Waltzed

Anthea Lawson

Chapter One

London, May 1851

The soft gray drizzle of an English spring coated the half-open buds of the rhododendron flowers in the garden and glazed the windows of the late Viscount Tremont’s townhouse. However, his only daughter, Eleanor, was oblivious to the rain or the wet flowers or the chill in the library despite the coals on the hearth.

She had a thick woolen shawl tucked about her shoulders and was deeply engrossed in the adventures of David Copperfield. Like the hero of Dickens’s latest novel, she, too, had known happiness as a child. And had subsequently been the unfortunate recipient of a stepfamily who was, as one might put it, less than kind.

“Ellie!” Her stepsister Abigail burst into the library. “Whatever are you doing in here?”

“Reading,” Ellie said, marking the page number in her mind with a silent sigh. She knew from experience that she would not return to her novel any time soon.

Abigail tended to overexcitement, as redheads often did. Thankfully, she was not as spiteful as her older sister, especially when she and Ellie were alone. But whenever one of Ellie’s stepsisters caught her reading, they found some reason to interrupt her—usually to put her to work.

“You must hurry up to your room,” Abby said. “Your hair looks dreadful.”

With some effort, Ellie kept herself from reaching to pat the bun at the back of her head. No doubt it was a bit messy, but she’d learned that any sign of weakness in front of her stepsiblings—or worse, her stepmother—would result in heapings of scorn.

“I’m not overly troubled about the state of my hair,” she said. “After all, it’s only me and Mr. Dickens.” She lifted her book in emphasis.

Perhaps, this once, Abby would not insist that Ellie come untangle her hair ribbons or polish her jewelry or any of a thousand annoying little tasks, and Ellie might return to her novel in peace.

Abby made an exasperated noise. “But that’s just it. You have a caller!”

“I what?” That was unexpected. Ellie never had callers. With a prickle of interest, she closed her book and laid it on the side table.

Was this a cruel trick or was Abby telling the truth? Her other stepsister, Delia, would certainly enjoy raising Ellie’s hopes. It would be like her to send Ellie hurrying to her room to make herself presentable, then laughing when she entered the empty parlor to find no one awaiting her after all.

“I’ve been trying to tell you.” Abby crossed her arms. “Why don’t you ever listen? No wonder Mama is always displeased with you.”

Privately, Ellie thought the source of that displeasure had more to do with her existence as the late viscount’s only child and the discovery that Papa had apparently left a much smaller fortune than expected upon his death. Not enough to keep a viscountess and her daughters in any kind of style, as her stepmother often reminded her—as if it were Ellie’s fault that her father had not, in fact, been as well-off as they had all thought.

Oh, Papa.

Tears threatened to clog her throat, and she swallowed them back.

“Hurry!” Abby said, tapping her foot. “You oughtn’t keep him waiting too long.”

“Who is it?”

“A gentleman—I didn’t recognize him.”

“And he asked for me?” Perhaps it had something to do with Papa’s estate, although any solicitor would call upon her stepmother and not Ellie. And besides, all that had been settled months ago.

“I heard him ask for you specifically,” Abby said, a hint of contempt in her voice. “But if you’d rather not believe me and prefer to make a fool of yourself . . .”

“Very well,” Ellie said. “Tell Mr. Atkins—”

“Miss Eleanor,” the butler said from the threshold, as if summoned by the mention of his name. “You have a caller. I’ve put him in the front parlor.”

Abby shot her a scathing look. “I don’t know why I even bother with you, Ellie.”

With that, she tossed her head and whisked out of the room, nearly running over the portly Mr. Atkins in the process.

He hastily stood aside, then nodded at Ellie. “I’ll tell Lord Newland you’ll be down shortly?”

“Please do.”

She’d no notion who Lord Newland might be, unless he were somehow related to the Newland family she’d known several years ago. Papa and Mr. Newland had been fast friends until the family had left for India. She’d exchanged letters with Kit, the son, for nearly two years until their correspondence trailed off into silence.

In truth, for quite a while she’d cherished notions of marrying the black-haired boy who’d been such a merry companion in her youth. Even after they’d removed to India, she spent time reading about the country and daydreaming about living in that bright and exotic land, Kit at her side.

Then Papa had remarried Lady Tremont, which had been somewhat trying. Not much later, he’d died, and nothing mattered anymore—except battling through the fog of grief surrounding her. And running to do her stepfamily’s bidding, which only amplified her misery.

As soon as the butler left the library, Ellie glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the mantel. Oh dear—Abby had been correct. Her pale hair was straggling out of her bun, a hairpin hanging from one of the fine strands like some strange spider over her shoulder.

There was a smudge of soot on her cheekbone, ashy against the pallor of her complexion. She glanced down at her wrist to see a matching smear from where she must have brushed against the hearth when she’d poked up the coals. She certainly couldn’t meet her mysterious caller in such a state of dishevelment.

Quietly, she peeked into the corridor. It was empty, thank goodness. Luck was with her, and she encountered no one as she hurried down to the end and nipped up the servants’ staircase. She really oughtn’t to use the smaller stairs, but it was a much faster—and more discreet—method of gaining her room than using the main staircase.

Far less chance of encountering her stepfamily on the way as well. Ever since Papa’s death, it was easier to avoid them rather than bear their spite. The few times she’d encountered maids in the stairwell, they’d stood respectfully aside. Ellie pretended not to see the pity in their eyes or hear them whispering about how dreadful it all was.

Back in her room, she washed her face and repinned her bun, taking care to tuck away the loose strands. There was no time to change her gown—and at any rate, she had nothing but dreary mourning dresses crowding her wardrobe. Whoever was calling upon her must take her as she was.

Chapter Two

Lord Christopher Newland tugged up the collar of his coat and tried to ignore the clammy chill seeping into his bones. England was ridiculously cold, even in May. In Assam, it was already hot, all the winter clothing was packed away and the monsoon season was already on the horizon. He’d forgotten how chilly his homeland was. And damp. He turned to stare absently out the rain-spattered window of Viscount Tremont’s parlor.

The late Viscount Tremont, that was. Christopher was sorry he’d not returned to England in time to call upon the man while he was alive. He had recollections of a rotund, jovial fellow who had always treated him kindly, even when he and the viscount’s daughter, Eleanor, got into scrapes together. Which was often.

But at least he might pay his respects to Ellie. He was glad of the excuse to see her—and not only because he planned to return to India with a wife. He’d always been fond of his childhood companion and hoped she might still harbor some warmth toward him, despite the passage of time.

“Kit?”

He turned, recognizing Ellie’s voice immediately, and the smile of greeting on his lips died. She looked dreadful.

Of course, it had been nearly six years since he’d seen her—but this pale young woman with bruised-looking eyes was a far cry from his memories of golden, laughing Eleanor Tremont.

He strode forward and took her hand, noting how very white her fingers were against his sun-browned skin. “Yes, it’s me. It’s so good to see you, Ellie, though I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. Are you well?”

Clearly, she was not, but he didn’t know what else to say. Although her father had been gone for over seven months, she was still garbed in mourning. The black crepe of her dress made her pallor even more pronounced, and his heart squeezed in his chest to see the unhappiness in her eyes.

She cast her gaze to the carpet and carefully removed her hand from his.

“I am well enough, considering. Thank you.” She waved to a pair of armchairs. “Would you like to sit? I can ring for tea.”

“I can’t stay.” And honestly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. This sad young lady was not the girl he’d been hoping to see. “I just came by to offer my respects.”

It had been foolish to expect to find the sunny companion of his youth, especially given the circumstances. A young woman plunged deep in mourning was hardly a suitable candidate for matrimony. With regret, he mentally crossed her name off the top of his list.

The charming, adventurous Ellie Tremont—the girl who might have accepted his suit and gladly accompanied him to India—was gone.

“Ellie!” A stern-looking woman with gray-shot dark hair stepped into the room. She, too, was dressed in mourning, but the severe black and white suited her. “Whatever are you doing, entertaining a gentleman caller alone? I thought you were better bred than that.”

A flush rose in Ellie’s cheeks, two spots of color that quickly faded.

“I am sorry, my lady.” She bobbed an apologetic curtsy. “I was about to ring for the maid. Allow me to introduce Mr. Christopher Newland. We knew each other as children. Or, wait, is it Lord now?”

“Yes—now that my father is, rather unexpectedly, the new Marquess of Kennewick.” He gave her a gentle smile.

Luckily, his older brother—who’d never liked India and preferred to remain in England—would inherit the burden of that title. Still, their father and mother would have to return to London for a time, leaving Kit in charge of their interests in Manohari.

Which was why time was of the essence. He must find an agreeable wife and make the journey back to India before the heaviest rains set in, rendering travel nigh impossible.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” The widow extended her hand so that Kit could bow over it. “I am Lady Tremont. I must apologize for whatever poor welcome Eleanor might have given you. This household is usually better mannered than that.”

Despite his irritation at Lady Tremont’s rudeness toward his old friend, Kit dipped his head. “Mourning can be a difficult time. I understand completely. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tremont, and do forgive me for intruding. However, I must be off.”

The viscountess gripped his hand, allowing him no retreat. “Certainly not. You must meet my daughters before you go.” She turned to Ellie, her voice hardening. “Go fetch your stepsisters. At once.”

As if she were nothing more than a servant, Ellie nodded and hurried from the room. Brows furrowed, Kit watched her go. Something did not seem right in the Tremont household.

