Page 75

“Y ou are the only fortunate female in the room,” Eliza said. “You danced with the duke. Where is your enthusiasm? Tell me, what is he like?”

Lora rolled her eyes, fighting the mushrooming turmoil settling in her belly. “He . . . He?—”

“Has left you speechless,” Eliza said with sunny cheerfulness. “Well, isn’t that something?”

“No. No. It is not what you think. He has shown no interest in me at all.”

“That is not how it looked while you danced. He seemed determined to keep your attention.”

“There you are correct,” she admitted. “Although not for the reasons you suggest. He kept asking questions about Kingston, my father, and?—”

“And?” Eliza asked, waiting expectantly.

“He offered his condolences for Nicholas’s death.”

“Is that all?” Eliza frowned. “How strange. From the way the two of you were looking at each other, I thought . . . Surely?—”

“You thought wrongly.”

A warm flush swept over Lora. She stroked her arm, recalling the duke’s touch.

He was a fine creature, finer than any she’d ever seen in her entire existence.

His physical attributes had undergone significant alteration.

He was taller in stature, with blond hair and blue eyes.

A complete contrast of light to her dark.

Indeed, he exuded calm authority, a take-charge-attitude that promised guidance to her worn spirit.

“He is the spitting image of his father,” Eliza concluded. “I always thought the old duke was a handsome man. Though he was much too old for me.”

“Eliza!”

“Old. Young.” Her friend pouted. “What does it matter? I do not intend to be a burden to my parents.”

“Have your mother and father ever led you to believe that you are a burden?”

“No,” Eliza said wistfully. “But we all universally acknowledge that the eldest should marry first. With two sisters waiting in the wings, it is my duty to marry soon.”

“Nobody is guaranteed love.” Aunt Meg’s hopes for her jumped to the forefront of Lora’s mind.

Marriage brought security and the added bonus of sweet little babes for her aunt to coddle.

Pining for love set off a carillon of alarm for any wallflower.

“No matter how hard we may wish for it, we cannot control Fate.”

Eliza chuckled. “I will take matters into my own hands if need be.”

“Take care, Eliza,” she warned her friend.

Lora had done things, said things, witnessed the unthinkable, and continued to take matters into her own hands.

Where had it gotten her? She still didn’t know who the man with the orange neckerchief was, who he worked for, or where he would strike next, and that was a constant frustration. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“We are wallflowers, Lora. Wishes and dreams are all that we have.”

Her gaze strayed to the Duke of Beresford, who stood out, dressed in a sea of black and cream, with his white linen stock and neatly tied cravat.

During the waltz, his searching eyes had delved deep into her soul, stripping away the barriers necessary to hide her innermost secrets.

“Being a wallflower is not the end of the world.”

Beresford’s attention was. His presence made her heart drum violently in her chest. His nearness jeopardized her cause.

The attack on her defenses was a shock so rare, so sensual and seductive and strong, it brought to mind the first time she’d seen the then Lord Rutland, fresh out of Oxford, and waited for him to sign her dance card.

He never did. She’d almost never recovered from the cut direct.

But he was here, now, a young duke of renown, coming in all his state to confuse and charm her.

Certainly, the threat he posed to the role she played—that of a mild-mannered wallflower with a saddled nose—disrupted her plans to avenge her brother and heightened the risk that her mask might slip.

Being distracted frightened her more than moonless nights, armed bandits, and crossbow pikes.

Then there was this disorderly twinge in her belly.

Whenever he looked her way or came near, the earth rocked beneath her feet.

Oh, he was dangerous, all right. And someone needs to intervene before the ground gives away, opening and deepening ruts, and trapping her in a flood of passion in the mire.

“What I object to,” Eliza complained, “is this unbearable waiting. What I wouldn’t give to be able to ask a man to dance.”

“I do not think the ton will ever allow that.” She laid her gloved hand on her friend’s arm. “Hoping for miracles is a waste of time.”

“Balderdash!” Eliza snapped her fan closed, a flash of humor crossing her face. “We do not need miracles. You and I are just as accomplished as any other female in this room. And you are the daughter of our esteemed host.”

“Shhh.” She played a game of cat and mouse. No one could discover that she was the cloaked woman in the woods. One wrong word or look might draw suspicion her way. “I do not desire attention.”

