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Everett laughed. "Ouch."

His friend grinned good naturedly and gave Everett a small push toward the door. "Go on. Take that handsome mug of yours and go woo the most interesting debutante of the season. I'll find a way to pull all the details out of you later."

"You're welcome to try." Everett saluted his friend and strolled out of the billiard room.

An hour later, he sat in the March family parlor sipping tea, nibbling cakes, and wondering what in the world he'd gotten himself into.

Lillian March kept shooting him glances he couldn't interpret, and every time she opened her mouth, her mother jumped in to steer the conversation.

He felt a little sorry for the younger lady.

He knew a bit of what it was like to have a parent intent on directing her child's life the way she thought it should go.

Usually a charismatic smile, a little flattery, and a solicitous comment or two allowed him to win his way into a mother's good graces, but Paulette March remained unmoved by his charm.

She had an agenda, of that he had no doubt, but she hid it well.

As lovely as The Enchantress was, Everett wasn't sure he could stomach having a mother-in-law as controlling as his own mama.

One overbearing woman in his life was quite enough.

The few times he'd encountered Lillian March, she'd seemed like a sweet-natured, quiet young lady, if a bit vapid.

Her lovely voice made up for her lack of intelligence and spirit, and, if he were honest, he rather liked the idea of having a woman he could easily mold to his will.

Her mother was a far different story. There'd be no bending that woman to any man's will.

Were he to marry Lillian and a time arose when she had to choose between following her husband's wishes or her mother's, Everett would lay odds on Mrs. March winning that contest every time.

A dismal prospect. Best he scratch Miss Lillian's name off his list of bridal candidates.

"Can I pour you another cup of tea, Mr. Griffin?" Mrs. March reached for the white ceramic pot on the tea cart the butler had wheeled in twenty minutes earlier.

Everett leaned away from her, placing a poetic hand upon his chest. "What sustenance need I when surrounded by such beauty?"

He smiled first at Mrs. March, then pivoted to include Lillian.

The young woman's eyes glowed with strange light, almost as if they tried to speak on her behalf, though he had no idea what they might be saying.

Experience had trained him to distinguish flirtatious glances from shy delight, peevishness from teasing indignation, and wanton invitation from a more innocent interest. The gleam in Miss Lillian's eyes checked none of those boxes, yet it definitely felt impassioned.

Almost . . . zealous. An uneasy feeling snaked up the back of his neck, but then the lady blinked and her gaze returned to its rather vacant norm.

Telling himself he'd imagined the odd look, Everett turned back to his hostess. "My mother mentioned that you would enjoy having a sketch done of your lovely daughter. I admit that my fingers itch with the need to set aside this cup and pick up my graphite pencils."

Mrs. March tittered softly, his charm finally finding its way through her armor. "Such a gallant young man." She leaned back from the tea cart and gestured to the art case he'd brought with him. "By all means. Please begin."

Everett set his napkin aside and claimed his oversized sketchbook along with his favorite pencil from the case.

He'd considered using charcoal or black chalk, being fond of the deep shading he could achieve with those mediums, but graphite provided the best opportunity for finer detailing and kept one's hands from being covered in black smudges.

A decided advantage when surrounded by women and furnishings adorned in fine fabrics.

Mrs. March collected a silver-backed hand mirror from the end table and handed it to her daughter so Lillian could check her hair.

Next, Mrs. March turned her attention to ensuring her daughter's dress draped just so.

Lillian seemed rather enamored of her reflection, peering into the glass for several moments before her mother snatched the mirror from her hands and returned it to the table.

A spark of rebellion flared in Lillian's eyes, but she made no verbal objection.

Hoping to clear some of the tension from the air, Everett clapped his hands and smiled when the two ladies glanced his way.

"Never have I had a more beautiful model." One could always count on flattery to unruffle a woman's feathers. It didn't let him down, for both women preened at his praise.

Finally, pencil met paper and personal agendas, manipulative mamas, and concerns about mysterious glances drifted from Everett's mind.

His focus sharpened as he concentrated on curves and angles, light and dark, movement and flow.

The scratch of pencil on paper filled the quiet room, drawing him deeper into his art.

His hand moved over the page in long sweeps followed by shorter, more refined strokes.

Lillian March's face came to life on the paper, the curls of her hair framing her brow while the slope of her shoulders and lines of her bodice grounded the vision like a vase supporting a bouquet.

He added some shading to highlight the gentle rounding of her jaw then turned the pencil to its point to shape a delicate nose.

Next came the mouth, her lips narrow but well formed, softened in a slight pout he strove to capture.

Absorbed in his work, he nearly jumped when Mrs. March broke the silence.

"Lillian, dear. Stop fidgeting with your hands."

The lips he'd been studying so intently pursed in an unattractive scrunch. Lines formed across her brow as well. This would never do.

Glancing around for inspiration, Everett spotted a single rose in a slender vase on the tea cart.

He set aside his pencil and sketchbook, stood, and plucked the flower from the vase.

After dabbing the stem with a napkin to remove any excess water that might drip upon her dress, he pivoted toward his model and bent in a chivalrous bow.

"May I offer you this rose, my lady?"

Miss March blinked up at him, the lines of frustration erasing from her face. "A rose?"

"A fair flower for a fair beauty." And holding it would give her something to do with her hands while he finished his sketch.

That unsettling look returned to her eyes, making Everett's nape itch, but she reached out and took the stem from him.

"Thank you," she said. "I accept."

