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London, 1894

H eiress hunters are a maddeningly persistent lot, my dear Macie. You must lead them on a merry chase. Leave them with empty hands. And empty coffers.

Smiling as her grandmother’s words played in her thoughts, Mary Catherine Mason surveyed the veritable parade of London’s posh elites gathered in Lady Lucretia Drayton’s opulent ballroom. Debutantes decked out in their finery pranced about, the vibrant hues of their flowing silk gowns displaying their beauty to perfection, all the better to be seen by a potential husband or two. Dapper gentlemen strutted like peacocks, flaunting their wealth—or in its absence, the status bestowed by their noble birth. At times, Macie felt a twinge of pity for the penniless lords driven to barter a title for a fortune. Perhaps they felt as trapped as she had all those years ago, before her beloved Grandmama had shared the secrets few wanted her to know.

But now, as she stood in a shadowed corner of the ballroom, away from the crush, was not one of those times. Even while lingering in the shadows, Macie sensed an heiress hunter’s eagle-eyed gaze hone in. Quite a nuisance, really. She allowed herself a little sigh. She’d hoped to enjoy the notes of the orchestra in peace and relative solitude. Were the fortune seekers conditioned from their first breath to find brides whose fathers possessed an abundance of funds?

Boldly, she met the man’s intent gaze. His piercing eyes flashed with recognition, followed by a glimmer of opportunity that brightened his otherwise sallow features. Evidently, this one had yet to learn the word about town—Macie Mason did not intend to be caught. Much less by a greedy snob who hungered not for a taste of her lips, but for a smidgen of her father’s fortune. He would not be the first to learn that lesson. And sadly, he would not be the last.

When would the entitled Lord Nobs realize it was a losing battle?

Seven years earlier, moments before Macie’s debut at another crowded, equally lavish ballroom, Grandmama had clasped Macie’s hands in hers and offered words of hard-won wisdom. Since that evening, which now seemed a lifetime ago, Macie had cherished the memory of her grandmother’s heartfelt observation. Outsmarting the fops and ne’er-do-wells had become something of a game. Truth be told, she rather enjoyed devising schemes and scandals that would set fortune hunters running. Let them set their sights on more docile prey. She did not intend to be ensnared. Much less by the likes of them.

Looking past the beady-eyed baron—or was the fortune hunter a marquess?—she spotted her brother. Drat the luck . Jon was cutting a direct path toward her. Was he actually scowling? Why, he wasn’t even trying to hide his exasperation. One would think he would be accustomed to her efforts to deter the most recent crop of money-hungry lords. Still, his look of horror as he took in her ensemble was more than a wee bit amusing.

“Good God, Macie.” Still frowning, Jon met her gaze. “Tell me my eyes are deceiving me.”

She feigned a look of bemusement. “Why would you want me to say something silly? We both know your eyes are functioning precisely as they should, even without your spectacles.” She bit back a grin. “Is something wrong?”

A deep line formed between his brows, punctuating his exasperation. “Why in blazes are you wearing that... that thing ?”

“The word is dress, dear brother.” She pursed her lips in mock concern. “Have you suffered a recent blow to the head?”

“I might ask you the same question. You seem to have forgotten we are attending a ball tonight.” He swept his hand toward the dancers gliding oh-so-gracefully across the ballroom floor. “Not a lecture by some rationally dressed suffragette. Where is the gown Madame Lorette designed for you?”

“Her name is Madame Delphine,” Macie corrected, if only to stall for time.

“Whatever that pretentious woman is calling herself now is of no importance to me. We both know she’s about as French as tea and crumpets.” His scowl deepened. “She was paid to design a gown for you. Not this... atrocity.”

Macie took a small step back, retreating into the shadows along the periphery of the ballroom. “To be quite honest, she did sketch a gown that might have earned your approval. But I asked her to make a few changes.”

“A few changes?” Jon sounded as if he’d knotted his tie too snugly about his neck.

“She’d planned to use emerald-green silk. But that particular shade did not suit my coloring.”

The crinkle between her brother’s brows deepened to a crater. “I see. So you opted for the color of the mud caked on my boots after a heavy rain?”

“Really, Jon, you are going to worry yourself into wrinkles, and well before your time.”

“We both know who I will have to thank.”