Paying no attention to his reaction, Lady Tremont pulled him over to the settee and all but forced him down beside her. “Tell me about yourself, Lord Christopher. How you are acquainted with the Tremont family?”

There was an avaricious light in her eyes, but Kit had dealt with grasping mamas before—particularly since his father had inherited the title. He explained to Lady Tremont the scholarly bond between his and Ellie’s fathers and how the two families would often visit one another with their children in tow—especially after Ellie’s mother died.

“Then you see her as somewhat of a sister, I imagine,” Lady Tremont said, a complacent note in her voice. “How kind of you to call upon her. As you can see, her father’s death has affected us all terribly. Luckily, my fortune is large enough to sustain us in comfort. Alas, poor Ellie has no dowry.”

He frowned at her words, and not only because it was tasteless to bring money into a conversation with a new acquaintance. Without a marriage portion, Ellie was now doubly disqualified from his list of prospective brides. While he did not need an heiress per se, it was essential he marry a girl with a sizeable dowry.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

Indeed, it was surprising news. Despite his somewhat eccentric nature, Viscount Tremont had always seemed sensible about managing his estate. It must have been a blow to Ellie to discover she had no dowry. No wonder she seemed so downcast.

Lady Tremont leaned forward. “If your families were such great friends, why have we not met you before?”

“My father accepted a position with the East India Company. When I graduated from Eton, I joined him in Assam.”

And a happy change that had been. In addition to finding India quite to his tastes, Kit had discovered a talent for organization that was indispensable as he helped his father with various ventures. The most recent, a tea plantation in the fertile highlands, promised to be a rousing success once the bushes were ready for harvest.

But with his father unexpectedly inheriting a marquessate, the management of the plantation was now in Kit’s hands. He took that responsibility quite seriously—and not only because it would make or break their fortunes abroad.

A commotion at the doorway served as a welcome distraction from Lady Tremont’s interrogation. Kit rose as two young women—presumably the widow’s daughters—entered the room. Ellie trailed behind them, a pale shadow.

“My darlings.” Lady Tremont stood and held out her hands. “Come meet our distinguished guest, Lord Christopher Newland.”

Her daughters joined her, one on each side. Neither of them were in mourning. In fact, they each wore bright colors that seemed to relegate Ellie to the background even more.

The girl to Lady Tremont’s left sported a yellow-green gown that accentuated her red hair—natural red, not stained with henna, as Kit was used to seeing. She gave him a curious look, her brown eyes wide with interest.

The other daughter wore bright blue and was dark-haired, like her mother, with the same disdainful tilt to her nose. And the same appraising expression, as though weighing Kit’s value to determine whether he might be advantageous to her in some way.

“This is my eldest, Delia,” Lady Tremont said, nodding to the dark-haired girl.

Delia curtsied low, clearly deciding he was worthy of her favor. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

Lady Tremont indicated the redhead. “And my other daughter, Abigail.”

“A tremendous honor, indeed.” Abigail dropped him an even deeper curtsy, then shot her sister a gloating look, as though it had been a contest of some kind and she’d emerged the victor.

“Charmed to meet you both,” Kit said. “I hope in the future I might become better acquainted, but, regrettably, I must bid you farewell. I’ve an appointment with my father’s solicitor.”

Which was true—although the meeting wasn’t for some hours yet. But this visit had taken an uncomfortable turn into marriage mart territory, and he had no intention of adding Ellie’s stepsisters to his mental list of prospective brides.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, my lord.” Redheaded Abigail fluttered her lashes at him.

“Indeed.” Lady Tremont’s tone was dry. “As you’re a long-standing friend of Ellie’s, we’d be delighted to further our acquaintance. When might we expect you to call again?”

He glanced at Ellie, who stood a pace behind her stepmother. While he had little interest in getting to know the other girls, his conscience gave a twinge at the obvious unhappiness in her eyes. She needed friends, and it seemed clear there was not an overabundance of warmth between her and her stepfamily.

She glanced up at him, and he thought he detected a hint of entreaty in her expression.

“The day after tomorrow?” he asked, somewhat impetuously. It was only for old time’s sake, of course. One more visit, and his duty would be discharged.

“That would be lovely,” the widow said. “We shall look for you in the afternoon. And would you stay to dinner?”

“Please say yes.” Dark-haired Delia stepped forward. “I would simply adore hearing of your travels abroad.”

“Indeed.” Abigail nodded vigorously and moved up beside her sister. “I’ve no doubt they’re utterly fascinating.”

Behind her stepsisters’ backs, Ellie’s brows rose, and she gave him the slanting look he recalled from childhood—the one that meant trouble lay ahead. Her face was transformed: a twinkle of mischief in her eye, the slightest lift to her lips. It was a welcome change, and he didn’t mind that it was at his expense.

“I would be delighted to dine with you,” he said.

It seemed he was willing to endure what promised to be a dinner full of dreadful attempts at flirtation if it would banish the shadows from Eleanor Tremont’s eyes. Only because we are long-standing friends, he told himself.

And while he searched for a suitable bride, he could spare an afternoon to make Ellie smile. Happily, his father and mother were in good health, but he could imagine the devastation he’d feel if one of them passed. Poor Ellie had lost not one, but both of her parents.

“Splendid,” Lady Tremont said. “We shall expect you at five o’clock on Thursday.”

“Thank you for visiting,” Ellie said, finally moving forward to face him. “It was good to see you again.”

“Of course.” He smiled at her.

“We mustn’t keep you, my lord,” Lady Tremont said briskly. “Allow me to see you out.”

She stepped in front of Ellie, took his arm, and steered him toward the door. Ah, well. Lady Tremont might be the most maneuvering mama in London, but he was in no danger of falling into her snares. There were meddlesome English mothers aplenty in India—in Calcutta, of course, but even in his home station of Manohari. He’d learned to watch his step, moving as carefully as a mongoose in a garden full of cobras.

Under the widow’s watchful eye, the butler gave Kit his hat and gloves then opened the door. Kit unfurled his umbrella. The rain made a gentle, almost friendly patter over the surface.

“Good day, my lord,” Lady Tremont said. “I know I speak for my daughters as well when I say we very much look forward to seeing you again.”

“Of course.” Kit wondered if she included Ellie in that reckoning. Probably not.

As he turned down the sidewalk, he glanced at the parlor window to see Delia and Abigail pressed close to the glass. Abigail waved furiously while her sister lifted her hand and gave him a demure waggle of her fingers.

Ellie stood off to one side. She tilted her head and shot him another pointed look, which made him grin. Plainly, there was little love lost between her and her stepsisters—and from what he’d seen, he could hardly blame her. Dinner on Thursday might be awkward, but he’d no doubt it would be equally entertaining.

Chapter Three

“Did you see that?” Abby clasped her hands under her chin and twirled about. “He smiled at me!”

“It wasn’t at you, ninny.” Delia gave her a withering glance. “Obviously he was looking at me.”

Ellie bit her tongue and said nothing.

It was curious how quickly she’d felt the old childhood rapport with Kit rekindle, as though they’d just come in from a bit of mischief—like catching frogs to frighten the maids or sword fighting with sticks in the hayloft. They’d been a pair of rapscallions, as his mother had put it. And oh, how Ellie had missed him—missed his whole family—when they’d left for India.

But now he was back, and a lord into the bargain. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Yes, it had been kind of him to pay a call, and even kinder to agree to come to dinner, but would his new station preclude them from becoming friends again? And even if it did not, was there any hope her stepmother would allow that to happen?

It had been marvelous to see him, though, Ellie had to admit. She felt as though a crisp wind had blown in, pushing away the haze of sorrow she’d been stumbling through. He’d nearly made her laugh, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt that way. Certainly not since Papa died. She was glad he was coming to dinner in two days, even if it meant he must endure the fawning attentions of her stepsisters.

“Girls,” Lady Tremont said, returning to the parlor and giving her daughters a stern look. “Contain yourselves. There is nothing a gentleman finds more unbecoming than a lady who has obviously set her cap for him.”

“But, Mama—” Abby began.

“You in particular, Abigail, must learn to curb your emotions. Lord Christopher is a catch, no question, but subtlety will win the day, my darling.”

Ellie folded her arms, an unhappy knot forming in her stomach. Of course Lady Tremont wouldn’t allow a friendship between the stepdaughter she detested and the son of a marquess. And she wouldn’t rest until one of her own daughters had managed to snare him into a betrothal.

A fate Ellie wouldn’t wish on any gentleman, let alone Kit.

The only way to save him from Lady Tremont’s machinations would be to pretend she had no interest in renewing their friendship. When he came to dinner, she must be cold and distant. She must extinguish that spark of camaraderie between them.

The thought made her throat tighten with dismay, but there was no other option. Kit Newland must depart her life again, for both their sakes.

“My lady.” Mr. Atkins bowed from the parlor threshold. “An invitation just arrived. I thought it advisable to inform you posthaste.”

He held out a silver salver bearing a letter opener and a cream-colored envelope. The seal of Queen Victoria was prominently displayed on the creamy vellum, and Abby gasped audibly.

“A royal summons, Mama! How thrilling.”

Lady Tremont took it with every evidence of calm, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. She slit the envelope and pulled out a card embossed with the royal coat of arms.

“The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by The Queen,” she read, “to invite Lady Tremont and her daughters to a Costume Ball evoking the reign of Charles II on Friday the thirteenth of June at half past nine o’clock. Buckingham Palace.”

“What fun,” Abby exclaimed. “I do hope Lord Christopher is invited as well.”

