they’d just done, of what it meant, of what she’d learned, and what they’d both intended. And then they needed to talk, yes, but as she couldn’t yet corral her wits sufficiently to think at all, tomorrow was the perfect time for that.

As everyone else had their eyes on the heavens, oohing and aahing at the pyrotechnical display, no one noticed them joining the gathering. Still smiling with a species of reckless delight, she stood at the side of the crowd, and with James beside her, directed her gaze upward, too.

The second rocket soared into the firmament and burst in a glory of red and gold sparks.

A conflagration of other fireworks filled the moments between each rocket; the countdown steadily progressed, the guests taking up a chant, counting the rockets one by one.

Then, at last, to an eruption of cheers and applause, the twelfth rocket shot high overhead and exploded, raining silver and gold over the gardens.

Smiling, laughing, everyone threw back their hoods and untied their masks. Gaily turning to each other, looking about, people started hunting for acquaintances in the crowd.

“No need for us to find anyone else.” James smiled at Henrietta as she turned to him, her delicate features once more fully revealed.

She smiled back, but sighed. “I should leave soon. My parents will expect me home shortly.”

“I may as well go, too.” Flinging his domino back over his shoulders, he made a gallant show of offering his arm. “We can track down Lady Hamilton and take our leave together.”

Henrietta grinned, placed her hand on his arm, and together they turned—

The young lady alongside Henrietta backed into her.

“Oh! I say!” The young lady whirled and proved to be the lovely Cassandra Carmichael. “I’m terribly sorry. Have I caused any harm?”

Smiling, Henrietta shook her head. “None whatever.”

Cassandra introduced herself and Henrietta did the same, then she introduced James to Miss Carmichael, who smiled with transparently sincere delight; it was no difficulty to see why she was considered one of the catches of the season.

“And this”—Miss Carmichael waved over her shoulder—“is . . .” Glancing back, she broke off. “Oh.”

The gentleman who had been standing with her had turned and was already some paces away, making his way through the crowd.

Cassandra smiled indulgently. “Someone must have summoned him.” Shrugging, she laughingly shook her head. “It happens all the time—he’s in such demand. You’ll have to excuse him.”

They shook hands and parted. Turning, Cassandra started tacking through the crowd in the wake of her errant partner. Steering Henrietta toward the house, James softly snorted. “She’ll make some politician an excellent wife.”

Henrietta laughed. “We can only hope Sir Peter appreciates her.”

“Was that him?”

“I assume so. I’m not that familiar with him, truth be told. Ah—there’s Lady Hamilton.”

Together they made their way through the crowd, waited in line to take leave of their hostess, then James handed Henrietta into her parents’ carriage, smiled and saluted her, then shut the door.

As the carriage pulled away, Henrietta sank back with a sigh.

She was still smiling in a wholly revealing way—and she still couldn’t think worth a damn.