Page 9

in his good fortune, his mother was unable to pay the hatters or wear a decent shawl.

He wanted to charge up to the blackguard, haul him from his chair, hold him upside down and shake him like a piggy pot until all his money fell out.

But he couldn’t. At least, not here.

So he took a breath and left the gaming room.

Besides, if he confronted Abernathy in front of all these men, they would merely laugh, each in turn doling out their insults

to the ape. The lumbering oaf. The buffoon. Though, after nearly five and twenty years of enduring such barbs, Jasper had

long ago accepted society’s estimation of him. Even fostered it to suit his own purpose.

Of course, there were a few exceptions—acquaintances who knew him better, or men among the ton who didn’t care about collective opinions, preferring to decide for themselves.

Beautiful women, on the other hand, usually took one look at him, then did everything possible to appear invisible so he wouldn’t

talk to them.

Except for Miss Hartley.

Earlier that evening, when she’d first spotted him, he’d been too busy kicking himself for muttering his opinion on the golden

debutante to walk away. Then her gaze met his and her lips curved in apparent pleasure at seeing him.

Him?

Initially, he’d thought she mistook him for someone else. Then he’d wondered if she required spectacles to see properly. And

finally, he imagined she was drunk.

That really could’ve been the only explanation.

Therefore, he’d steadied himself, waiting for her inevitable response. Waiting for her confused blink of “You’re not who I

thought you were,” or for her gaze to dart wildly, seeking an escape before she dashed off in the opposite direction.

He wouldn’t have blamed her.

But instead, her smile had widened upon recognition. Then his mind went utterly... blank.

The sensation was like throwing back the curtains in the morning, the room suffused with so much light that it hurt to look upon.

And yet, even taking the full force of that blinding brilliance, he hadn’t been able to look away... or to stop blathering.

She’d cast some sort of spell on him.

Alarmed, he’d been relieved when the gong had rung a second time. And the instant her back was turned, he’d disappeared.

As far as he was concerned, the farther he stayed away from Miss Hartley, the better.

Unfortunately, he’d ended up seated across from her at dinner. And there she was again with that unflinching eye contact,

peering straight into his soul.

Even so, she’d clearly been cross with him. Not wanting to cause a spectacle that would bring attention to either of them,

he’d decided to appear chagrined, hoping to set the matter aside.

It had been a miscalculation on his part.

She’d forgiven him far too easily. And then it happened again—that smile and his subsequent blinding blankness.

By the time he came back to himself, a new course was being served, the old cleared away, and the two matrons on either side

of him making no secret about wanting to keep their daughters from unsavory personages as they cast not too subtle glances at him. At least they had sense.

It was the reason he hadn’t bothered with awkward introductions to debutantes that evening. That alone would save him—or them,

as the case may be—from being pressed into dancing. Besides, a display of his clumsiness wasn’t necessary if his uncle wasn’t

present to be embarrassed by it.

Which didn’t explain why, as he entered the ballroom, his gaze surveyed the assembly in search of glossy mahogany curls and a pale pink gown with a spray of ruffles around the bodice that looked so delicate they’d likely dissolve with the barest brush of his apish fingers.

He shook his head.

Why in damnation was he thinking about ruffles? More importantly, why was he wondering what they’d do if he touched them?

Because he wasn’t going to touch them. He wasn’t even going to ask her to dance.

Not that she could even accept if she wanted to—which, of course, she wouldn’t—because no one was dancing. In fact, he noticed

that the majority of the guests were gathering at the far end of the room.

Removing his needless spectacles, he saw the reason.

Miss Hartley.

With a damask rose in her hair, she stood at the center of a pastel bouquet of debutantes, their chaperones in feathered turbans

amidst a small grouping of chairs, expressions rapt. Even the gentlemen, who would normally be in want of a partner as the

musicians played overhead, were loitering nearby instead, their attention fixed on the dark-haired enchantress.

He couldn’t blame them. It was impossible to look away from her in this moment. In the adoring glow of the chandeliers, her

animated features were mesmerizing, her graceful arms casting a spell. Whatever she was saying had them all captivated.

But Jasper had his own agenda that night and decided to return to the gaming room.

As he turned on his heel, he caught sight of the new Marchioness of Beaucastle, glaring daggers at the woman holding court.

She practically vibrated with animosity. And when her gaze shifted between Miss Hartley and the numerous untended goblets

of red punch on a Bombay chest near a gilded potted palm, her intention was clear.

Before he knew his own, he found himself walking in Miss Hartley’s direction... To do what, precisely? To fall in among her admirers? Ridiculous. To protect her from their hostess? Absurd.

Nevertheless, there he was, still moving along the outskirts of the room. And that was when he heard someone ask, “Is that

when you saw the highwayman?”

For a moment Jasper could hear nothing else through the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

Highwayman , the one word guaranteed to snap him out of his miasma.

“Not yet. We chose to ignore the warning from the fortune teller at our last change of horses. After all, a full moon hung

in the sky. We thought we could make the next coaching inn without worry... until the fog descended on us,” Miss Hartley

continued, her voice dipping to hushed tones, guaranteeing that her transfixed audience leaned closer to listen. “The uncertain

path forced our carriage to a crawl. We could do nothing but stare, unseeing, at the haunting shadows that lurked deep in

the forest, the jangle of the rigging echoing eerily like ghostly chains. Lady Broadbent clutched my hand. But neither of

us knew true fear until we heard the rapid thunder of hooves and the bloodcurdling howl of a wolf.”

“Dear me!” a debutante said, clutching her throat.

Miss Hartley paused, splaying a hand over her bosom as if struggling with the memory of it. “Then our driver called down.

He could just make out a stopped carriage up ahead, you see, and he inquired if we should offer assistance. But before the

countess could offer a noble reply, we heard the report of a pistol crack through the ether.”

The crowd gasped.

“I tell you, the hair at my nape stood on end. And then our driver called down again, speaking the single most terrifying

word— highwayman .”

“No!” a chorus of voices said as Jasper reached the Bombay chest.

“Countess, were you not frightened?” asked the Marchioness of Leighton. “I would have swooned for certain.”

Lady Broadbent blinked, her eyes wide as if she were experiencing this tale for the first time. Then, after a subtle nudge

from Miss Hartley, she cleared her throat. “Thankfully my driver is quite the fearsome fellow and a crack shot to boot.”

“He shot the highwayman?” one of the men asked.

“No!” Miss Hartley interjected. “What I mean is, there wasn’t time. Because in the very next instant, we saw that dark figure

on his mount, man and beast cutting through the fog as if they were comprised of the same unearthly substance. We knew at

once that he was—”

Her story ended on a sharp gasp as Jasper tripped and spilled the vermillion punch all over her gown.