Page 111

London

T he Honorable Nancy Lovelace peered out the window of the carriage as they passed rows of elegant townhouses and turned onto Lady Chilcombe’s square.

Outside a residence across the park, groups of gentlemen shook hands and slapped backs in greeting, while a nearby carriage disgorged far more ladies than the small conveyance ought to hold.

When the Lovelace carriage stopped for traffic, Nancy had a good long look. Now the gentlemen were directing their enthusiastic welcomes to the ladies.

What sort of gathering was that?

“Drat.” Mama, the dowager baroness, Lady Neda Loughton, leaned forward. “I thought we left early enough to avoid traffic.”

The brief trip around a corner and down two squares would be over far too soon, and then Nancy would have to, as Mama had said, face her fears.

Now that she finally would have her first season at the ripe age of nineteen, she was determined not to make a hash of it.

She would act her part, remember her lines, curtsy on cue, just as though she were presenting a play at school or in her family’s ballroom.

When she could be someone else and follow a script, she wasn’t nervous.

But to respond to the unexpected… that was when she tripped all over herself. Literally.

Hands damp in her elbow length gloves, she braced them on the velvet-upholstered seat of her brother Fitz’s town carriage, then set one hand upon each knee, and then gripped them together in her lap before moving to smooth the skirt of her exquisite new gown.

Though her new stays tortured her, the suffering was fair penance for the heavenly frock.

The wider skirt was the height of fashion and the pale pink tulle over satin ended in a white and pink rouleaux circling the hem.

The pink rouleaux had proven to have a mind of its own though.

Her maid, Meg, had repaired some of the stitches before they’d run out the door.

“Nancy.” Her mother patted Nancy’s hand. “Nerves are normal at your first ball, but you will be fine. Lady Chilcombe is a dear friend, and… and will need our support as well, this being her first ball as a widow.”

This was also Mama’s first ball since Papa’s death; Mama’s first trip to London in decades without the late Lord Loughton.

She’d heard Lady Chilcombe’s whisper to Mama about widows making a second come-out.

Nancy took her mother’s hand. “You’re nervous too. You don’t need to be.”

Mama was petite and trim, and still so lovely. She would be the belle of the ball amongst the older men.

She herself had inherited Mama’s blue eyes and blonde hair, but the excessive height that rendered her clumsy and the strong jaw that made strangers think she was stubborn, those had come from her father.

“I do wish one of the boys was with us,” Nancy said. She had four brothers old enough to attend a ball and none of them happened to be in town for the start of this, her first season. “Whoever am I going to dance with?”

Mama squeezed her hand back and smiled. “Lady Chilcombe tells me Simon will be there.”

A flicker of warmth crept up Nancy’s neck and stirred her nerves. The smile on her mother’s face turned sly.

Simon Clayding was her brother George’s best friend from childhood.

Nancy suppressed a sigh and said tightly, “Simon is a duke now. He won’t look below an earl’s daughter.”

Nor would he remember her, the awkward, clumsy girl who, nine years ago, had followed him around like a puppy.

Oh, but if he did remember her? She’d spent years comparing every one of her suitors against Simon—his looks, of course, but also his humor, his kindness.

Though in retrospect, his treatment of her had been more like sufferance toward a friend’s younger sister than kindness.

“Nonsense,” Mama said. “You’re grown up now and Simon might not recognize you, but he’s kept up a correspondence with your brother George, and occasionally with Fitz. He won’t cut you. Perhaps he’ll even ask you to dance.”

The words, uttered just as the coach rolled to a halt and the door opened, sent Nancy reeling. She hopped out before the steps were all the way down. The pink rouleau around her hem took the opportunity to spring free again, and she fell into the arms of a startled, bewigged footman.

N ancy lifted her skirts and tiptoed along the dark passage, willing herself to proceed in a stately manner, with her hem and her hair wreath minding their places.

She had been doing so well, so very, very well, quelling the nervousness twitching through her… Until that first step from the carriage when she’d knocked the poor footman’s wig askew.

She took a long breath and assumed the ramrod posture that was her defense against the busk in her stays—as well as all the other worries unsettling her.

The dancing would start soon, and she would so love to dance the first set.

There’d be no more tripping. No more ripped clothing. No more embarrassing awkwardness.

If only she and Mama were not virtually alone in this crowd of strangers.

