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From the moment Thomas Forster, spare heir to the Gisborn earldom, entered the mansion belonging to Lord and Lady Morganfield, he knew he had to be on his very best behavior.

Everyone who was anyone in the ton had probably been invited, as was the rest of his extended family.

Even though they only had a few days in London before they were to set sail for the Mediterranean, his grandmother, Cherise DuBois Slater, Marchioness of Devonville, had seen to it they had invitations to every event scheduled during the Little Season.

Even if they were to be in London for less than a week.

Having outgrown his last pair of satin pantaloons and matching top coat, he’d been forced to find new ones at a men’s shop in Bond Street.

While there, he had picked out a number of embroidered waistcoats, several shirts, longer pantaloons, and some cravats, sure there would be enough room in his trunk for the new clothing.

“You certainly appear rather dapper this evening,” his older brother, Randolph, commented.

“As do you,” he replied, not bothering to look. The two had ridden in the same town coach along with their cousin, David Slater, Viscount Penton, who was at that moment engaged in a rather flirtatious exchange with at least three young ladies about to enter the receiving line behind them.

They hadn’t even made it into the ballroom, and already, David was charming the young ladies.

Tom couldn’t help but stare when they did make it to the top of the stairs leading down to the what already appeared to be a crush.

He had always thought the ballroom in Devonville House rather grand, but this one seemed far larger—probably due to the mirrored panels mounted on the walls at both ends and the number of chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling.

He tried to mentally calculate how many candles might be lit to provide the glittering spectacle he saw at the bottom of the stairs—all manner of silks and satins, turbans and feathers, gold and silver worn by aristocrats both young and old. He gave up when David joined them.

“Why did you stop here?” his cousin asked.

“I think we’re to be announced,” Randy said, nodding to the butler who hurried to take their names and titles. “Which means you get to go first.”

Not the least bit shy, David immediately moved to the top of the stairs, and when his name and title were spoken in the loud baritone of the servant, he nodded and skipped down the steps as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Before he had reached the marble tiled-floor, a bevy of young ladies surrounded him, curtsying and holding out their dance cards.

“He’s barely one-and-twenty and has absolutely no intention of marrying before he’s seven-and-twenty, and yet they love him,” Tom complained when Randy finished giving the butler their names.

“Don’t despair, brother. I expect you’ll have your name on a number of dance cards before you’ve had a chance to take your first glass of champagne from a footman,” Randy remarked.

“From your lips to?—”

“Lord Randolph Forster and The Honorable Thomas Forster,” the butler announced.

Forced to begin his descent, Tom stared straight ahead and remembered halfway down to display a more pleasant expression than what he was sure appeared to be fright.

Even without looking, he knew his older brother was smiling.

Surely the glare from his white teeth made the ballroom seem more brightly lit than it had been when they were at the top of the stairs.

Randy had always been more self-assured, more confident in situations such as this.

He had two years on Tom and knew most of the young men their age from their time at Oxford.

Some of those very classmates were already in the ballroom, ready to greet them with good-natured jibing and reminders they weren’t usually part of the Little Season.

“Card room, refreshments, or...” Randy waved to indicate the young ladies standing in the company of their mothers or chaperones. “Dancing?”

Tom glanced around, his attention immediately going to a young lady who was not glued to an older matron but was holding a glass of champagne as she watched the growing crowd at the bottom of the stairs.

“I think I shall see to filling in some of these dance cards,” he replied, leaving his brother’s side without another word.

Before he had made it halfway to the young lady with the champagne, Tom knew his brother was besieged with requests from mothers wanting to introduce their daughters. Securing a betrothal to an heir to an earldom would be a feather in any doting mother’s mobcap.

Tom decided there was definitely one benefit to being a spare heir—the matrons barely noticed him.

“Good evening,” he said as he approached the young lady.

Her eyes rounded and she glanced both left and right, as if she couldn’t believe he was addressing her. “Good evening, sir,” she replied, nodding.

“I couldn’t help but notice you are not accompanied by a chaperone. Does that mean...?”

“My mother is somewhere nearby,” she replied. “But I don’t believe we’ve met?”

