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CHAPTER ONE

Miss Portia Demming stared in horror at the bright red splotches on the back of her white, silk glove.

Mr. Ernest squeezed her elbow as he guided her through the cramped confines of Mrs. White’s ballroom. “Is something the matter?”

Portia resisted the urge to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.

Doing so would only smear the droplets into an even more obvious ragged line.

She cast a quick glance at Mr. Ernest, whose hollow cheeks were still beaded with sweat from the jaunty country dance they’d shared.

He would be of no assistance. One look at her face, and he’d probably turn apoplectic.

No, she’d have to get out of this mess on her own. She was ten-and-eight, not a child.

She sniffed, drawing blood back into her nose before it could ruin the delicate bobbin lace decorating the neck of her scarlet-and-black striped gown. Her maid had prepared the garment earlier that evening against the chance of this very eventuality.

Her nose, even more than her insufferably protective court-appointed guardian, was determined to keep her from finding a husband.

“I-I apologize, Mr. Ernest,” she said. “I fear I might faint.” She stumbled as she took her next step, causing Mr. Ernest to gasp.

He gripped her upper arm, hurried her through the crowd, then deposited her at the side of her Aunt Winifred with a babbled apology.

Portia waited for him to leave, then sat down heavily on the settee.

“Again, Portia?” her aunt asked. The words were soft but held a thread of exasperation.

That was Winifred, quick to warm smiles and generous praise in public, but icily distant and stern in private.

That contradiction was also present in her choice of attire; a sapphire evening gown with a deep neckline paired with a simple silver locket and pearl earrings.

Portia didn’t dare look into her aunt’s piercing green eyes, fearing she would see more than disappointment there. Instead, she kept her gaze on her lap as she tugged a black handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “It is not as if I can help it.”

Winifred sighed. “I know, dear. It’s only that…” she trailed off, leaving Portia to imagine what she’d been about to say.

This is your second season. You do not have the luxury of being particular. Your guardian is growing impatient.

It wasn’t as if Portia wasn’t trying. She smiled and flirted as much as any other young lady, filling up her dance card at every ball. She’d been called upon at home by several eligible gentlemen, any of which might have presented an offer.

Except they didn’t.

One-by-one, her suitors disappeared, vanishing from her midst as if whisked away by magic.

She searched the ballroom for the person responsible for her current unmarried state and found him lounging near the open doors to the patio, standing stiffly upright with his lips pressed into a thin line as a woman in a light blue gown fawned before him.

The incorrigible gossipmonger, Mrs. Violet.

She fluttered her fan in front of her bosom, even though she had to be quite chilled when the curtains next to her flapped like flags with the evening breeze.

“Mr. North seems to be enjoying himself,” Portia’s aunt said dryly.

Portia made a rude sound. Her newly assigned guardian, a distant relation, had a particular talent for entering a room and immediately knowing who he could threaten or flirt into doing his bidding, usually in that order.

His imposing height, relative youth, and unnatural good luck at cards meant that half the men in town owed him money, including, Portia guessed, most of her previous suitors.

It had to be him chasing suitors away from her, perhaps offering to reduce their debt in exchange for leaving her alone.

It was easy to imagine her guardian sitting at his desk in his office with his patrician nose turned up, blond hair carefully swept back, laying out an ultimatum to Lord Willow or Mr. Farthing, forbidding them from associating with Portia.

She clenched her teeth as Mr. North reached down to pick up the handkerchief Mrs. Violet had dropped. When he returned the bit of fabric, the woman’s cheeks reddened.

It shouldn’t have bothered Portia. What Mr. North chose to do was none of her concern, so long as he stayed out of her way. But watching Mrs. Violet preening her feathers before him made Portia feel as if bugs were crawling over her skin.

It didn’t make sense. By all accounts, Mr. North was an incorrigible rake, but ever since he’d been granted guardianship of her several months prior, she’d yet to see him dance with a single woman.

And not for lack of interest. Mrs. Violet was only the latest in a series of ladies who had approached him tonight.

Not that Portia was keeping count.

“Something must be done about him,” she said, speaking the words as an idea formed in her mind. “I cannot spend another season under his thumb.”