With a pleased expression, Lady Tremont set the invitation back on the salver. “We must visit the modiste at once to have our ball gowns designed.”

“I will look well in a Stuart-inspired gown,” Delia said smugly.

“Does that mean we are out of mourning?” Ellie asked, glancing down at her dark skirts.

The requisite six months had come and gone, but she’d been so shrouded in despair she hadn’t given any thought to putting off her blacks.

Her stepsisters, however, had only worn mourning for the first month, “to spare the expense of an entirely new wardrobe,” Lady Tremont had said.

For herself, Ellie had only been allowed three new mourning gowns and then was given the cast-off clothing of her stepsisters with the expectation she would alter them to fit. Never the most skilled seamstress, she had admittedly not done her best work with the alterations. It was difficult to sew a fine seam when one’s vision continually blurred with tears.

“I don’t believe you were invited to the ball,” Delia said, lifting her nose. “You’re not Lady Tremont’s daughter by blood.”

“I am by marriage, however,” Ellie retorted, her fingers curling into her palms. “And I’m certain my godmother will support me in this, now that she’s returned from the Continent.”

Sadly, Baroness Merriweather was a rather absent, as well as absent-minded, woman. She had been an old family friend on Ellie’s mother’s side—thus her role as Ellie’s godmother—but after Mama died when Ellie was young, the Baroness became more of a myth than a matronly figure in Ellie’s life.

She would resurface every few years, bringing some impractical trinket from abroad and remarking on how much Ellie had grown, then disappear again without notice. But her last visit had been only a few months ago, to offer her condolences. And she had told Ellie to ask if she needed anything.

Whether or not she would remember that offer was another question, but it was past time for Ellie to assert herself within the Tremont family once more. She would carry the shadow of grief for Papa in her heart forever, but seeing Kit had reminded her that life continued. The sun rose, the earth spun, and it was possible to smile again.

On no account would she let her stepfamily spoil that for her or bar her from attending social events on some flimsy pretext. No matter how much Lady Tremont might try.

Her stepmother sniffed in displeasure. “No doubt Lady Merriweather has better things to do than listen to your groundless complaints, Ellie. Let me remind you that stubbornness is very unbecoming in a young lady.”

“Still.” Ellie lifted her chin. “I am a daughter of this household.”

“True, if unfortunate,” Delia said quietly.

Lady Tremont’s nostrils flared. “Very well. I decree we are no longer in mourning for your dear departed father, God rest his soul. And you may attend the Queen’s Ball.”

“Thank you—”

“If you manage to procure something suitable to wear. I’m sure I needn’t remind you that there is no money to furnish you with a costume. But I’m sure with your sewing skills, you’ll be able to make a very fine ball gown.”

Delia tittered, and Abby laughed as well, though at least she had the decency to muffle her giggle behind one hand. The remark stung, as it was meant to, and Ellie felt embarrassment warm her cheeks.

“I will be ready,” she said stiffly.

Though truly, she had no notion of how she would manage to come up with an elaborate Stuart-era costume in under three weeks. Still, she refused to be daunted.

It seemed she must pay a call on Lady Merriweather and ask her to be true to her promise to help. Whether she remembered giving it or not.

Chapter Four

Kit paused before the front door of the Tremont household and glanced down at the bouquet he carried. Pink peonies and white roses. He meant it for Ellie, of course, and had been hoping to find daisies and cornflowers, having a recollection of her weaving flower crowns from the fields.

But those blooms were not yet in full season, and at any rate he suspected Lady Tremont would turn up her nose at such a common bouquet. He also suspected that the widow would dislike seeing him pay particular attention to Ellie, and much as he relished the idea of tweaking the viscountess’s feathers, he worried that Ellie would suffer the consequence.

So he had settled on a lovely, impersonal posy of flowers for the entire household. With a single daisy hidden in the center, much against the wishes of the florist. Kit hoped Ellie would understand the secret reference.

“My lord.” The butler opened the door. “Welcome. The ladies are expecting you in the drawing room.”

Kit nodded and surrendered his hat and coat. He followed the man down the wide hall, bypassing the smaller front parlor, and was ushered into a much grander room. Tall windows let in the light, accentuating the yellow-and-white color scheme of the drawing room. A pianoforte took up one corner, and Lady Tremont and her daughters were arranged, as carefully as flowers, in the center of the room.

His gaze went to Ellie, seated off to the side. To his relief, she no longer wore stark black, but a gown of soft lavender. Still somber, of course, but the color did not highlight her pallor—though it did echo the shadows beneath her eyes.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with a bow, presenting his bouquet to Lady Tremont. “Your house is already filled with sweet blooms, but I hope you’ll accept my humble offering.”

“You are too kind.” The viscountess glanced at the flowers. “Ellie, take those and fetch a vase. We can display them on the table, there.”

Ellie nodded, rising, and Kit had to bite his tongue on his objections. Why was she letting her stepmother treat her like a servant? On the other hand, if she were the one to handle the flowers, perhaps she might see the daisy hidden among the blooms. He hoped it would make her smile.

“Thank you,” she said to him, taking the bouquet and not meeting his eyes.

“Do hurry,” the dark-haired Delia said. “We don’t want them to wilt. Such a thoughtful gift from Lord Christopher should be treated with care.” She gave him a coquettish smile.

“Oh, yes,” Abigail added, not to be outdone. “It’s a truly magnificent bouquet.”

He should have brought them daisies and cornflowers after all, just to dash their expectations—although he had the unsettling notion that he could do no wrong in their eyes.

Ellie, however, was another matter. She hurried out of the room, and he resolved to find an opportunity to speak with her privately. The warmth he’d felt between them the other day seemed to be gone, and he wanted to know why.

Was she in trouble? Did her stepmother mistreat her, beyond the obvious relegation to servant status? He wasn’t sure what he could do to intervene, as a single gentleman taking rooms at Claridge’s, but surely there must be a way to extricate her from the situation, if it were untenable.

In India, beneath the bright blue sky, things were much simpler. In truth, he felt a little at sea, thrown into the upper strata of Society in London. He’d navigated it well enough, he thought, until now. But what did a lord do if he suspected trouble within a household that was, on the surface, none of his business?

A pity there was not enough time to post a letter to India and receive a reply in return. His mother would know what to do—but in her absence, he must muddle along as best he could. Your heart has ever been a true compass, she told him as he boarded the ship to England. Steer by it.

And so, he would do his best. Even if the currents of the ton were deep and treacherous.

Lady Tremont rose from her place at the center of the sofa.

“Please sit,” she said, waving to the vacant spot between her daughters.

“Thank you.” Kit shot a glance at the safe bulwark of the nearby armchair.

Unfortunately, it would be rude to snub the lady’s daughters so openly. With an inward sigh, he settled between Delia and Abigail, then had to resist the urge to rub his nose.

Each girl wore perfume, their scents competing instead of complementing one another. Delia smelled as though she were drenched in jasmine, and a nose-stunning overabundance of violet wafted from Abigail.

“Did you receive an invitation to the Queen’s Ball?” Abigail asked. She bounced up and down a bit, clearly excited at the prospect.

“I believe so,” Kit said, recalling that an envelope embossed with the royal seal had arrived just that morning.

“Will you be in attendance, my lord?” Lady Tremont asked as she settled in the chair across from him, her cool tone a subtle reprimand to her daughter.

“I intend to, yes.”

The ball would be an excellent opportunity to further winnow the field and settle upon the perfect candidate for a wife. He wouldn’t say such a thing aloud, of course. Lady Tremont and her daughters needed no further encouragement along such matrimonial lines.

“Have you planned to come as any particular figure from the era?” Delia asked, leaning toward him. “The Duke of Richmond, perhaps? I had thought I might emulate Lady Frances Stuart. She was known as a great beauty.”

If Kit recalled his history, the two had married, despite the lady in question being desired by the king.

“I’d not given it much thought,” he replied. Indeed, as the invitation was yet unopened, he’d been unaware the ball had a particular theme.

“Do consider it,” Delia said, looking up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. “The duke was such a dashing figure.”

“Oh, but he died tragically,” Abigail said. “I think you’d be better served as a courtier.”

“I’m certain Lord Christopher will take your suggestions under advisement,” the viscountess said. “Ah, Ellie, there you are. My, what a long time you took to arrange the flowers.”

Ellie set down the cut crystal vase of blooms, the delicate pink of the peonies echoing the color in her cheeks. Kit suspected that whatever length of time she might have taken with the flowers, her stepmother would have found equal fault.

He surveyed the bouquet, seeing no hint of daisy petals among the blooms.

“Do you like my flowers?” he asked Ellie directly.

“Of course,” she said, moving to take the armchair. “It’s very kind of you.”

Her answer was frustratingly vague. Then again, he could scarcely expect her to have worn the daisy openly, even if she had discovered it.

“We were just discussing the queen’s costume ball,” he said. “Do you have plans to attend as any particular personage?”

The color in her cheeks deepened, and Delia let out a titter.

“I’m certain Ellie will attend as someone appropriate,” Lady Tremont said. “Now, Lord Christopher, how long do you intend to remain in London?”

“I plan to return to Assam by the end of June,” he said. “I’ll be managing my family’s tea plantation there while my father comes to England to take up the duties of his new estate.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Abigail said. “A month is scarcely long enough to get to know you before you leave again.”

“I am of the opinion that the measure of a gentleman can be judged within a meeting or two,” her mother said, arching a brow. “And I believe you, Lord Christopher, are quite worthy.”