He nodded to her then returned to his seat, eager to finish the sketch and take his leave.

Concerned more for speed than perfection now, Everett hurried through the last details of her face, leaving her disturbing eyes for last. When he could avoid them no longer, he focused on shape and position, doing his best to ignore the orbs glittering in a way that had him recollecting the rumors of her ancestor's madness.

Movement at the edge of his vision drew Everett's gaze from his sketch. A maid entered the parlor and bobbed a quick curtsy.

"Sorry to disturb, ma'am, but a squirrel got into the kitchen and is running amok. Cook is screeching and threatening to quit. I've never seen her so upset, ma'am. I fear she might suffer an apoplexy."

"Good heavens." Mrs. March scurried toward the door, then stopped and glanced back at her daughter. "I can't leave . . . I . . ."

"I'll stay with Miss Lillian, ma'am." The young maid hurried forward. "Cook needs you."

Mrs. March frowned but eventually nodded. "Do not leave her side, Elsie."

"Yes, ma'am."

Having claimed the maid's promise, Mrs. March turned and fled the room.

Everett lowered his sketchbook. "Perhaps I should take my leave as well. It seems a crisis is afoot."

"Absolutely not." As if her mother's departure had loosed the chains that had heretofore confined her will, Lillian shifted on the sofa cushion, her body vibrating with palpable energy. "Mama has things well in hand. I insist you finish my portrait."

"As you wish." Everett offered a tight smile, wishing it wasn't his duty as a gentleman to see to the lady's needs ahead of his own. "I'm nearly finished, anyway." And was determined to complete the image in record time.

Resuming his work, he turned back to the eyes. He'd just add a few lashes and . . .

"Elsie? I'm growing chilled. Fetch my shawl, please."

Everett's head shot up. No, no, no. He couldn't be left alone with this woman.

If someone found them together, he would be expected to offer for her.

When he didn't—for nothing could convince him to tie his life to a woman whose sanity seemed questionable and whose mother insisted on controlling every aspect of her life—his chances of marrying into the Four Hundred would disintegrate, and his mother would never forgive him.

Before he could offer a word of protest, however, Elsie scurried from the room as if her promise to Mrs. March meant nothing.

As if this had been the plan all along. Squirrel in the kitchen.

Ha! The girl had probably turned the rodent loose in there herself.

Well, Everett wouldn't be playing by their rules. Not anymore.

He closed his sketchbook. "I'm sorry, Miss March, but I must insist I take my leave. You might not be aware, but it is improper for the two of us to be without a chaperone. I will not risk sullying your reputation by staying."

"Wait, please." She leaned across the space between them and clasped his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "I had to see you alone. Just for a moment." She cast a quick glance toward the door the maid had inconveniently shut then focused again on his face. "I received your message."

Message?

"I think you must be mistaken. I never sent you a message, Miss March."

"You did! At the musicale. Our eyes met as I sang. I saw the music seep into your soul, and I knew at that moment that we were destined to be together."

Everett tugged his hand from hers and gained his feet. "I have a heart for music, and I admit that I enjoyed your song very much, but that is all it was to me—a song."

"Liar!" Lillian lurched to her feet, her eyes blazing. "You told me you loved me. That you would move heaven and earth to be with me."

She was mad. "I said no such thing." He retrieved his case. He needed to get out of here. Now.

"Not with your voice," she said. "With your heart. I heard it. In my mind. Just like Jane Eyre heard her beloved Edward call to her heart from miles away."

" Jane Eyre is a work of fiction." He fumbled with the strap on his case, his fingers shaking as he tried to get it open.

"It was real. I heard you. And then today, when you offered me this rose, I heard you again.

" She waved the flower in his face as if it were a magic wand that would make her delusions true.

"You proposed marriage—secretly—so Mama wouldn't hear.

And I accepted. We are destined to be together, Everett. Forever."

"You misunderstood." The strap finally unfastened.

"I did not propose. I'll never propose." Turning his back on her, he flung his case onto the seat of his chair and flipped open the lid.

"You are a delightful lady," he said in an effort to appease her wounded pride, "but I'm afraid we do not suit.

" He tossed his pencil inside, not taking the time to slide it into its protective slot, and shoved the sketchbook in after it.

"Who is she?" Lillian seethed behind him. "Who stole your heart from me? Was it Mary Featherington? I saw you dance with her at the Vanderbilt ball. Or Constance Applewhite?"

"No woman owns my heart," he insisted as he slammed the lid shut.

"You're a disgrace! Toying with women's affections."

Deciding to forgo the strap, Everett tucked the case under his arm and turned to flee. The glint of light on polished silver flashed a second before a heavy object smashed into the right side of his face.

Pain exploded as something cracked beneath his eye. Bone. The art case slid from his grasp. Everett stumbled backward. Tripped over the chair. Blood ran into his eye as he fell, blinding him.

"You beast!"

Another blow, this one slashing like broken glass across his face. He howled as his skin ripped. He turned from the pain, raised an arm to shield himself. But her claws found him, digging into his face like those of a wild animal.

She's going to kill me.

With a wounded roar, Everett raised up and shoved Lillian away from him. He scrambled to his feet, his vision blurred and his balance impaired as he staggered for the exit. Before he could reach the door, however, it flung inward. Mrs. March stood before him, eyes widening in horror.

"Lillian! Stop!"

Something crashed into his skull from behind. The smell of tea engulfed him as he crumpled to the carpet. Hot liquid scalded his face and neck, but the pain lasted only an instant before darkness claimed him.