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London, Belgravia

The Welbournes’ Ball

H e smelled of bergamot, and when he looked at her, Daphne felt lucky.

Those warm amber eyes of his, so full of appreciation and interest, always made her pulse thrum in her veins. And whenever he was near—even if they stood apart in the same ballroom or sat with half a dozen guests separating them at the same dinner—she sensed his regard.

The other debutantes agreed he was the most charming of gentlemen.

Handsome, always fashionably garbed, and agreeable in every way.

Indeed, half a dozen ladies seemed slightly smitten with him.

But he smiled at Daphne with a particular glint in his eye.

Surely, he didn’t smile at all the ladies that way.

Of course, she had not been named the diamond of the Season—that distinction had fallen to her friend—but she was not without her own quiet virtues.

She was kind, loved books and gardens, and she was loyal to a fault.

Her father always told her she was sweet-natured.

Her mother always encouraged her curiosity.

Perhaps Sebastian saw some of that in her. Maybe that’s why he’d singled her out.

Though it was true that he danced almost every dance at the balls they both attended, rather than every other as was strictly polite, she’d put that down to his good nature and obvious sense of joviality.

And while he’d never danced more than two dances with her, she’d been increasingly certain for weeks that there was something between—that he meant to court her in earnest.

Now she had proof of his intentions.

Tonight, as he’d taken her hand and offered the most proper, chaste kiss atop her knuckles, she’d felt him pass a slip of paper to her. Taking it, her heart had thrashed as if she’d done something terribly brazen.

And no one ever expected her—sweet, biddable Daphne Bridewell—to do anything but what was expected of her.

Now, as she was doing exactly the opposite, she kept swallowing against a lump in her throat that would not dislodge.

I am following my heart.

Daphne had told herself as much the moment she’d decided, which was approximately ten seconds after reading his note. And she repeated the sentiment now as she rushed as quickly as she dared down the hallway of Lord and Lady Welbourne’s elegant townhouse.

Their ball was so crowded that many guests had drifted off into other rooms to take refreshment, play card games, or retire for conversation. She hoped the various diversions meant she wouldn’t be missed.

I am following my heart.

Her goal for the Season hadn’t been to make the best match, but to make the right one.

To meet a man she didn’t just like or who she could admire—as some debutantes spoke of their suitors—but one to whom she could give her whole heart.

Her deepest wish was to have a companionable marriage and a large family like her parents had.

She wanted a husband who looked at her with steadfast love in his eyes, and to raise children with him, who would flourish in a home as nurturing as her family’s had been.

Her parents’ marriage had been a love match. Her eldest sister Lily’s marriage to the Duke of Edgerton certainly was. The two could barely spend a moment in each other’s company without kissing. That was what she wanted too.

So, why should she not rush headlong toward her own happiness?

One thing was certain. No man in England could make her happier than Sebastian Moreland.

It wasn’t just his Adonis-like chiseled features or golden curls or the sparkle in his honey-brown eyes. Mr. Moreland was more than the sum of his obvious male appeal. He was scrupulously polite, faultlessly charming, and never failed to make her smile.

She adored his thoughtfulness too. After her first ball of the Season, he’d sent her the most striking bouquet, which stood out among the many blooms sent to Edgerton House.

Enormous purple delphiniums had risen in all their wild beauty above an assembly of too-perfect hothouse roses.

Mr. Moreland had recalled her mention of how much she loved delphiniums and even the color she favored.

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the hallway, and Daphne skittered back into an alcove near a statue of a lithe Greek goddess.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

The couple proceeded swiftly, leaning close, whispering to each other. She heard a light giggle and wondered what debutante would take such a risk.

You , an inner voice of warning whispered. Yes, Daphne had found the courage—or perhaps the recklessness—to risk a great deal this evening.

Still, she had no desire to be caught sneaking about when she should be back in the ballroom.

Once the couple slipped into one of the rooms that had not been set aside for public entertainment, she drew in long, lung-filling breaths. Her heartbeat rattled in her chest now, and for the first time since deciding on this course, she debated returning to the ball.

