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Thea decided that she loathed St. James. His mishaps had ruined not one but two gowns!

She didn’t know if he planned to attend the concert at the music hall tonight. But if he even dared approach her, she might

take a pair of scissors to his cravat.

Not that it would make much difference. His cravats were always wrinkled, with the knot slightly askew. Most of the time she’d

wanted to fix it for him. Just pull him aside and have a conversation that she actually enjoyed.

But that was before he’d dowsed her with a vase full of putrid flower water.

To think, she’d actually been happy to see him stand by her side while she’d told her tale the other night. At first. Now

as she and Lady Broadbent entered the music hall with its tall windows and ornately vaulted ceiling, she was scanning the

room with dread.

And yet, it wasn’t the abrupt end of her unfinished story of the highwayman and the deluge of smelly water—which had taken

three long soaks in the copper bathtub to be rid of—that she’d thought of when a messenger arrived with a new bouquet of paper

flowers yesterday morning. It had been their conversation. The way he made her laugh. The tingles that danced over her skin

when he looked at her in that intense way of his. And his hands...

She swallowed down a groan of frustration. Because every time she looked at those tiny little petals, she thought of his big hands. And thinking of his hands led her back to the moment he’d reached out before lowering his arm and clenching his fist.

From there, her thoughts gathered momentum as she wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped. Wondered if he’d

have taken hold of her hand, the warmth of him seeping through her glove. Wondered what it would be like if he’d peeled off

her glove, inch by inch, until she felt those hands on her skin.

She shook her head to clear it. This wasn’t like her.

Being raised by two overly affectionate parents, their casual touches and saucy looks across the room had embarrassed her.

They even kissed in front of their children. It was unheard of in polite society!

At an early age, Thea discovered no other parents did that. Other husbands and wives behaved with decorum. They practically

pretended their spouse didn’t exist in anything other than name.

When women were breeding, they were hidden away from society. And when they reappeared, they would present their child to

visitors like a bauble they’d purchased in a curiosity shop, then send the mewling creature back to the nursery.

Meanwhile, Roxana Hartley performed puppet shows for her daughters to explain that children came into being after Lord Turgid

would lie with Lady Content. But only some of the time. According to her mother, there were other times when Lady Content and Lord Turgid merely enjoyed each other’s

companionship.

Until a few years ago, Thea had assumed that Lady Content preferred Lord Turgid because he was tall enough to shield her from

the rain. After all, Lady Content was obsessed with the weather, forever talking about becoming wet.

But Thea made the mistake of mentioning this to her mother.

After drying tears of laughter from her eyes, Roxana had explained everything. In detail.

Thorough. Mortifying. Detail.

To make matters worse, her mother threatened her, telling Thea that it was going to be like that for her one day. That she

couldn’t escape the passion in the Hartley blood.

Was it any wonder that Thea preferred to bury herself in plays? Or why she’d always struggled to understand the full complexity

of human behavior with so many opposing viewpoints and confusing examples in her life?

The worst part was that Thea’s muse had disappeared again. Just vanished in a poof of smoke. Or rather, in a deluge of rank

water.

And just thinking about St. James made her so angry she could— Argh!

“Are you quite yourself, my dear?” Lady Broadbent asked in hushed disapproval as they entered the rooms of the music hall.

“I merely ask because one does not usually growl in public for one’s own amusement.”

She had to paste on a smile when a matron near the door glared at her through her quizzing glass.

“As you might have noticed, I’m a bit distracted,” she whispered as her chaperone paused to survey the room, seeking the most

advantageous seats. “In fact, I feel a sense of ennui returning. Perhaps we should leave and stay in the rest of the evening.”

“Stuff and nonsense. You’re merely plagued by the thought of encountering St. James this evening.”

Thea opened her mouth on a denial, but snapped it closed when the countess slid an imperious glance her way as if daring her

to deny it. “Fine. But wouldn’t you be wary, too? He’s doing his utmost to make a laughingstock of me. I’ll never find a suitable

husband at this rate.”