Not that the ball guests were all strangers to her mother. Though Mama had been absent from London these last two years since Papa’s death, she’d kept up her correspondence with friends and acquaintances.

Mama would find someone to lead her daughter out.

Someone young, Nancy hoped, but not too fashionable.

Not eager to wed, because she wasn’t at all ready to spend hours drinking tea or being driven in the park.

She could drink tea and go for drives at home, and there were far too many interesting museums and theaters in London to waste time on mere courting.

Her friend from school, Sally Simpkins, was in London as well, though Mama had advised restraint about socializing with the daughter of a Drury Lane actress, never mind that the woman was considered respectable.

It had seemed a trifle unfair. Sally was as much a lady as any of the ton , and she’d know exactly how to act with the crowd gathered here, no matter how high the title.

Oh, for a familiar dance partner. Her brother, George, wouldn’t mind if she stepped on his toes; her brother, Fitz, would laugh if she made a wrong turn. The same was true for Rupert and Selwyn.

Or… what about Simon?

Thoughts of him sent emotions spiraling in her, longing twining with annoyance, and strands of hurt and embarrassment befuddling her, so that when she turned a corner, she stumbled against a large body with a startled squeak.

“Here now. What’s this?”

Powerful hands matched the deep masculine voice and set her back, steadying her. She looked up, astonished, and her heart swelled and threatened to burst. All the mixed emotions evaporated, and joy flooded her. Dark hair spilled over one blue-gray eye and the full lips pursed together in a frown.

He’d come for her. Simon Clayding—Duke of Something now, but he would always be Simon to her—Simon was here.

“It’s you,” she said. “I’m so s-sorry. I’m as clumsy as ever. B-but… you’re here?”

Perhaps he would dance with her. Perhaps she should ask him .

“’Course I’m here.” He blinked, as though trying to focus. “Question is, why are you here looking like a fresh young thing ready for your come-out?”

“S-Simon?”

“ Simon ?” He muttered a foul profanity she’d heard only on the rarest of occasions spilling from one of her brothers’ mouths.

“Demmed Percy told you my Christian name, I suppose, and sent you along. One of his pranks. Well, madam, you’re a pretty thing, and I mean you no offense, but I’m not going to be sidetracked tonight. I’m not interested.”

A wave of misery stilled her tongue and drove the breath from her. She’d loved Simon Clayding since her brother George brought him home from school that first holiday fifteen years ago when she’d been not much more than a baby.

In the dim light of a wall sconce, his gaze darkened and held hers, despite his proclaimed lack of interest.

Perhaps… Simon hadn’t seen her in nine years. He didn’t recognize her. He had her confused with someone else.

Reasoning trickled back into her senses, bringing along the strong scent of brandy.

Of course . He was completely foxed.

She licked her lips, preparing to set him straight, but as she opened her mouth, a spark lit his eyes and turned up the corners of his mouth.

And then he tugged her, pressing his lips to hers, pressing his chest to her… to her…

Breath left her in a whoosh as he angled his mouth over hers, nibbling and then entering her with his tongue, inflaming desire, demanding surrender.

She gripped his broad shoulders but instead of steadying her, their solidness sent heat spinning through her.

Simon was kissing her. Simon . The first man to kiss her. At a public ball. He cared for her. He hadn’t forgotten. He meant to mar…

“There.” He set her back as suddenly as he’d swooped down on her.

A tendril of hair fell over her cheek, the same one that a maid had just pinned.

“That’s all you’ll get from me. Go back and tell Percy we’ve had our tumble, if you will, and demand payment from him . Get you gone before one of the servants sees you and throws you out on your arse.”

He turned her around and smacked her bottom. She staggered against the wall, righted herself, and turned back ready to give him a piece of her mind.

But he’d disappeared.

Percy? Payment? What was he talking about?

“Oh, miss, that lock of hair has fallen again.”

The maid who’d seen to her hair eyed the loose tendril. Heat flooded Nancy’s cheeks. Had the girl seen that kiss? Or worse, heard what Simon had said?

The maid wrung her hands. “I’ll see to it again unless you’d like me to find someone else.”

Nancy gathered her wits and shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault. Come, I’ll follow you back to the retiring room.”

And perhaps she’d stay there for the rest of the ball.

“T hat’s her.”

A cluster of girls turned curious gazes that sent Nancy’s heart pounding.