Beresford had caught her once.

He could do it again.

Would she be able to escape a second time?

No. The less she and the duke had dealings, the better.

“Honestly, I do not understand you. Your aunt took great pains to arrange this house party, but you act like you want no part of it.”

“That isn’t necessarily true. You are here.” She flashed a winning smile to cheer Eliza’s spirits. “And I will feel doubly blessed if my father summons the strength to attend.” She worried her bottom lip. “The exposure to people would do him good. If only?—”

“The duke knew how much you adore him,” Eliza said with a sigh.

“No.” Fear seized her. “He can never find out. I would die of sheer mortification.”

Among other things. The world she traversed would cease to exist if the duke found out that she was in love with him.

People would place expectations upon her.

More eyes would watch her every move. Besides, he hadn’t accepted the invitation to Winterbourne to find a wife, and she had no need for a husband . . . yet.

Despite everything, Eliza persisted and wouldn’t be put off. Opening her fan, she stepped forward and shielded their faces. “Be honest. You desire him still.”

“Eliza.” She glanced around to make sure no one overheard them.

Beresford’s reasons for attending their little house party were personal and grievous, and the questions he brandished were far more dangerous.

“I have outgrown such fantasies, and he has left Society to take his father’s place.

He desires to know the area, its people, that is all. ”

“I doubt he danced with you in order to get information that can be easily obtained from any man of our acquaintance. No,” Eliza said, smiling. “The tension between the two of you clearly hinted at something more while you were dancing.”

“You are wrong. I should be happy never to see the duke again.” Liar!

Strength and power were seductive forces.

One word from Beresford could put everything to rights.

He had connections. He could hire men, locate Nicholas’s killers, and put them to the noose.

But then I would not have the satisfaction of watching the life fade from my enemy’s eyes.

“Besides, I cannot marry until Papa has fully recovered. No, indeed. I assure you I am not under the duke’s spell. ”

“That is not what I saw.”

Smothering a groan, she hugged her friend close, hating the need for dishonesty. Until Nicholas’s death, she had withheld nothing from Eliza. However, times had changed. If Eliza knew what she was up to, she would quickly put an end to her schemes out of concern for her safety.

“Your eyes only see goodness and that is why I adore you,” she said. “You restore balance and beauty to the world and keep it from feeling like a dismal place.”

“Oh, Lora. Though we may occasionally be blind to it, I truly believe that goodness exists. Worthy souls attract happiness.” Eliza affectionately gripped her hand. “Even piqued wallflowers.”

She chuckled at Eliza’s play on words. “You are a bright star. Truly wonderful and wise.”

“I tell myself that every morning.” Eliza managed a small, tentative smile.

“When I stand before the looking glass, mind you. But . . . this is my third season.” She covered her mouth, mocking the absurdity.

“Forgive me for mentioning it again. I know that personal matters have kept you from coming to London, and you have experienced more suffering than anyone should have to endure. But other than Mr. Stanhope, I fear?—”

“Nothing.” She squeezed Eliza’s hand, ignoring the torrent of emotion flooding her heart.

Self-pity contributed naught to one’s plight other than making a person the most miserable of souls to be around.

And a ball was not the place to snivel and whine, even in Samuel’s presence.

“The only interest required to sustain you, Eliza, should be your own.”

“That is not the same thing, Lora, and you know it.” Eliza trained misty eyes on the dancing bodies moving across the ballroom floor. “I want marriage and babies?—”

“And you shall have them,” she assured her. Even she had those earnest desires, though they hung to be pecked to the bone like Jerry Abershawe’s corpse.

No one married a felon. Fine gentlemen—her liberal description of vandals of female virtue—preferred fluttering fans, coy glances, and secret interludes to the qualities that enhanced a woman’s appeal; talents for something other than breeding.

She was a marquess’s daughter, encouraged to marry within her station.

The aristocracy limited her choices, though that pool also included dandies and droll politicians, none of whom would be interested in marrying a woman destined to be hanged.

“Don’t look now.” Eliza gestured to the doorway. “He is coming.”

“Who?” Suddenly perplexed, she searched the ballroom floor, half-expecting and dreading to see the duke approach for another dance.

“Your cousin.”