Of marrying either of her daughters—the implication was clear.

Kit swallowed. “Most kind of you, Lady Tremont.”

He sent Ellie a somewhat panicked glance. A faint, mischievous smile crossed her lips, gone so quickly he suspected he was the only one who saw it.

“Tell us about your home in India,” Ellie said. “I understand the climate is rather warmer than what we are accustomed to in London.”

He gave a solemn nod. “It’s true. Imagine the hottest summer day here in England. Now multiply that by a factor of one third, add a host of stinging insects, and a general sense of ennui that can be difficult to overcome, and you have a June day in Assam.”

It was an exaggeration, of course, but he was gratified to see Delia’s mouth turn down in distaste.

“It sounds a bit challenging,” she said primly.

Abigail, however, was not so easily put off.

“Surely there are Englishwomen who brave the climate for the sake of their families,” she said. “Your mother has lived there for years after all.”

“True, but it has been difficult for her,” he lied. Then he mentally shrugged and heaped more untruths upon the first. “She can scarcely wait to return to London—especially since her lady’s maid was bitten by a cobra just this spring.”

“How dreadful,” Lady Tremont said, casting an anxious glance at her daughters.

“It’s a dangerous country, between the poisonous snakes and diseases, not to mention the flooding and landslides caused by the monsoon rains each year.” He shook his head. “In truth, it’s a wonder so many English manage to carry on—especially in the wilds of Assam, which is where our plantation is located.”

Ellie gave him a wide-eyed look. “But surely you are not so far from civilization as all that?”

“We manage to visit Calcutta a few times a year,” he said truthfully, neglecting to mention that the town of Sylhet was much closer and provided all the basic amenities.

“It sounds very exciting,” Abigail said, clearly undaunted. “And if one is in love, I imagine such things are no obstacle.”

Her mother gave her a sour look. “Most matches are made for practical reasons, my dear. You’d do best to remember it.”

“I don’t care if my husband is titled or rich,” the redhead said, tossing her head. “I intend to marry for love.”

With those words, she leaned toward Kit, giving him a moon-eyed look that left no doubt as to the object of her affections. Unfortunately, he could not shift away from her or he’d be too close to her sister. It was a sticky situation.

“Don’t be a ninny, Abby,” Delia said. “Marrying for love is the outside of foolishness. I’m certain Lord Christopher would agree that practical matters such as breeding and fortune should be the foremost things to consider.”

Her words hit a bit too close to the mark, and he gave her a strained smile. “I think practical romanticism is the best way forward.”

At any rate, it seemed to work for his parents, whose strong affection for one another had helped them weather any number of tribulations. Of course, when they’d married, neither title nor wealth had come into play. It was only now, with the marquessate hanging over their heads that such things took on importance.

“Speaking of gentility,” Lady Tremont said, “may we entertain you with some music, my lord?”

“Certainly,” he said. “I don’t have much opportunity to hear the pianoforte. The tropical climate is hard upon the instrument.”

“Girls,” the viscountess said, “do the honor of entertaining our guest, if you will.” She turned to Kit with a self-serving smile. “Delia plays the pianoforte and Abigail the violin, and they both sing delightfully. My daughters are very talented.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said.

Ellie coughed into her hand and would not meet his eyes—a sure sign that he needed to brace himself for the concert to come.

Chapter Five

The sisters rose, taking their suffocating perfumes with them, and Kit pulled in a cleansing breath. Delia seated herself upon the piano bench, while Abigail took up the violin resting in a silk-lined case.

Forewarned by Ellie’s reaction, he managed not to flinch as the younger sister drew the bow across the strings, producing a sound like an ailing cow.

“You’re not on pitch,” Delia snapped from her place at the piano. She tapped one of the keys relentlessly. “Here’s the note. No, higher than that. Wait, that’s too high! Go lower.”

Finally, Abigail managed to get the instrument in some semblance of tune, and they launched into their first piece. Kit guessed that Abigail did not play often, as she struggled through the music. At least the pianoforte produced a pleasant enough sound, though Delia had a tendency to hit the keys with too much force.

It was difficult to discern, but he thought they were performing a Bach minuet. Thankfully, it was a short selection, and he applauded vigorously at the end, relieved it was finished.

That turned out to be just the beginning, unfortunately.

His only consolation as the sisters warbled unsteadily through a rendition of “The Last Rose of Summer” was that Ellie was clearly biting her cheek to keep from laughter. He shot her a pained glance, and her gaze skittered away from his.

Just as well. He knew they could easily set one another off, and no matter how untalented Delia and Abigail were, it would be too rude to dissolve into laughter during their recital.

It did not escape his notice that Ellie was not asked to contribute. If he recalled correctly, she had a clear, light soprano and an adequate mastery of the keyboard. No doubt Lady Tremont wanted no competition for her daughters’ so-called talents.

Finally, the butler summoned them to dinner, and the caterwauling came to a blessed end.

“What do you think, my lord?” the viscountess asked, clearly proud of her offspring.

“That was an entirely memorable concert,” he replied. “Your daughters have no equal.” Though not quite in the direction she thought.

Ellie’s mouth was screwed into a fierce frown—no doubt to hide her smile.

“That scowl is most unbecoming, Ellie,” Lady Tremont said to her. “May I remind you that jealousy is unladylike in the extreme.”

“You are correct,” Ellie said, clearly attempting to master herself. “Do forgive me.”

“Breeding will show,” Delia said, rising from the piano bench and smoothing her skirts. “Lord Christopher, would you be so kind as to escort me in to dinner?”

Which was, Kit thought, rather an ironic breach of etiquette.

Her sister shot Delia a poisonous look, but the viscountess gave a regal nod.

“Indeed,” she said. “Dinner is waiting. Please, follow me.”

She led the way out of the drawing room. Kit followed with Delia clutching his arm, leaving Abigail and Ellie to bring up the rear.

At least Ellie was seated where he could see her, though with Delia on his left and Abigail directly across from him, he’d have to be mindful not to show her any particular attention. Lady Tremont presided over the head of the table, of course. She kept the conversation firmly fixed on her daughters throughout the meal, extolling their needlework, dancing, and impeccable taste in fashion.

This last was said with a sneering look at Ellie, and Kit quickly turned the topic to the food.

“This is an excellent roast,” he said. “I’ve missed having beef as a regular part of my meals.”

“Do they not have cows in India?” Abigail asked.

“Yes, but they are sacred beasts, and not for slaughter or eating,” Kit said.

“How barbaric,” Delia said with a patronizing sniff.

Ellie glanced at her stepsister. “I rather imagine that we are the barbaric ones in their eyes.”

“Well put.” Kit smiled at her—he couldn’t help it.

“What else do you eat, or not eat, in India?” Abigail asked. “I never imagined foreign customs would be so fascinating.”

He would wager she’d never given much thought to the world beyond London. Well, if nothing else, perhaps this conversation would broaden her mind a bit.

“Curries, of course,” he said. “And there’s a great deal of spice in all the food. It takes some getting used to.” He did not add that, as a result, the food in England seemed quite bland.

Ellie sent him a glance, as if reading his thoughts. “It must be rather a change for you.”

“I’m enjoying reacquainting myself with British cuisine,” he said.

Well, perhaps enjoying wasn’t the right word. He looked forward to returning to the pungent and flavorful meals of India.

“We have a lovely blancmange for dessert,” Lady Tremont said.

“A fitting end to the meal,” he said, keeping his tone serious. “White pudding. So very English.”

Ellie twitched, and once again refused to meet his eyes. He smiled internally to see her reaction. At least her mood had lightened, which made him doubly glad he’d come that evening.

As the servants removed the plates, the viscountess turned to him. “When might we have the pleasure of your company again, Lord Christopher?”

A pity his harrowing tales of India had not discouraged her from foisting her daughters upon him.

“I’ve quite a bit of business to attend to in London,” he said. “I really can’t say.”

“At least we’ll see you at the Queen’s Ball, won’t we?” Abigail gave him a longing look.

“Assuredly.” He glanced over at Ellie, partly to avoid giving Abigail any encouragement and partly to see Ellie’s reaction.

She did not seem excited at the thought of the ball—not in the way her stepsisters were. In fact, her expression had teetered into melancholy. He was once more reminded that something was amiss in the Tremont household, and resolved to have a private word with Ellie before he left that evening.

“How unfortunate that you have no female relations to accompany to the ball,” Lady Tremont said to him. “A bachelor arriving alone to such a prestigious event is always cause for comment. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert do like to see their subjects surrounded by family.”

Clearly she was angling for an offer of escort, but he was not willing to go quite so far. He glanced once again at Ellie, noting the bleakness in her eyes.

“I hope you’ll save me a dance,” he said.

Although his words were directed at Ellie, both Delia and Abigail fastened upon them.

“Of course, my lord,” the dark-haired sister said. “I would be delighted.”

“May I put you down for the first waltz?” Abigail asked.

Her mother gave her a quelling look for being so forward, but Kit was amused by her lack of subtlety.

“Certainly,” he said. “And a polka set for you, Miss Delia. They still dance the polka at balls in London, do they not?”

“Most assuredly,” Delia said, somewhat stiffly. “I would be delighted, my lord.”

The narrow-eyed glance she sent her sister made it clear she wished she’d spoken sooner and claimed the waltz instead.

“I shall mark you down for the quadrille, if I may?” Ellie said.