Macie struggled to hold back a smile. Her older brother had always been so very responsible. So very dedicated to upholding the family name. And now, with their father putting it into Jon’s head that the family’s fine reputation rested on his ability to keep her out of trouble, he had grown far too serious. Far too staid.

Just like Papa.

“My, I had no idea my brother had become an expert on women’s couture. When I asked Madame Delphine to design a more demure gown, she assured me this color was all the rage in Paris.”

He rubbed the back of his neck as if it ached. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Not really.” She smiled, if only to vex him. “But I can’t say as I care.”

Jon slowly shook his head. “You do know how to sabotage the best laid plans.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear brother. This dress is perfectly suitable.” Macie tried her best to appear innocent, but her facade wasn’t working. She hadn’t believed it possible, but Jon’s scowl deepened. Much more of this, and he’d be fearsome enough to give the gargoyles atop the stairs outside their hosts’ palatial home a fright.

“Suitable, perhaps, for one of your excursions to those blasted houses where you chase ghosts.” His eyes narrowed as he slowly shook his head. “You look more like some blue-blooded matron’s companion than an...”

“Than what , Jon?”

“Than an heiress.” He bit off the word she so despised between his teeth, as if it was as distasteful to him as it was to her.

“Regardless of what Papa—and you, perhaps—may think, I am not a commodity to be bartered for the one and only thing Papa has not been able to buy. I am not one of those dollar princesses from across the pond. A title means nothing to me.”

“It’s not like that, Macie.” Her brother’s expression softened. “I do understand, more than you think. Father has it in his head that you’ll be a countess. Or a duchess. But that doesn’t mean you won’t find a man with whom you can make a good life, title or not.”

“In that case, I fail to see the problem with my gown. Or any of my other choices, for that matter.”

Glancing down at her drab skirt, she smoothed out a small wrinkle. The peculiar blend of olive and brown and gray would not have been flattering under any circumstance. In nature, only a female bird employing camouflage would prefer feathers of such an abysmal shade. But wasn’t that precisely what she was doing? Camouflage seemed the most appropriate strategy to endure this infernal soiree.

“Whether I am cloaked in vibrant hues or in this... admittedly unusual shade, I am still me . A man well suited to a match will see that.”

“Ah, Macie. You are an original.”

“Quite the understatement.” To her left, she spied a petite blonde garbed in a stunning teal gown, rather like the one she’d left hanging in the wardrobe of her Mayfair townhouse. “I do believe Miss Nolan has eyes for you, Jon. Your time would be better spent squiring her about the dance floor than lurking here with me.”

Glancing toward the beauty who’d set her sights on him, Jon’s eyes brightened. “You may have a point.”

“I’m right, and you know it.” Her gaze settled on the narrow strip of white silk he’d fastened a bit haphazardly about his throat. “All that worry about my gown, while you’re standing here looking all topsy-turvy. Hold still.” Reaching up, she quickly straightened his crooked bow tie. “Now go and enjoy yourself. At least one of us should have a good time tonight.”

“Very well.” His forehead furrowed again. “But promise me you’ll make an effort to... mingle.”

“Even looking so very hideous?” Macie teased.

“That word could never describe you, Macie. Even when you’ve pinned your hair back so tightly, the strands look to be in actual pain.”

“I will have you know this style is rather fashionable.” Macie touched her fingertips to her severe chignon. “I even selected a pearl-tipped hairpin especially for the occasion.”

“That belongs to Mum. I must say, it is a good choice.”

“At least something I’ve done meets your approval.”

“You’re every bit as pretty as our mother.” An emotion Jon seldom revealed flickered in his eyes. “But you do possess a talent for making yourself as drab as a peahen.”

She fashioned a look of mock confusion. “Modesty is a virtue, is it not?”

Her brother’s gaze drifted back to the blonde, whose display of cleavage paid no tribute to that particular virtue. “I’d say that’s open for debate.”

“Jon, I know what I’m doing.”

Turning his attention back to her, he cocked a brow. “Do you now?”

“Of course.”

He sighed beneath his breath. “At times, I have my doubts. But for now, I will leave you to your peahen charade.”

Peahen . The word, kinder than most she’d heard used to describe her, echoed in Macie’s thoughts as her brother made a beeline toward the elegant blonde before her dance card filled.