Perhaps the couple had been an omen. If they were found—whoever they were—the young lady would be disgraced.

And if Daphne’s rendezvous with Mr. Moreland were to be discovered, she’d be caught in a scandal.

And that would touch more than just her reputation.

She had two younger sisters who were yet to have their Season, and even with a duke for a brother-in-law, such a scandal could not be easily overcome.

Clasping her fingers tightly around the note Sebastian had passed to her, she closed her eyes, recalling the two simple lines it contained.

Just a few moments alone with you is all I crave. Come to the Welbournes’ library.

He was going to propose to her. Daphne felt the certainty deep in her heart. He wouldn’t bid her to risk so much if the reward he intended to offer were not so great.

Mrs. Daphne Moreland. Pride at taking his name filled her chest with warmth. And one day, when he inherited, she would be proud to become Lady Hurst.

Goodness, they would be happy together. So gloriously happy. The prospect of waking with him. The notion of sleeping beside him. She could see it all in her mind’s eye.

Pushing away her doubts, Daphne rushed toward the Welbournes’ library. The door was set back beyond the townhouse’s grand stairwell, blessedly hidden from the view of anyone else who might be striding down the hallway.

Cracked open an inch as it was, a tantalizing sliver of light spilled onto the marble floor beneath her feet. She paused, not debating, just savoring the moment. Once she crossed the threshold, her life would change forever.

Daphne licked her lips. Tonight, she’d have her first kiss from the first man she’d ever given her heart to. The only man she would ever give her heart to.

The sound of voices stopped her.

Good grief, had another couple already secured the library for a tryst?

Daphne lifted her hand from the door latch and began to retreat, but then she heard the smooth, deep voice she heard in her dreams. Anticipation coiled in her belly. Oh thank goodness, Sebastian was already here.

But then another gentleman’s laughter sounded in the room, then another’s. The three seemed to be engaged in jovial conversation.

Daphne leaned in, trying to catch their words.

“We should be off,” one man said.

“Don’t want to interrupt your tête à tete,” a second affirmed.

“Off with you both,” Sebastian told the men.

“On the lips,” the first man insisted.

“To hell with that,” Sebastian barked. “I’m having more than a bloody kiss.”

All three quieted and then joined in low, lascivious laughter, thick with suggestion.

Daphne’s belly pitched down toward her slippers, and as much as she wanted to escape and hear no more, curiosity kept her frozen in place.

“The bet is for a kiss, Moreland,” the first man said firmly. “We’ll be listening from the hallway to confirm it.”

“You’ll do more than listen,” Sebastian insisted. “You must see that we’re not caught.”

“She has a dowry from her duke brother-in-law, an angel’s face, and a delicious figure, would it be such hell to be leg-shackled to her?” one of the men asked.

“Perhaps not,” Sebastian admitted, “but I aim to dodge the parson’s noose for a bit longer. Still, I do intend to win this wager and have a proper taste of her damnably pert breasts.” His arrogant tone was one Daphne had never heard from him.

The men let out another round of laughter.

Daphne clutched her stomach. Bile burned her throat. Laying her palm on the door, she stepped forward, determined to see his face. Determined to look into those amber eyes and see the truth—that she had never been more to him than a wager.

A silly, trusting debutante. Easily seduced. A gullible fool.

Her other hand balled into a fist, nails digging into the skin of her palm. Then tears came, spilling down her cheeks.

That’s what stopped her. She wouldn’t give him that. She wouldn’t let him see how deep he’d cut her. He wouldn’t care anyway. He never had.

She swiped at her cheeks, turned on her heel, and made her way back to the ballroom on wobbly legs. Nothing had been true. Weeks of dreaming, hoping, carving out such an enormous piece of her heart to stamp his name upon it. And it had all been a facade. A handsome, charming facade.

God help her, she was the greatest of fools. And she hadn’t even made it hard for him.

Papa had always called her the sweetest of his girls.

But she was too sweet. Too gullible. Too eager to give away her heart.

As she reached the ballroom’s threshold, her tears had begun to dry and her resolve had begun to harden.

She would never be a gullible fool for any man again.