“Please do—though you might have to steer me through some of the moves.”

Thankfully, he had a few weeks to brush up on his dancing skills before the ball. They did not, as a general rule, perform the more elaborate choreography at the informal dances held in the Manohari Assembly Rooms.

I must admit,” Ellie said, her eyes holding a spark of amusement, “it has been some time since I attended a ball myself. I was hoping you might guide me.”

“We shall invent our own steps, then.” Kit grinned at her.

“I assume you are jesting,” Lady Tremont said in a reproving tone. “I would not like to see you make a fool of yourself on the dance floor, Lord Christopher.”

“Oh, he’s far too graceful for that,” Abigail said. “I can hardly wait for my waltz with you. It was so kind of you to ask.”

Kit’s brows rose. It seemed the redhead had already come up with her own version of events.

“Shall we retire for a few hands of cards?” Lady Tremont asked, rising.

It was more a command than a question, of course. They all stood, Delia taking a possessive grip upon Kit’s arm, and obediently followed the viscountess to the drawing room.

He tried to sit next to Ellie but was outmaneuvered by her stepsisters. For the rest of the evening, he found no chance to have a word alone with her. Lady Tremont was vigilant as a hawk, and her daughters were too fixed upon him for any opportunity to arise.

At last, as he was preparing to take his leave, he caught Ellie’s eye.

“Do you still ride, Miss Tremont?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, fingering her skirts. “But not recently.”

“Mourning does take its toll.” Lady Tremont gave an unconvincing sigh. “At least we are now emerging from its pall. But I’m afraid Eleanor has far too much to do to go gallivanting about on horseback.”

“A pity,” he said, keeping his tone light. “I hear the weather tomorrow is clearing at about two in the afternoon. At any rate, I thank you for a most inspiring evening, Lady Tremont.”

“It was entirely our pleasure,” she said with a satisfied look. “Until the Queen’s Ball, my lord.”

“Until then.” He bowed over her hand, then Delia’s, then Abigail’s.

When he came to Ellie, he squeezed her fingers lightly, and she returned the pressure in two quick pulses. Good—she’d understood his message.

Whether she could contrive to escape the prying eyes of her stepfamily remained to be seen. But Eleanor Tremont had ever been a resourceful girl, and he trusted her to prevail.

The thought enabled him to smile at the gathered ladies one more time before he donned his hat and stepped into the cool English night.

Chapter Six

“Oh, gracious,” Abby exclaimed as the door closed behind their visitor. “Just think—Lord Christopher asked me to waltz with him!”

“Ninny,” Delia said. “You were the one who asked him. Very unladylike of you, I must say.” She reached over and pinched Abby’s arm.

“Ow!” Abby jerked away from her sister. “You’re only jealous because he obviously prefers my spirit of adventure. Anyone could see how frightened you were when he spoke of the dangers of India.”

“Why, I—”

“Girls,” Lady Tremont said in a stern voice. “There is to be no more bickering over Lord Christopher. Whichever one of you he chooses, the whole family will be the better for it. The son of a marquess after all! Why don’t you concentrate on his qualities instead of your own?”

“He has wonderful green eyes,” Abby said with a sigh. “Perhaps our children will have his eyes and my hair—wouldn’t that be a stunning combination?”

“You wouldn’t want to curse any child with that red,” Delia replied. “Dark hair is so much more becoming—which is why Lord Christopher and I would make a far better match.”

She plumped her coiffure with a self-satisfied smile.

Ellie bit her tongue and tried not to think of Kit or his future; but as her stepsisters rhapsodized about his broad shoulders and ruggedly handsome face, she could not help but add her own mental comments to the list.

Kind, as he had ever been. Perhaps too kind, as his offer of dancing with them at the Queen’s Ball demonstrated. Though she had to admit, it did add to her anticipation of the event.

Intelligent, with a wry humor that still matched her own. Several times during the course of the evening, she’d had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud at some of his sly jokes.

Adventurous, of course. It was plain that India suited him. And she knew she shouldn’t have encouraged him in his wild tales of that country, but it had been such fun seeing her stepmother’s expression sour with disapproval.

It was a pity that by the end of the evening, Lady Tremont had overcome her reluctance. She seemed perfectly happy at the thought of sending either of her daughters off to face the dangers of a foreign land, as long as it would earn her the social cachet she coveted.

As if Papa’s title wasn’t enough!

Ellie tamped down her spark of temper at the thought. There was no use feeding her anger at her stepfamily. She knew it was a conflagration that would ultimately consume her if she let it rage forth.

But what was she to do?

Pondering that question dampened her mood completely. Now that she was emerging from mourning, it was clear there were very few options open to her.

She had no dowry and no useful connections, now that her father was gone. Perhaps someone might marry her for love, but that was a foolish notion indeed. She had no callers, except for Kit—and he was departing back to India in less than a month’s time.

She was relegated to a status of unpaid servant in her own home. And although she supposed she ought to be glad to have a roof over her head and no fears about when her next meal would arrive, it was no way to exist. Especially given the spiteful natures of Lady Tremont and Delia, who were glad to belittle her at every opportunity.

Perhaps Kit would have some insight for her, provided she could slip out on the morrow. He’d been quite clever with his clues. First the daisy, which grew in a meadow in Hyde Park where their families used to picnic on warm summer days, and then his invitation to go riding and comments about the weather clearing at two o’clock. She knew precisely when and where to meet him.

Whether or not she should was another matter, of course—but she would bring her maid, Henderson, along. There could be no accusations of impropriety, should their meeting be discovered. Despite her resolution to keep him at arm’s length, she found that the prospect of having a friend to confide in, just once, outweighed all other considerations.

***

Hyde Park was lovely—fresh, green, and sparkling from the morning’s rain. Ellie drew in a deep breath as she walked beneath the oak trees. The little lane was peaceful, the grasses starred with tiny daisies. The air brightened ahead, the trees opening up to a clearing where she and Kit’s families used to take picnics on warm summer days. She tried not to hasten as she and Henderson came closer to her destination, though her pulse began to pound.

It was good to be out, even if it wasn’t simply to take a refreshing stroll between her shopping errands, as she’d told her maid. Henderson was circumspect, and as one of the household’s long-standing servants, she was loyal to Ellie. She had known Kit’s family, too, and had never liked the fact that Papa had remarried—though of course she would never say so.

“Is that Christopher Newland?” the older woman asked as they approached the meadow and caught sight of a figure waiting beside one of the tallest oaks.

“Yes,” Ellie said. “You won’t say anything, will you?”

Henderson frowned. “If it were anyone else, miss, you know I would. Don’t do anything foolish now.”

“I only want to talk to him.” Ellie couldn’t help the pleading note in her voice.

“Aye, well.” Henderson’s expression softened. “I expect it’s no bad thing to speak with the lad. Just mind your manners.”

“I shall.”

They reached the edge of the trees, and Kit looked up, smiling. “There you are. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to meet. Hello, Mrs. Henderson. It’s good to see you. You look as well as ever.”

The matronly woman bobbed her head. “May I say the same, my lord? India seems to agree with you.”

It was true. Kit had seemed to grow into himself while abroad. He carried himself with an easy confidence, and though his manner was still direct, he was not as easy to goad into saying rash things as he’d used to be. Which, upon reflection, was probably a good thing, despite Ellie’s attempts to provoke him at dinner last night.

“It does agree with me,” he said. “I’m eager to return to Assam.”

“Well, then.” Henderson nodded to a plain wooden bench in the shade. “I’ll just rest here while the two of you have your chat.”

Suiting action to words, she marched over and settled herself on the bench, appearing completely disinterested in whatever Kit and Ellie had to say to one another.

“I’m glad she hasn’t changed.” Kit offered his arm. “We can stroll around the clearing—staying within eyesight, of course.”

“Of course.” Ellie slipped her arm through his, resting her gloved hand on his forearm.

“You’ve changed, though,” he said, giving her a keen glance. “Is everything all right, Ellie? Beyond the obvious, I mean.”

She hesitated. Despite the fact that she so badly wanted someone to confide in, was Kit Newland the right choice? Perhaps she ought to seek out someone else.

But the sad fact of the matter was, she had no one else. After Papa’s remarriage, the family had begun socializing with the new Lady Tremont’s set, cutting ties with former friends. And Ellie’s godmother was too scattered to be any kind of confidante.

“Come now,” Kit said. “There’s nothing so bad that you can’t tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best to help. Is Lady Tremont mistreating you?”

The concern in his voice brought Ellie perilously close to tears. It felt like ages since anyone had truly cared about her well-being.

She swallowed, grateful the edge of her bonnet shaded her eyes. When she’d mastered herself, she looked up at Kit.

“She doesn’t beat me, if that what you mean,” she said. “I’m not in any physical danger.”

She paused, thinking of how to frame her words, and Kit pressed her hand, waiting. The wind ruffled the green leaves overhead, as if in reassurance.

“It’s just that, with Papa gone and no money left for me, I’m relegated to a lesser standing within the household.”

“I saw that.” His voice hardened. “And I didn’t like it one bit. They shouldn’t treat you as anything less than the daughter of a viscount. You’re not a servant, Ellie. You don’t have to do your stepmother’s bidding.”

Oh, but she did, or Lady Tremont would make her life even more miserable.

“I think . . . I ought to take a position as a governess.” There, she’d said it aloud, which made the possibility seem more real.

“A governess?” Kit frowned. “You can do better than that.”