Spinster. Wallflower. Bluestocking.

On the shelf.

The busybody gossips were right. But they did not realize that Macie had not been placed there by fate’s cruel hand. At the rather ancient age of twenty-five, Mary Catherine Mason was there by choice.

A scandal here. A scandal there. Since her debut—an inauspicious event during which she’d accidentally toppled an entire glass of red wine onto the trousers of an overly amorous lord—she’d quickly learned that was all it took to send the Lord Rocks-for-brains of London on their merry way.

Over time, the conveniently spilled goblet of whatever beverage best suited the occasion had become a reliable strategy to deter the most persistent dolts. Of course, she didn’t want to become predictable, now did she? Once, she’d employed a prop sword—a brilliant accessory for costume balls—to discourage the attentions of a particularly obnoxious earl. The memory of the boor’s shocked expression as she’d jolted him in his noble bum still brought a smile to her lips. On another occasion, she’d experienced a delightfully convenient costume malfunction while garbed in a gown inspired by a Grecian goddess. And there was the time she’d arrived at a fancy ball while riding her bicycle. She’d been perfectly respectable—in her eyes, at least—with the bloomers beneath her gown protecting her modesty. Of course, her poor, beleaguered brother had not seen it that way. And neither had the baron-to-be who’d reportedly sought to woo her and her dowry that night.

Over the years, she’d inspired most of the nobles her father saw as means to a title to politely tiptoe into the sunset. Come to think of it, one or two might actually have been running. A few others—weighted down by debt, and therefore less easily deterred—had worked up the courage to ask for her hand in marriage. Sadly for their cause, Macie knew how to utter the word “No” in a half-dozen languages.

When each heiress hunter scurried away before Macie’s shenanigans could taint his most valuable asset—his good name —she’d breathe a sigh of relief and climb up upon a perch that seemed to grow higher and higher, ever more comfortable in a fate many viewed with a sense of quiet horror.

Sadly, her reprieve never lasted quite long enough.

For every debt-ridden duke or money-hungry marquess she chased off, another materialized. If her father had his way, she would settle for one of the bemused barons or vacuous viscounts who eyed her as greedily as a starving man might look upon a sumptuous feast.

No, that would not be her fate.

If Papa was disappointed in her, then so be it.

Macie had seen the quiet dread in the eyes of American dollar princesses and London heiresses alike whose futures had been bartered in exchange for a meaningless title. Why, her childhood friend had openly wept as she’d made her way down the aisle to speak her vows. Tears of joy. Or so the best man had whispered to the groom, a petrified young lord who looked as though he himself awaited the executioner’s blade. He knew better. And so did Macie. For a brief moment before the ceremony, Cecily had appeared to give thought to Macie’s urging to bolt before she spoke her vows. But in the end, she’d done her duty. Cecily had resigned herself to a fate that, while not worse than death, might have seemed like a premature burial.

Macie would not go quietly to such an existence. And so, she’d honed the art of chasing off heirs.

A chirpy, high-pitched voice, rather like a bird warbling in a cage, startled her from her thoughts. Drat. Drat. And double drat . She’d thought she might enjoy another moment’s peace here in the shadows. But ambitious mothers of down-on-their luck nobles were even more skilled at sniffing out an heiress than their sons.

“Goodness, Miss Mason, there you are. I had begun to fear you were not going to join us tonight.” Lady Drayton, the snowy-haired countess—or was it viscountess?—of something-or-other strolled toward her, her eyes narrowed with an assessing focus. The matron was best known for two things: her impeccable skill as a hostess and her unshakable hope of finding her only son a match that would replenish the family’s dwindling coffers.

Ah, yes, if Macie squinted a wee bit and allowed her imagination to run unfettered, she could see the money bags dancing in Lady Drayton’s cool blue eyes. Still, it wouldn’t do to offend the woman. She’d have to at least pretend to enjoy the woman’s hospitality. If only through clenched teeth.

Macie managed a smile. “So nice to see you, Lady Drayton.”

“I am delighted you could attend. Arthur has looked forward to making your acquaintance.”

Arthur . Lord Drayton. Yet another man with a title Macie’s father would see as a trophy, even if Macie would be the one to gain it.