Or, more importantly, she would never find her muse, who had obviously decided to abandon her in favor of someone more worthy of a footnote.

Her sigh filled the entire room.

Lady Broadbent’s fan swatted her lightly on the wrist. “Continue making that infernal sound and I shall send for a physician

to examine your lungs. Then I will write to your mother and inform her that her youngest is lovesick.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Then stop behaving as though the actions of one man can decide how you proceed from this moment forward.”

Though quietly spoken, the reprimand stung. But when Thea glanced up to see compassion and sympathy in her eyes, she wasn’t

altogether certain if Lady Broadbent was speaking about St. James... or about Kellum.

Either way, she offered a nod. It would do her no good to waste time thinking about either of them.

“Now then,” the countess continued, “it’s perfectly apparent that St. James has done you a service, for we have received an

abundance of new invitations.”

“Because they all wish to witness the next debacle for themselves,” she grumbled. No one was even talking about her tales

of the highwayman. It was so unfair.

She would have to be even more creative next time.

“Quite true. Nevertheless, we will use this to our advantage. New avenues, Miss Hartley. I have a very good feeling about

these new avenues.” Lady Broadbent’s lips curved in a pleased grin. Then she pointed to the far side of the room. “Ah, splendid.

There is Lady Abernathy, and with three seats open beside her.”

As they began walking in that direction, Thea inquired in a whisper, “Are we certain we wish to sit beside a woman who might

know about... the other night?”

“That is precisely why we should, in order to discover all we can for ourselves,” she said, her undaunted trek punctu ated by the clip of her cane on the hardwood floor.

“When I saw her at the tea shop last week, she was considering removing herself from town, which caused me some worry when I saw the state of her dress and shawl. After making a few inquiries, I learned that she had to let go of several servants because of her son’s negligence in ensuring her care. ”

“That certainly sounds like the man who threw us on the mercy of a—”

“Hush,” the countess interrupted before turning to issue a warm smile to the lady in question. “My dear Beatrice, how good

it is to see you. You know Miss Hartley, of course. Might we sit beside you? Unless, you’re expecting your son, perhaps?”

“Please do,” Lady Abernathy said, her face wrinkling like a forgotten apple on the cellar floor. “I was to be joined by Lord

Abernathy, but I just received word from his steward that my son has grown tired of town and will reside at his hunting box

for a time. Winston mentioned nothing to me himself but that is somewhat commonplace. As we age, our importance to our children

ebbs.”

Thea exchanged a glance with the countess, wondering if Abernathy would have relayed the events of that night to his mother.

Likely not. And she didn’t believe it would be prudent to mention that they had shared a carriage.

“How right you are,” Lady Broadbent added, tsking in commiseration. “I rarely have word from my own daughter. Of late, Geraldine

saves all her attention for her grandchild. Who, as you may recall, is also the nephew of Miss Hartley, here.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Hartley, I do hope your family is well.”

“They are indeed, thank you, my lady.” As rules of social engagement went, Thea knew it was expected of her to add to the

conversation. Unfortunately, all she could think about was what an utter sapskull Lord Abernathy was. So she settled for “My,

what a lovely shawl you have.”

“It is quite handsome, is it not?” the older woman agreed. “It arrived at my door this very day. I believe it was a gift from my son.”

Lady Broadbent’s brow knitted. “You believe it was?”

“I should say that it must have been, for who else?” She leaned closer to the countess to whisper behind her fan. “And directly

following this, I received word from my solicitor and my milliner about an accounting error in my favor. Honestly, Olympia,

I cannot recall having so much good fortune in one day.”

“Can you not? Well, that is quite an interesting coincidence.”

Thea could tell by Lady Broadbent’s curious expression that they were of like mind and both considering the dubious chance

that the despicable Abernathy would be overwhelmed with generosity, if it was not to benefit himself in some way. He certainly

didn’t seem the type of man to remain anonymous when performing a good deed.

It was possible, she supposed, that she’d misjudged him. Or that, perhaps, his brush with death had altered him for the better.

And yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if the gifts were sent by someone who had every reason to remain anonymous... like

a highwayman, perhaps?