Tom shook his head. “We have not. I am rarely in the capital. Uh...” He glanced around, searching for someone who could perform the introduction. When he didn’t see anyone he knew, he said, “My name is Thomas Forster.” He bowed as he reached for her white-gloved hand.

A quizzical expression appeared before she dipped a curtsy. “I am Helen. Lady Helen,” she amended, a brief grimace crossing her face when he brushed his lips over the back of her hand. “Forster... as in Gisborn?” she guessed.

“Indeed. I’m the spare,” he admitted, glad he had found a top coat that allowed him to shrug his shoulders. Had he not acquired the larger one earlier that day, he feared the sleeves would have torn out of their seams if he attempted to dance.

“What brings you to London, Mr. Forster?”

Tom managed to snag a glass of champagne from a passing footman. He shifted his feet so he was no longer facing her but standing at a right angle, sure he would be scolded by her mother at any moment. “My cousins and I are about to embark on our Grand Tour.”

Her eyes once again rounded. “Oh, I am so jealous.”

Giving a start—he hadn’t expected such a response from a young lady—Tom chuckled softly. “You like to travel?”

“I’m sure I would if I ever had the chance,” she replied. “Oh, I’ve been all over England of course, but I should love to tour the Continent, see Africa,” she gushed. “Go to my grandmother’s home country.”

“Home country?” he repeated, sure she was about to mention Germany.

“Greece,” she stated. “One of the islands of Greece.”

Tom guffawed. “I... I would not have guessed,” he said. “We’re planning to go to Greece. To Athens, of course. Mayhap some of the islands.” He glanced around again. “Might you allow me a dance this evening, my lady?”

“Of course.”

She held up her wrist, and he wrote “Forster” on the line for one of the waltzes. He couldn’t help but notice there were no other names on the card, but then, the ball had barely begun. “You’re allowed, I hope?” he asked. “A waltz?”

Helen grinned. “I am. I rather doubt there is anyone here who is not allowed,” she added.

“Oh?” he replied. “My mother once mentioned she could not waltz during her first year in Society. Apparently she could perform it at some place called Almack’s, although she had to have some sort of special dispensation to do so.”

Tittering, Helen said, “My mother wasn’t allowed, either, but the first time she waltzed with my father at a ball, he stepped on her foot.”

Tom nearly choked on the sip of champagne he had drunk and regarded her with disbelief. “You... you’re not joking?”

Helen’s light laughter lit up her features, its musical sound bringing a brilliant smile to his lips. “I am not. And although they were not betrothed until a year or so later, I rather doubt she held that unfortunate dance against him.”

“Well, I should endeavor to avoid stepping on your slippers during our dance, my lady,” he said, hoping his wince went unnoticed. He hadn’t actually practiced the waltz in over a year. It wasn’t as if he had much of a chance where he lived near Bampton-on-the-Bush.

“She was far more annoyed when he didn’t seem to recognize her the next time they met,” Helen commented.

“How could he not?” Tom asked in confusion.

“Well, she was in the water. The Aegean Sea, to be exact. So her hair would have been wet.”

Tom swallowed at the thought of meeting a young woman in the Aegean Sea. “He must have thought her a mermaid,” he guessed in awe.

“Aphrodite, actually,” she said in a hoarse whisper, one of her blonde brows arched in a tease.

Sure his face was red with embarrassment—was she suggesting her mother had been unclothed at the time?—Tom dipped his head and took a long draught of the champagne, nearly draining the glass of its bubbles.

“Oh, dear. Now I’ve said too much—or embarrassed you—and you’re wondering how you can remove your name from my dance card,” she said in mock dismay.

He shook his head. “No. No,” he replied, waving a hand to emphasize his response. “I was actually thinking of how fortuitous it was for him to have met the love of his life so far from England. As if...” He paused. “As if he was granted a second chance.”

From the expression on Helen’s face, he knew he had redeemed himself. “Perhaps when it becomes too much of a crush in here, we can take a turn in the gardens? I understand Lady Morganfield is quite proud of her roses.”

Helen nodded. “I’d like that, Mr. Forster.”

“ There you are, darling.”

Tom stiffened at hearing the sound of Cherise, Marchioness of Devonville. “Grandmama,” he said, turning to bow to the beautiful matron who had married his grandfather about the same time his mother had married his father. “Lady Devonville, have you met Lady Helen?”