“Better, how?” Bitterness flared within her. As a man, he’d no notion how few options were open to her. “It’s not as though I can board a ship to India to make my fortune or take a position as secretary to a lord with a promising career in politics.”

“But you could marry him,” Kit said, in what he no doubt thought was a sensible tone.

“I cannot. Not without a dowry.”

“But surely any man can see your worth.”

“That’s not reasonable, Kit. You know it as well as I. Respectable gentlemen don’t marry girls of good breeding without money or connections. They have so many other choices, you see.” She let out a resigned breath. “Perhaps a paid companion would suit me better.”

“Nonsense.” He turned to face her. “You’re pretty; you’ve a good mind and an even disposition. What man wouldn’t want you?”

Their eyes caught and held, even as warmth flooded her cheeks. He thought she was pretty? The air seemed to shimmer between them, his green eyes full of promise.

Perhaps . . . perhaps there was another option.

He had wanted her to meet with him after all. And he’d visited twice within the span of a week. Was it possible—could he care for her the way she always had for him?

Heart racing, she forced herself to ask the question.

“What about you? Would you marry me, Kit?”

His gaze slid away from hers. “I’m sorry, Ellie. You know I like you very well. But . . .”

She stepped back, her heart plummeting. Oh, she’d been an idiot to ask. She forced herself to speak through the tightness in her throat. “You see? No one will have me, despite all your fine words to the contrary. Clearly, I have little to recommend me.”

“That’s not so.” He caught her hand. “I confess, when I first came to call upon you . . . Well, you can guess the direction of my hopes. But the sorry truth is, I must find a girl with enough money to keep the tea plantation from going under.”

She blinked, trying to take in what he was saying. Had he just implied he’d been considering courting her?

“But doesn’t your father’s new estate have plenty of funds?” she asked.

“That’s just it.” Kit let out an unhappy laugh. “The marquessate is in wretched shape. The estate has been mismanaged for years, apparently, and it’s going to take what’s left of father’s money—plus considerable loans—to make it prosperous again.”

“Then why insist on this plantation? It seems clear your family can’t afford both.”

He shook his head, a glint of desperation in his eyes. “If only we’d known in advance. But almost all our savings is in the ground of Assam in the form of several thousand tea plants, plus the men to care for them. And the tea won’t be ready to harvest for another three years. We’re trapped, frankly.”

Unwilling sympathy moved through her. Despite his appearance of freedom, Kit was as bound by his circumstance as she was. Oh, but life was cruel and miserable, to bring them both to this unhappy point.

“I’m sorry,” she said. For everything that might have been, and could never be. “I’m sorry there’s nothing we can do for one another.”

“Can’t we still be friends?” He searched her eyes. “I care for you, Ellie.”

She knew, deep in her heart, that she and Kit would have suited one another as husband and wife. As lifelong companions. If only Papa had left her with a dowry.

It was too painful to stand with him in this clearing so full of happy memories of their youth, and see everything she’d most wished for turned to ashes.

She pulled her hand from his and turned away. “If you hear of a governess position, do let me know. At any rate, I need to return home.”

He came and walked beside her. “I’ll see you out of the park, at least.”

“No need.” She made her tone brisk. “Henderson and I can manage perfectly well on our own.”

He touched her arm. “Remember to save me a dance at the Queen’s Ball.”

“Very well.”

She would—and then she would say goodbye forever and do her best to forget that their lives had so narrowly missed being entwined.

Pretending her throat wasn’t choked with misery, she bade him farewell and left him standing in the clearing, the green boughs of the oaks whispering empty promises overhead.

Chapter Seven

“Lady Merriweather will see you now,” the Baroness’s elderly butler said, returning to the formal parlor where he’d deposited Ellie.

She gave him a stiff nod and rose, then glanced at Henderson, who remained perched on the settee.

“I’ll await you here,” the maid said. “You don’t need an audience to meet with your godmother, after all.”

“Thank you.” Ellie gave her a grateful smile.

For the second time that week, Henderson had staunchly stood by Ellie on her clandestine visits. First with Kit, and now to beg for help from her godmother.

Despite Ellie’s best efforts with a needle, she was no closer to having a costume for the upcoming ball, and time was quickly running out. Lady Merriweather was her last hope.

The butler showed her to a room full of exotic displays: a huge Chinese vase filled with peacock feathers, a marble statue of some Caesar or another, an ornate screen inlaid with gemstones. In the midst of it, the Baroness sat, a writing desk on her lap. She was garbed in a bright blue walking dress accented with a tasseled fringe, and her coiffure boasted ostrich plumes dyed to match. In her right hand, she held a quizzing glass. When she looked up at Ellie, her right eye was alarmingly magnified.

“Ah, Eleanor,” she said, lowering the glass. “My, don’t you look peaked. Bone broth—that’s just the thing.” She pointed the quizzing glass at her butler. “Send up a cup of broth for our guest. And lemon tea for myself.”

“Madam.” The man bowed and departed the room before Ellie could protest that she had no need of cosseting.

Not to mention she despised the flavor of bone broth.

But there was no use for it now. Pulling in a breath, she went to her godmother and curtsied.

“Good afternoon, Lady Merriweather. It’s kind of you to see me.”

“Pish—you’re family after all, even though you almost never call. Come, sit.” She patted the armchair beside her own.

Ellie refrained from pointing out that the Baroness was seldom at home, let alone open to receiving visitors, and took a seat. The chair was uncomfortable, the arms carved like mermaids so that there was not a smooth surface for her elbows to rest upon. Instead, she gripped her hands together in her lap and tried to find the words to begin.

“Spit it out, girl,” the Baroness said. “Clearly you’ve come to ask me for something, and there’s no point in beating around the bush, as they say.”

“I . . . yes. You offered your help after Papa died—and so I’ve come to ask if you might assist me with procuring a ball gown.”

“A ball gown? Surely you have plenty of those, not to mention the wherewithal to procure more as you desire.” The quizzing glass came up again. “Unless your dear stepmama is being troublesome about money. Ah, I see that she is.”

Ellie tried not to squirm. For an absent-minded old woman, her godmother was disconcertingly observant and direct—qualities Ellie admired, when they were not fixed so keenly upon herself.

“I don’t know if I told you,” Ellie continued, “but Papa left me no dowry. We’re living on Lady Tremont’s money.”

Lady Merriweather’s lips tightened so much that they nearly disappeared from the force of her disapproval. “No dowry? Rather suspicious, that. Your father wasn’t a fool about money. Are you certain the solicitor informed you correctly?”

“Yes.”

Though in truth, Ellie’s raw grief had prevented her from entirely following the details. It had been a difficult meeting, full of Lady Tremont’s coldness and the solicitor’s apologies.

“Hmph,” the Baroness said. “Well, be that as it may. What kind of gown are you in need of?”

“A Stuart gown, for the queen’s costume ball.”

Her godmother blinked. “You plan to attend that foolish fete? The ton prancing about, pretending to be in Charles Stuart’s court. Really! He was a naughty king, you know. Not at all a fitting candidate to inspire a ball.”

Heat rose in Ellie’s cheeks. Even if Charles II had run an unsuitable court, one didn’t speak of such things. Except, apparently, unless one were Lady Merriweather.

“It’s what the queen has chosen,” Ellie said. “And our household is invited. It’s the first ball I’ll be allowed to attend after coming out of mourning, and I do want to go.” If for no other reason than to see Kit one last time, and bid him farewell.

“And you have nothing to wear.” The Baroness shook her head. “It’s rather short notice to procure a costume gown, my girl. You should have planned ahead.”

“I was trying to make my own,” Ellie admitted.

Her godmother let out a bark of laughter. “I suppose you have as little talent with a needle as your mother. Hopeless, she was. She disguised it with the clever use of sashes and ribbons and the like, though. Made it seem as though her gowns had been completely refurbished, when in fact it was her own resourcefulness with a bit of trimmings. That was before she married your father, of course. Afterwards, she could have as many new dresses as she liked.”

The story kindled a warm ember next to Ellie’s heart. She had so few memories of her mother that every bit of information was a gift.

“So you’ll help me?” she asked.

“I can make no promises. Ah, here’s Prescott with our beverages. Set the tray down, my good man.” She patted the lacquered table next to her chair.

The butler complied, then departed as quietly as he’d come. With a satisfied look, the baroness handed Ellie a heavy stoneware mug. A slightly sweet, unappetizing odor drifted up from the cloudy liquid.

“Drink up,” her godmother said, lifting her own porcelain cup of tea.

Ellie could hardly refuse, as she was there begging favors. Trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust, she forced herself to take a swallow.

The cloying taste stuck to her teeth and tongue, and she must have made a face because the Baroness let out a guffaw.

“Oh, child, it might taste dreadful, but it is very good for you. Like so much of life. You must steel yourself and pass through unpleasantness, but there’s a reward at the end, I promise you.”

“Yes, my lady.”

There was no other response Ellie could make, though she was inclined to doubt her godmother’s promises. Both of a reward at the end of unpleasantness and of a Stuart ball gown. But at least she’d tried.

Chapter Eight

As expected, the week passed, and no gown arrived for Ellie. She chastised herself for hoping and redoubled her efforts to cobble together a suitable costume. The days were slipping by at an alarming pace, and the Queen’s Ball was imminent.

The closer it came, the more Ellie’s stepfamily found every excuse to heap work upon her. From dawn till dusk, it seemed she was needed—to run to the milliner’s, to consult with her stepsisters on their gloves, to rearrange the gowns in Lady Tremont’s closet, as she refused to let the maids do it, claiming they wouldn’t take proper care.

