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Everett Griffin strutted through the halls of the Union Club like a thoroughbred stallion on the auction block—for that's what he was. New York's Golden Boy. The American Adonis. The bachelor who would barter his handsome face along with his freedom for the right price. A very high price.

Everett's mother had made no secret of her desire for the Griffins to take their place in the vaulted Four Hundred alongside the Astors and Vanderbilts.

However, wealth alone wouldn't open that door.

One needed connections and acceptance. Hence the strutting and ingratiation Everett engaged in on a regular basis.

Mother insisted that if God had made Esther beautiful so she could become a queen and protect her people, then the Lord must have similar plans for Everett, for no man had been blessed with a finer countenance.

It was his duty to use his God-given beauty to marry royalty just as Esther had done.

And the Four Hundred were New York royalty.

Everett had yet to deduce what dire fate he was supposed to be saving his family from.

He doubted genocide was on the table as it had been for the Jews of Esther's time.

Although, the way Mother carried on, he wouldn't be surprised if she equated ostracism from the top tier of society to death in some way. Death of a dream, he supposed.

Not that he resented being thrust into the role of family savior.

He rather liked the idea of playing hero.

And what hotblooded male didn't enjoy having young, beautiful women constantly seeking his attention?

Not to mention the fact that placing himself on the marriage mart allowed him to delay taking up the expected mantle of working in his father's investment firm.

He'd not inherited his father's love of ledgers.

That privilege belonged to his older brother, Alex.

Stuffy offices filled with stock reports, business journals, and other people's accounting information held no appeal for Everett.

He'd rather pour his energy into art, music, and literature.

Creation stirred his passion. Beauty tugged at his soul.

It was probably why he was so much closer to his mother than his father.

Bradley Griffin considered the arts nothing more than a hobby and constantly urged Everett to set aside his toys and do a real man's work.

Mother, on the other hand, had nurtured his talent since she'd first seen him sketch a lopsided bowl of fruit at the age of six.

A rather accomplished watercolorist herself, she'd trained him in the arts of perspective and proportion, texture and movement, color and form.

When he decided he preferred the more robust layering and depth available in oils, she hired an instructor to educate him in that medium as well.

Then, last year, when she deemed him ready, she arranged for a local gallery to display and sell a few of his pieces.

He might not possess an aptitude for banking, but he was not without his talents.

As Everett strolled through the Union Club's reading room, making small talk with various acquaintances, older gentlemen with cigars and cognac stole glances at him.

Some scowled their disapproval at his inclusion in their sanctum, his family's money too new and his ties to European aristocracy too weak to associate with their exalted bloodlines.

Yet the wealth his father had amassed working with J.

P. Morgan, plus Morgan's personal recommendation, had opened doors and presented possibilities.

Those who weren't looking at him in disdain, eyed him with either envy or calculation.

It was the calculation that brought Everett to the club three days a week.

He wooed society's daughters at various balls and dinner parties, but he wooed their fathers at the club.

"There he is. The Face that Launched a Thousand Skirts.

" George Childers chuckled as he clapped Everett on the back and steered him toward the billiard room where a handful of young men had gathered to watch a game currently underway.

"Hey, fellas. Look who grew tired of being besieged by young ladies and decided to take refuge in a more masculine domain. "

A chorus of moans sang through the room, accompanied by theatrical eye rolls and a rather menacing glare from a gentleman in the corner who'd taken umbrage with Everett's usurping his waltz with a certain debutante last night.

"Ah, don't let them bother you." George winked as he moved closer to the pool table to get a better view of the game.

"Every guy here'd love to be you, Griff.

Well, except for me. I aim to hold on to my bachelor status for at least another two years.

Your distraction of the female population works decidedly in my favor.

" George leaned close and elbowed Everett in the ribs.

"Don't guess you'd care to give a fella a tip on which female might have caught your eye?

Quite a few wagers are making their way around the club regarding which lass will land you.

Wouldn't mind profiting from your success. "

Walter Donaldson looked up from his cue stick to scowl at them. "Shut up, Childers. I'm trying to concentrate."

Eyes dancing, George held his palms up in mock surrender and backed away from the table.

"I take it he's losing?" Everett made a point to keep his voice low, not wanting to aggravate the situation.

The Donaldsons were clients of his father's firm, and while Everett might not enjoy the management side of the business, he understood the importance of catering to the egos of influential families. If boats rocked, he and his father were the ones in danger of being tossed overboard.

"Already down one game," George confirmed.

"Challenged Palmer to a rematch, but it doesn't seem to be going any better than the first." George thumped Everett on the back.

"You should stick around. Once Walt clears out, you can give Palmer a run for his money.

You're probably the only one in the room who can best him. "

"Perhaps another time," Everett said. "I have an appointment to keep."

"Ho! I know that smile." George leaned close. "What's her name?"

Behind all the lighthearted, ridiculous antics, George Childers was a rather insightful individual. It was probably why he and Everett got along so well. They'd both mastered the art of putting up fronts to disguise the deeper machinations going on beneath the surface.

"Lillian March. Her mother has invited me to tea."

"The Enchantress?" George let out a low whistle.

"You're going to be the envy of every unmarried man in this club when word gets out.

How'd you wrangle a private invitation? From what I hear, she's never at home to gentlemen callers and is rarely seen about town unless in the company of either her father or brother.

A rather brilliant ploy—creating an aura of mystery around her to entice the most sought-after bachelors of the season.

" George lowered his voice and leaned close.

"Although . . . I've heard whispers that something is a bit .

. . off . . . with the fair Lillian. It seems there's a great-aunt or grandmother or someone who spent time in an asylum back in England.

" He summoned a soft, airy whistle that floated between them like a specter as he shot Everett a warning glance.

Then his affable grin returned to erase the chill from Everett's nape.

"I wouldn't worry, though. The story was probably put about by some jealous debutante who didn't wish to share the spotlight with a young lady of such ethereal beauty. "

Ethereal was right. Lillian March's silvery blonde hair, fair complexion, and bright blue eyes made a man think of fairies and magical realms. At least that's what came to Everett's mind the first time he'd seen her at a ball over a month ago.

But it was when he'd first heard her sing at a dinner party a couple weeks ago that he'd understood why the papers had dubbed her The Enchantress .

The woman's voice captivated all who listened.

She didn't perform with the melodramatic passion of an opera singer, nor did she belt out notes with the confidence of one secure in her own talent.

Instead, she sang as if she were the only one in the room, making music solely for her own delight.

Sweet, pure tones, almost childlike in their simplicity, had woven through the drawing room on gossamer threads, soft enough that one had to concentrate to hear them.

The entire assembly had fallen silent that evening as she cast her spell over the audience.

"My mother arranged the meeting." She'd noted Everett's interest at the musicale and had made it her mission over the last few weeks to worm her way into Mrs. March's good graces.

Anthony and Paulette March might be a tad reclusive, but as members of the Four Hundred, they possessed the one qualification Mother prized most of all, social standing.

"When Mrs. March learned that I often sketch likenesses at parties, she expressed an interest in having me sketch her daughter.

It seems Miss March doesn't care to sit for portraits.

If my rendering does the fair Lillian justice, her mother plans to use it as the foundation for a professional portrait. "

"Clever." George nudged an elbow into Everett's ribs. "You will tell me everything about the lady after your encounter, won't you? I can't think of any one of my acquaintances who has spent more than the length of a single dance in her company. She's a mystery that needs solving."

"Now, Georgie. You can't praise my cleverness then turn around and expect me to do something so foolish as to surrender my advantage to the rest of the field."

George raised a brow. "I was praising your mother's cleverness, not yours."