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“It seems that this hindsight philosophy of yours is working in Captain Summerhayes’s favor.”

The countess slanted her a look. “That’s too much cheek, Miss Hartley. Even for you.”

Thea grinned impishly. “Well, he has already asked to call on me tomorrow.”

“Pray tell, what did you say in response?”

“That I would see how well he waltzed first.”

Lady Broadbent smiled and closed her fan to tap it against Thea’s shoulder. “Clever girl.”

Summerhayes was a devilishly attractive man, tall and broad-shouldered with a wealth of dark hair. He had a deep voice, too,

as if seasoned by years of salty air. Not only that, but he’d lived an exciting life and had a way of sharing those stories

that kept her enthralled.

There was only one problem... she didn’t feel any tingles.

That feeling of being suffused with so much static electricity that she was certain that lightning would explode from her

body if she didn’t write something down immediately was absent. If he was her highwayman, wouldn’t she feel something extraordinary?

Then again, perhaps she’d built up her expectations to the point where anything less than lightning was a disappointment.

It was too soon to tell for certain. After all, their bodies hadn’t been as close as they were that one night. Surely the

waltz would settle the matter for good.

As the tarantella was drawing to a close, Thea’s gaze crossed the room again just as a footman approached the captain and presented a missive. With a flick of his thumb, Summerhayes read the contents. Then with a glance toward the terrace doors, he set off for them.

She absently wondered where he was going since the dinner waltz would be next. Turning her head to voice this thought, she

saw Lady Broadbent’s eyes go round as she laid a hand against her side.

“Whatever’s the matter? Are you unwell?” she asked in a hushed voice so as not to draw attention.

The countess stifled a gasp. “I’m quite hale. My corset, however, has likely met an early demise. It seems that the ghost

of a whale is having its revenge upon me.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still wearing that old thing,” Thea chided as they walked discreetly toward the stairs that led to the

ladies’ retiring room. “Madame LeBlanc told you this would happen.”

“Well, I wasn’t about to wear those confounded metal contraptions that creak and groan every time a woman moves as if she

were an old door in need of oil on its hinges. Absolute abominations.”

Thea suppressed a laugh. “Lean on me then, and I’ll escort you up the stairs.”

“I’m not an invalid, Miss Hartley. I shall find a maidservant to assist me and return in a trice. Off with you now.” She made

a shooing motion. “They are cueing up the waltz as we speak and I’ll not allow you to miss your dance with our heroic captain.”

“If you’re certain.”

An imperious brow arched in answer. One did not ask Countess Broadbent to repeat herself.

“I’ll find you before dinner,” Thea said. “Until then, be sure to light a candle in the retiring room.”

“Whyever would I do that?”

“So that your whale finds its way to the afterlife,” Thea teased and sauntered off before her chaperone could affectionately

scold her for having too much cheek.

She was still smiling when she rounded the corner to the ballroom... until she saw Captain Summerhayes take the floor with Miss Handscombe.

Thea had only been away for a minute. Surely he wouldn’t have given her up for lost and sought another partner so quickly.

He hadn’t seemed like that kind of man.

Then again, she’d never expected half the things Kellum had said and done.

The unkind reminder sent a cold shiver over her like a shroud. Her own ghost of insecurity whispered, No one will remember you. You’re not even worthy of a footnote...

A shadow fell over her then.

Distracted, she looked up, surprised to see St. James standing in front of her.

“I’m here on behalf of the captain,” he said, proffering his hand.

She felt her brow knit. “Summerhayes asked you to dance with me?”

“I’ll clarify the moment we are on the floor.” St. James looked askance at those standing on either side, some looking on

with horror, some with malevolent humor. Others were already whispering behind cupped hands.

The situation would only become worse if she accepted.

Fortunately, as a Hartley, Thea had a plethora of stage-ready performances in her repertoire. Drawing in a breath, she winced

slightly, shifting tenderly onto one foot. “My apologies. But I believe I turned my ankle during the last—”

St. James cut off her excuse by stealing a hand around her waist and pulling her forward on a gasp. Her gaze flew up to his

an instant before he swept her into a turn, joining the others on the dance floor.

Reflexively, her free hand gripped her skirts, lifting them out of the way even as her heart raced in panic. “I didn’t agree

to this.”

“You left me no other option,” he said, matter-of-factly, taking another turn.

Everything was a blur, her thoughts scattering into the ether. She tried to clear her head and find a fixed point. But what

she saw when she glanced at the couple just beyond St. James’s shoulder was the frown that Summerhayes cast toward her.

No, not at her, but at her partner.

She looked up to the eyes behind the crooked spectacles. “Summerhayes didn’t ask you to dance with me, did he?”

“I approached the captain with a conundrum. Miss Handscombe had given the dance to my uncle, who had become unavoidably detained,”

St. James said. “I would have offered in his stead, but the debutante in question would likely have fainted.”

“Did Summerhayes not explain that he was already engaged for the dinner waltz?”

“He did.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what was your reply to that fact?”

“Merely that you had asked me to relay your regrets that you’d turned your ankle during the previous set.”

“Why you underhanded, scheming—”

She broke off as all those scattered thoughts started coming back to her like stars falling to the earth in a blaze of fire.

And in a conflagration of tingles.

Thea’s breath caught as she studied the chiseled edge of his jawline, the dark stubble visible beneath the surface of his

skin and the impossibly broad shoulders. Her nostrils flared on the familiar woodsy scent of evergreen and the earthy notes

of saddle leather. And with every turn, she felt the sure press of the large hand that spanned her waist.

No. It couldn’t be.

And yet, it all started to make sense... the fact that he came to call on her the day after the robbery, the way he continuously interrupted her stories, the reason that he pretended—and she had no doubt it was all a contrived pretense—to play a clumsy fool in front of the ton .

Because Jasper Trueblood, Viscount St. James, was the highwayman.

Her highwayman!

She couldn’t believe that he’d been under her nose this entire time. And more than that, she couldn’t believe that he’d ruined

two of her gowns all to keep his secret. Drat him!

“You are a surprisingly graceful dancer, St. James.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly just before he stumbled out of rhythm. Then, as if carried by momentum, he spun them in

a haphazard arc. They narrowly missed colliding with the couple in front of them.

In that moment, she might have questioned her certainty of his identity, if not for the fact that he righted their course

at the very last second, tucking her body against his in a brief but startling collision.

She gasped. Beneath that ill-fitting suit of clothes, his body was a solid wall of muscle. And being pressed against a form

like his wasn’t something a woman could ever forget.

“My apologies,” St. James said with an exaggerated lisp, appearing every bit embarrassed.

And yet it was all pretense. Only now did she notice how controlled his movements were. How every misstep never caused harm.

He didn’t tread on her toes or even her hem.

Clumsy catastrophe had never been so elegant.

She could have kicked herself for not seeing it before. After all, she’d spent her entire life around actors. And that was

all this was—a performance.

But for what purpose?

She didn’t know enough about St. James to answer the question. At least, not yet.

Now that she had found her muse, however, she was going to do whatever she could to unearth every one of St. James’s secrets.

When the waltz ended, he began to escort her to a mortified Lady Broadbent waiting on the outskirts of the ballroom.

Thea glanced up at him, her brow arched with cunning. “You never should have danced with me, my lord. A woman can glean quite

a bit about a man when he holds her close.”

Behind the spectacles, his gaze sharpened on hers. And even though he admitted nothing, she saw that her accusation hit the

mark.

She felt a triumphant smirk tug at her lips... until he stepped on her ruffled hem and ruined another gown.