All of it was designed to keep Ellie far too busy to create her own costume. They didn’t say as much, of course, but it was quite clear.

Despite the fact, they pretended to “help” with her ball gown, bestowing upon her various odds and ends, as if they would make any difference.

“Here,” Delia said, handing Ellie a length of unused gold ribbon, frayed on the end. “I won’t be needing this. Perhaps you could use it on your gown.” Beneath her syrupy-sweet tones, there was an undercurrent of laughter in her voice.

“You may take this shawl.” Abby tossed a length of scarlet fabric at her. “There’s a tear on one edge, but if you wear it folded, no one will notice.”

Even Lady Tremont participated, giving Ellie a pair of embroidered dancing slippers. “These are too small for me, but I’m certain they’ll fit you. You have my permission to wear them to the ball.”

As it turned out, the slippers were tight on Ellie’s feet as well, pinching her toes quite painfully. But her other shoes had been dyed black or given to her stepsisters when she’d gone into mourning, so the too-small slippers were all she had. Every night, she attempted to stretch them out, but they remained stubbornly petite.

The ribbon and scarf, however, she was able to put to good use. Heartened by Lady Merriweather’s remembrances of her mother, Ellie switched her focus from sewing a new gown to transforming one of her mourning gowns into something worthy of the ball. She snatched bits of time to work on her costume, staying up late into the night and working by the light of a single candle.

At least the frenetic pace kept her from thinking too much about Kit. Her childish dreams had been well and truly trampled, and there was no point on dwelling on them—no matter how much her heart ached to think on what might have been. Life had turned out differently, for both of them, and she’d do well to accept that fact and move on.

They were friends. Nothing more. And perhaps even less. Ellie had worn her heart on her sleeve at their last meeting, and he hadn’t even noticed the depth of her feelings.

Enough, she told herself and concentrated on tacking the gold ribbon around the neckline of her made-over gown.

As the days passed, the severe black dress transformed. She consulted the engravings in the history books in the library, doing her best to emulate the square-cut lines and full sleeves of the Stuart era. Finally, two days before the ball, Ellie felt she’d managed to produce a satisfactory costume.

It wouldn’t hold a candle to her stepsister’s bespoke gowns, of course, but there was an elegant simplicity to the dress that suited her.

Finally, the day of the Queen’s Ball arrived.

The last time she would ever see Kit.

For he would marry a lady with money. No doubt he was courting her even now. They would wed, and he’d take her back to India to raise a family and a crop of tea.

And that would be that.

High time Ellie turned her mind to the practicalities of becoming a governess. As soon as the endless labor of preparing for the ball was ended, she must find herself a position. Perhaps Lady Merriweather would help—though Ellie had to admit that was a bedraggled and forlorn hope. Clearly, there was to be no ball gown, and she doubted her godmother would bestir herself overmuch to help find a place for Ellie.

Then one of the maids knocked at her bedroom door to tell her she was wanted in Delia’s room, and the day exploded into a whirlwind of activity.

“Which necklace should I wear?” Delia demanded, waving at the jewelry spilled across her dressing table. “You must help me decide.”

It was not as simple as that, of course, because every suggestion Ellie made was countered with reasons why that particular item would not suit. There were no earbobs to match. The color would clash with Delia’s underskirts. And so on, until Ellie’s jaw was clenched tight with frustration.

Just as Delia finally settled on her choice, Abby dashed into the room.

“Oh, Ellie, there you are! Come tell me which combs I should put in my hair this evening.” She grabbed Ellie’s hand and towed her out the door.

At least Abby wasn’t nearly as fussy as her ill-tempered sister. She and Ellie even laughed together as one of the feathered hair ornaments refused to stay in place.

“I don’t fancy looking quite so much like an ostrich,” Abby said, pushing the offending plume out of the way.

“More reminiscent of a cockatoo, I think,” Ellie said. “Here, let’s try it in this direction.”

In the end, Abby abandoned feathers altogether in favor of white silk flowers that set off her auburn hair beautifully. But there was no time left for Ellie to attend her own preparations before dinner.

As the family ate, she tried not to glance too often at the clock upon the dining room mantel. The minutes ticked away; each lost moment a lead weight dropped upon Ellie’s heart. Sinking. Sinking.

At last Lady Tremont set down her fork, signaling the meal was at an end.

“The carriage will be drawn up at nine,” she said to her daughters. “I expect you to be ready promptly. We don’t want to keep Lord Christopher waiting to claim his dances.”

“But how will we find him in the crowd?” Abby asked. “Surely it will be a dreadful crush.”

“I’ve no doubt he will locate us,” her mother said. “After all, how could he not be drawn to two of the most lovely young ladies in London?”

Abby tittered, and Delia looked smug. Ellie lifted her chin and tried to pretend she hadn’t been slighted once again.

“Oh, Ellie, it’s too bad you aren’t coming with us,” Delia said, her voice sweet but her eyes sharp. “Shall I say farewell to Lord Christopher from you?”

“There’s no need,” Ellie replied calmly. “As it happens, I have a suitable gown.”

Lady Tremont’s expression hardened instantly. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true.” Ellie met her stepmother’s stony gaze. “I am coming to the ball. Now, you must excuse me. There’s not much time left for me to prepare.”

Before her stepmother could reply, Ellie rose and hurried from the room. She ignored Lady Tremont’s call for her to stop and didn’t slow her pace until she’d reached the safety of her bedroom.

There, she closed the door and leaned against it a moment to let her racing pulse slow. Goodness, it had felt good to assert herself. Along with putting aside her mourning clothes, she vowed to continue pushing away the haze of sorrow that had made her so malleable to her stepfamily’s demands.

Sorrow and, if she were honest, despair that Papa had left her nothing. But the fact that she had no dowry didn’t mean she ought to be treated as a servant.

And . . . She drew in a wavering breath, trying to catch hold of the truth.

It also didn’t mean that Papa hadn’t loved her with all his heart.

Tears pricked her eyes as she realized how the notion had shadowed her ever since his death, the insidious thought that if he’d cared for her more, he wouldn’t have left her in such straits.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe past the tightness in her chest. Inhale, then exhale.

Papa had loved her, and wanted everything good for her. The knowledge unfurled in her heart like a flower opening to the light, and she couldn’t believe she’d let herself lose sight of the fact. He had loved her. A tear slipped down one cheek, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Whatever unlucky turn his fortunes had taken, he certainly hadn’t meant it to happen, and had no doubt been distraught at the fact.

But there was no changing the fact that he had left her penniless. Her task now was to go bravely into the future, not spend the rest of her life as a dejected orphan in her own home.

And the first step was to don her costume and attend the Queen’s Ball, showing the world that she was out of mourning and ready to carry on.

She rang for Henderson, who was aware of Ellie’s late nights working on her costume and stood at the ready to help her prepare for the ball. With the maid’s help, Ellie would manage to be ready on time . . . she hoped.

Thank goodness the ball gown was simple, as was her chosen coiffure—a bun over each ear, dressed with leftover pieces of the gold ribbon.

“There you are,” Henderson said, fastening a garnet choker about Ellie’s neck. “You look lovely, I must say. It’s good to see you in colors again.”

“Thank you for all your help.” Ellie turned and pressed the maid’s hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll miss you when I go.”

“Go?” Henderson’s eyes lit up. “Have you heard from Lord Christopher, then?”

“No.” Ellie swallowed, trying to ignore the spike of pain at hearing Kit’s name. “I only meant when I obtain a position as a governess elsewhere.”

The older woman’s expression fell. “As to that, perhaps whatever household you go to would be in need of a chambermaid too. I wouldn’t want to stay here without you, Miss Ellie.”

“We shall see what turns up, then.” Ellie tried to give her a cheery smile. “I’d be glad of a friend, wherever I land.”

It was doubtful, of course, that they could find such a situation—and even if they did, she suspected Lady Tremont would not give a good reference to any servant leaving her household. But there was no use borrowing trouble, at least not tonight. On the morrow, she would face up to the difficulties ahead.

Henderson consulted the pocket watch pinned to her bosom. “You’d best hurry. There are only five minutes to spare.”

Hastily, Ellie jammed her feet into the tight slippers and snatched up her reticule. She paused to give Henderson a quick kiss on the cheek, then, taking her skirts in both hands, hastened down the main staircase to the foyer.

The ball awaited.

Chapter Nine

Ellie’s stepfamily was gathered in the foyer below, opulently dressed and coiffed for the ball. They turned to watch as she descended the stairs. The looks of surprise on Abby’s face and envy on Delia’s were gratifying, but the narrow-eyed stare of Lady Tremont sent a shiver down Ellie’s back.

Still, her stepmother could not keep her from attending.

“What a singular costume,” Delia said. “A pity it doesn’t match our gowns. You’ll look like a raven among peacocks, I’m afraid.”

It was true that Ellie’s somber colors were quite a contrast to Abby and Delia’s pastel garb, but she wasn’t overly concerned. The white silk overskirt she’d added to her gown—the lining taken from a moth-eaten woolen cloak—along with the gold and scarlet touches, transformed her costume from dreary black to an understated elegance.

Abby, as usual, was more effusive. “But how clever! I never would’ve guessed you could do it, Ellie. Look—there’s bits of my scarf.”

“And my ribbon.” Delia gave her a dark look. “I wish I might take it back from you.”