But no. The very notion was ludicrous.

Why would a thief take such risks simply to help an old woman he didn’t even know?

Unless, of course, he did know the dowager viscountess...

Pondering this errant thought, she revisited the encounter with the highwayman, playing it again in her mind. Come to think

of it, he hadn’t spoken like a typical brigand. Or at least, how she would imagine a brigand would. There was nothing of high

country or low country in his voice. Or even Cockney for that matter. In fact, his tone had an air of authority, his vowels

rounded, consonants crisp.

He spoke like a gentleman. Or at least, like a man who had been educated alongside gentlemen. And if that were true, then one could conclude he had an association with members of the ton. So it was possible that he was acquainted with Lady Abernathy...

Thea was so lost in these fantastical musings, unsure if they were merely a fabrication of her creative mind or a possibility

of fact, that she didn’t even notice the ushers moving along the outskirts of the room, snuffing out the wall sconces. She

paid no attention as the musicians tuned their instruments.

It wasn’t until a figure descended into the seat beside hers that she realized the concert had begun... and St. James was

sitting next to her.

***

Jasper didn’t know why he’d come.

He’d made his point and taken all the steam out of her tales of the highwayman. All the focus had been on him and his clumsiness.

He didn’t need to prove anything more. Besides, a musicale wouldn’t even provide her the opportunity to engage an audience

with her stories.

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t stay away.

Knowing that she would be here had set him on edge for hours. He’d paced a groove in the floor between the door and window,

deciding whether to stay in town or ride.

Torrington was on his way to his mistress and, according to rumor, prepared to shower her in expensive baubles. Jasper should

be saddling his destrier, readying for a night’s raid.

Instead, he was here.

He couldn’t remember being driven by anything other than his need to ensure that those he cared about were safe and secure

and that his uncle—and all the men like him—would pay.

But this? He didn’t know how to explain it, even to himself.

It felt like he was drowning, thrashing below the waves, struggling to breach the choppy surface for just one sip of air.

Althea Hartley was the air. Hell, she might even be the shore for all he knew.

Whatever this thing was, he didn’t like it. But fighting against it was like trying to hold back the tides.

Which brought him here, to the musicale. And sitting so close, he could almost touch her.

His mind sprinted through a quick series of calculations. If he touched her, he could pretend that it was an accident, that

his frame was simply too large to be contained in that chair.

A brush of his sleeve to her elbow would hardly be noticed. But what about the knee of his trousers against her skirts?

Bloody hell, he was pathetic!

He let his gaze skim over her arm, to the bare two inches of exposed skin between the cuff of her mutton sleeve and the top

of her evening gloves. The pads of his fingers ached to touch her there, drumming an insistent beat to explore the fine gossamer

hairs, to follow the slender blue vein running along the inside of her elbow.

If he pressed his lips there, would he feel her blood heat for him? Would she taste of salt or of nectar? Would she gasp and

draw away... or would she watch him with hooded eyes as he peeled her glove all the way down and traced the lines of her

palm with his tongue?

As the music soared through the room, he could feel his pulse race, thicken.

Beside him, she shifted, arranging the fall of her skirt in a way that brought her arm closer to him. Her sleeve brushed his.

He drew in a sharp breath, tasting her delicate floral perfume on his tongue. It made his mouth water.

His hands had been fisted over his thighs as if in self-preservation from the moment he sat down.

But now a strange sort of madness bade him to open his palm, to slide his hand a fraction closer to that fall of blue silk.

Unable to stop there, he arched one finger the slightest degree and brushed a knuckle against the fabric.

He heard her intake of breath. Felt her eyes on him. And when he dared to turn his head to bear the condemnation he deserved,

he was nearly undone by the sight of her parted lips and flushed cheeks, her pupils spilling darkly.

But no, it must have been the dim light playing tricks on him. The mere idea that she could be even the smallest degree affected

by him was laughable.

Jasper stood abruptly, chair legs scraping on the floor.

Then he dropped a paper flower at her feet and stalked away without looking back.