She was like a songbird, plucked from the comfort and safety of her home and thrust into Mr. North’s gilded cage. He trotted her out at balls, permitting others to admire her beauty, but cut off anyone who got close enough to rescue her from her confinement.

What she needed to do was show him she would not remain passive. While she remained unwed and underage, they were tied together, but she could use that connection to her advantage.

Winifred patted the top of her blood-stained glove. “I shall have a word with him.”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary.” Portia pushed to her feet. “I believe it is time for my guardian to learn how determined I can be in pursuit of my own interests.”

Winifred chuckled. “Oh, I pity Mr. North.” She inclined her head. “Have at him, my dear. You have my blessing.”

Portia grinned, because her aunt couldn’t expect that Portia intended to use Mr. North’s rakish predilections against him. To get what she wanted, she was going to seduce her guardian.

She knew little about what went on between husbands and wives, but she had spent countless nights imagining what it might be like to be ravished. If her aunt was to be believed, the act could be quite pleasant with the right man.

She shoved through the crowd, ignoring the stares and gaping mouths her actions elicited.

It was most improper, leaving her chaperone, and would assuredly summon Mr. North.

But this time, she would not stand demurely and listen to a lecture on propriety.

He was only two years older than her, but acted as if she was still in the schoolroom.

If he wanted to chastise her, it would be on her terms.

She cast a glance over her shoulder and confirmed he was watching her, scowling fiercely.

Gooseflesh erupted on her arms.

He mouthed the word stop.

She licked her lips.

He took a step in her direction.

She spun around and made for the doors leading out of the ballroom, pulse pounding in her throat.

Somewhere behind her, a fiddle player began a sprightly tune, signaling the next dance.

She darted across the rapidly clearing space in the center of the room and bumped into the Earl of Martin.

He caught her elbow, steadying her before she could tumble forward.

“Why, Miss Demming,” Lord Martin said, flashing her a lopsided grin beneath a wiry black mustache. “You need only have asked. I would be pleased to share this dance with you.”

Lord Martin’s grip was firm, and there was a hardness to his expression that suggested she wouldn’t be able to escape easily.

She’d intended to cause a bit of a fuss to rile her guardian and lure him to a more private area, but giving an earl the cut direct in the middle of a ballroom would stain her reputation beyond repair.

She dipped her chin. “Thank you, but?—”

“My ward is otherwise engaged,” a deep voice said from behind her.

“O-of course, Mr. North,” Lord Martin said. He released her and lifted his hands as if warding off a wild beast.

It shouldn’t have happened.

Lord Martin was a lord. Lords did not scurry away from untitled gentlemen. Yet that was exactly what happened.

Before she could wrap her mind around the encounter, Mr. North rudely placed her hand on his arm and tugged her out of the dancing area.

She expected him to return her to Winifred, but he continued the path she’d started, and soon they were walking down a hall lit only by gas lamps poking out of the walls, their footsteps muffled by a thick brown carpet.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Somewhere you cannot cause a scene,” Mr. North said, in a voice so low it was like a growl. “What were you thinking? Lord Martin is entirely an inappropriate choice.”

She scrunched her nose. “What’s wrong with the earl? He is unmarried.”

“What that man wanted from you was not marriage.”

“Then what did he want, Mr. North?”

She knew, of course. She had learned about men and their desires from her aunt.

Her guardian increased his pace. “Call me ‘Edward’.”

In another situation, his demand might have flustered her, but it was obvious this was no invitation to be on more intimate, familiar terms. He was merely trying to distract her.

He would not succeed.

“You did not answer my question, Edward .”

He stopped walking so suddenly that she nearly toppled over. Then he grasped her upper arms in both hands and pushed her against the wall.

The air exploded from her lungs.

She should have been terrified. Scandalized.

Furious. This was a man she barely knew, handling her most inappropriately while wearing a fearsome scowl.

It was, without a doubt, the most dangerous situation she’d ever found herself in.

Yet when she met his gaze, a wave of warmth rushed from her chest to her toes.

“Tell me what Lord Martin wanted,” she said.

Her guardian closed his eyes, defeated. “The same thing that I—that they all want.”

The same thing that I want.

Was that what her guardian had been about to say?