Pity she’d no inclination to share a bed with a title, noble or otherwise.

“It will be my pleasure.” Macie forced out the words, one syllable at a time.

Following at Lady Drayton’s side, Macie strolled by the couples on the dance floor. Spotting her brother engaged in a rather mechanical waltz, she repressed an urge to pull a face. Lucky dolt. Jon felt no pressure to make an advantageous match.

In truth, neither should she. She planned to make the most of her time in the city. The prospect of setting up her camera in a gloomy old house was ever so exciting. The more cobwebs and mysterious creaks, the better. London boasted countless places said to be roamed by restless spirits and the occasional ghoul or two. The lure of one particular mansion had drawn her back to the city—her grandfather’s home. Bennington Manor was now hers.

Hers to bring back to its former glory. Hers to cherish. Hers to portray in all its eccentric charm through the lens of her camera.

Preparing for the restoration and her next photographic exhibit would fill most of her days and nights. In what little remained, she would humor her father.

But in the end, he would be disappointed. Of that, she was quite certain.

“I must warn you, Arthur is a bit... studious,” Lady Drayton went on, speaking the words as if she’d uttered a confession. “It’s a rare night when he sets aside his telescope and his computations to socialize. Recently, he has devoted his evenings to observing some comet or other.” Lady Drayton’s thin mouth stretched into something resembling a smile. “He fancies himself to be a man of science. But soon, he will find a good woman who will interest him in more... conventional pursuits.”

“I am sure he will.” Macie said, resisting the urge to mention that good woman would not be her. After all, she was far more passionate about capturing an intriguing image with her camera than overseeing a stuffy dinner party with precisely the right delicacies and elegant china to impress her husband’s guests. If she had her way—and she certainly intended to—she’d tote her camera everywhere from the Tower of London to the Pyramids of Giza. She would capture the images of her journey and develop her craft. Definitely not the stuff of a conventional marriage.

A sudden, angry shriek that might have shattered glass rang out. The mumbled words of an apology followed, though Macie had no desire to listen for the details. A willowy blonde stood in their path, fury flashing in her eyes. She fixed a dagger-filled look on the fair-haired, ruddy-faced man who stood within arm’s length of her, his expression one of dire mortification.

“Oh dear, Lady Sylvie is in quite a stir,” Lady Drayton said in Macie’s ear. “Again.”

The blonde continued to skewer the red-cheeked man with her gaze. “Now you’ve done it.”

“Sylvie, you must know—”

“What I know is this, you clod—you’ve ruined my gown.” Flicking her long, unbound hair over her shoulder, she turned on her heel and stomped to the door. The hapless man rushed after her, a not-quite-empty wine glass bobbing between his fingers.

“Nothing like a little lovers’ tiff to liven up the evening.” A sparkle brightened Lady Drayton’s eyes as her attention lit on a lanky man who appeared to be avoiding the crowd. “Ah, there’s Arthur,” she said. “I simply must introduce—”

As Macie followed her hostess’s brisk pace, she took a step, and then another. Suddenly, her right foot no longer touched the floor. Blast these flimsy, oh-so-pretty shoes. Slippers, indeed! A soft “Oh dear” escaped Lady Drayton’s lips as Macie struggled to fend off gravity.

Farewell, dignity . The words flitted through Macie’s thoughts, as if to taunt her.

Suddenly, powerful hands caught her from behind. Stopped her descent. Long fingers gripped the underside of her arms. She dangled in her unseen hero’s hold, her bottom precariously close to the marble floor.

Gazing up, she met the eyes of the man who was at that moment the only thing between her and a rather ugly sprawl. If this were a gothic novel, she would gaze adoringly at her hero.

But this was not a novel. And this man most definitely was not her hero.

This is not happening. But it was. At the moment she’d kicked her foot up into the air like the world’s dowdiest can-can dancer, she’d believed the night could not get any worse.

She had been mistaken. Quite so.

She knew those oh-so-familiar amber eyes. She knew the strands of caramel in his brown hair. Once, she had even brushed back the appealing lock that rebelled against his attempts to rein it into place. And above all, she knew that oh-so-arrogant smile.

Phineas Caldwell .

Of all the men in the ballroom who might have broken her fall, why did it have to be Finn? Dash the infernal luck !