She took a menacing step forward, fingers crooked as though she were planning to rip the ribbon from Ellie’s dress.

“Delia,” Lady Tremont said. “No need to be so undignified. Ah, here comes the blackberry cordial I sent for. We could use a bracing sip before we go out, don’t you think?”

One of the maids hurried up, a decanter of the dark liquid and four small goblets balanced on a tray. Just as she arrived, Delia stepped forward, knocking against the girl.

The maid lurched, the decanter of cordial swaying perilously. Lady Tremont snatched it up and then, looking Ellie right in the face, tipped it over onto her gown.

Ellie yelped and jump back, but it was too late. Sticky purple-black liquid splashed over the white overskirt of her costume, staining it instantly.

“What a clumsy thing you are,” Lady Tremont said, turning to the maid. “Clean this mess up at once.”

“Milady.” The girl bobbed a frightened curtsy and scurried away, the empty goblets rattling on the tray.

“Oh no, Ellie,” Abby said, genuine distress in her voice. “Your dress is ruined.”

Ellie wanted to protest that it wasn’t so, that she could still go to the ball, but the tight knot in her throat prevented her from saying a word. She could not deny that Abby spoke the truth.

“Unfortunate.” Her stepmother’s tone held an undercurrent of triumph. “It seems you won’t be joining us after all. I’m afraid we can’t linger, however. Girls, the carriage awaits.”

Delia gave a satisfied sniff and turned to follow her mother, but Abby lingered a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll give your regards to Lord Christopher, shall I?”

Ellie, lips pressed together to keep from sobbing, managed a nod.

Then they were gone, and she was left standing in a puddle of blackberry cordial, her hopes for the evening as ruined as her permanently stained gown.

***

Kit arrived punctually at the Queen’s Ball. That is, he meant to arrive on time, but he hadn’t realized that the line of carriages would extend so far down The Mall. After a quarter hour where they moved forward perhaps five yards, he knocked on the window of the cab he’d hired and told the driver to let him out. It would be easier simply to walk, despite the impediment of his ornate, full-skirted coat and somewhat ridiculous bloused sleeves.

At least his hose-clad legs were unencumbered. As he strode toward the palace, overtaking several carriages, he wondered how the gentlemen of the Stuart court had kept their shins warm in winter.

It was a temperate enough evening for a stroll, however. The Mall bordered St. James’s Park, which breathed green and silent in the London dusk. Kit savored it. If the carriages were any indication, Buckingham Palace would be packed tighter than the crowds haggling for bargains in the morning marketplace of Sylhet.

“Lord Christopher!” a voice called out as he passed a nondescript black coach.

He glanced at the open window framing Abigail Tremont’s head. Part of him wanted to act as though he hadn’t seen her and hasten his steps, but the rest of him wondered how Ellie fared. She’d been much in his thoughts since their meeting in the park, and he felt guilty at how quickly he’d brushed off her suggestion that they marry.

At the very least, he owed her an apology, even if he had very good reasons why they could never make a match.

“Hello-oo!” Abigail waved frantically at him, and he could no longer pretend he hadn’t seen her.

He slowed his steps and moved closer to the carriage, trying to catch a glimpse of Ellie.

“Good evening, Miss Tremont,” he said to Abigail. “Are you looking forward to the ball?”

“Oh, so much.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “Our dance, most particularly.”

Kit simply nodded, not wanting to encourage her. Someone inside the carriage spoke, and she turned her head a moment, nodded, then looked back out at him.

“Would you like to come up with us?” she asked.

“Is there room?” he asked doubtfully. The only thing worse than going at a snail’s pace would be simultaneously enduring being smothered by four sets of voluminous skirts.

“Sadly, Ellie’s not with us,” Abigail said, then her voice brightened, “which means there’s plenty of space for you!”

“Ellie’s not here? Why didn’t she come?” he asked, a pang going through him. Was she that unhappy with him, that she would forgo the event just to avoid his company?

“There was a . . . mishap with her dress,” Abigail said. “But I know she’s sorry to miss the ball. And seeing you, of course. Shall we stop the carriage?”

It was a moot question, for the vehicle was already at a standstill, but Kit shook his head.

“I’m enjoying my stroll, thank you. But I’ll wait for you at the entrance. I look forward to our dances.”

In truth, he looked forward to discharging his duty and giving Ellie’s stepsisters their requisite turns about the floor. The rest of the night would be spent in trying to muster up a spark of attraction for the handful of young women he’d identified as the best candidates for his suit.

Surely, he reasoned, there must be some warmth between himself and the woman he was to marry—especially if was carting her off to India. But so far, he’d felt nothing but a resigned sense of responsibility as he sought a bride. And time was running out.

“Very well,” Abigail said. “We shall see you anon, Lord Christopher.”

He nodded to her, then lengthened his stride. The remainder of his walk to the palace was spent pondering whether there was any other solution besides marrying a girl with money. Alas, no other possibility presented itself.

With a heavy sigh, Kit glanced up, wishing he could see the stars. Only the faintest spatter of constellations were visible as he passed between the gas lamps, and he missed the diamond-strewn night sky of India with a sudden, fierce yearning.

Perhaps he needn’t marry after all. Perhaps he ought to return to Assam and . . .

And what? Dismiss the workers, watch the tea bushes die, and return to Calcutta to beg a position as a junior officer in the Company?

Which was worse: being trapped in marriage with a wife he had no feelings for or seeing all the family’s hope of a prosperous future wither away?

There was no answer, and dwelling on such grim thoughts was no way to spend the evening at a fancy dress ball. Even if Ellie Tremont wasn’t going to be in attendance, he could enjoy himself—or at least try.

With a last glance up at the distant, nearly invisible stars, Kit stepped onto Buckingham Palace’s porticoed entrance. At least, while he waited, he had an entertaining parade of nobility to watch.

Finally, the carriage bearing the Tremonts pulled up. He went forward to greet them, compliment them on their costumes, and offer his escort up the stairs. He could not help noticing that Lady Tremont looked entirely too self-satisfied as they ascended.

There was another wait at the door while the Lord Steward verified the attendees and announced their arrivals, but at last their turn came.

“Lord Christopher Newland,” the man bellowed. “Viscountess Tremont and the Honorable Misses Delia and Abigail Tremont.”

Abigail giggled at the announcement, then turned to Kit. “Do you think our dance will be soon?”

“I most fervently hope so,” he said, though not for the reasons she thought.

Unfortunately, there were any number of presentations to the Queen and Prince before the orchestra struck up. The first dance was a polka, and he dutifully took Delia out upon the floor. She alternated between flirtatious looks and an artificial-sounding laugh that soon grated against his ears, but Kit did his best to be amenable. For Ellie’s sake.

His waltz with Abigail was a bit easier to bear, despite her moon-eyed gazes and heavy sighs every time he guided her into a turn.

“Will Ellie be at home tomorrow?” he asked. He could not leave London without saying goodbye.

“We all will be.” She gave him a bright look. “Why, are you planning on paying us a call? How delightful.”

So much for his hopes of seeing Ellie alone. Perhaps they could meet in the meadow once more instead. If he gave the butler a note, could the man be trusted to pass it to Ellie without alerting Lady Tremont?

Kit attempted to steer the conversation back toward safer ground, but it seemed Miss Abigail was determined to view everything he said as a particular flirtation toward her. Finally, he gave up and simply danced—no easy feat, considering the crowded condition of the floor.

At the conclusion of the waltz, he returned Abigail to her mother, then fled as quickly as he might. There were other young ladies in attendance he must seek out—no matter that he had little enthusiasm for the task ahead.

Indeed, there was Miss Olivia Thornton, a young heiress whom he’d met at a musicale the week before. Ignoring the heavy sensation in his chest, he went to pay his regards and ask her to dance.

He was determined to make up his mind by the end of the evening. The sooner he chose a bride, the sooner he could return to India. The rains would not hold off just because he was squeamish about doing his duty. His future—indeed, his family’s fortune—depended on it.

Chapter Ten

Ellie huddled beside the fire in her room, a thick shawl over her shoulders, and tried not to let misery engulf her. In the hour since her stepfamily had departed, she’d tried desperately to scrub out her gown, but it was no use.

There will be other balls, she told herself.

But none with Kit in attendance, and that was the bitterest blow of all, that she would not be able to say goodbye.

“Miss Ellie!” Henderson knocked on her door, her voice urgent. “There’s a delivery for you.”

“What is it?” Ellie rose, suddenly feeling the aches of all her labors echo through her bones.

“Just come—quickly.”

When Ellie opened her door, Henderson took her by the elbow and towed her rapidly down the hall.

“A footman is waiting in the foyer,” the maid said. “And if I’m not mistaken, he arrived in Lady Merriweather’s coach. I caught a glimpse of it waiting outside. That color is quite unmistakable.”

“The orange one?” Ellie caught her breath, hardly daring to hope.

“Yes, the one that all the gossips deplore.”

“Is the Baroness here, too?”

Henderson shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps she remained in the coach.”

They reached the stairs, and Ellie hastened down, Henderson at her heels. As the maid had said, an elderly footman stood near the front door. The butler, Mr. Atkins, had taken up his post and was ostensibly reading the newspaper. Between the men sat an upright trunk. Ellie’s heart skipped a beat.

“Miss Eleanor Tremont?” the white-haired man asked. At Ellie’s nod, he gestured to the trunk. “Your ball gown has arrived, compliments of your godmother, Lady Merriweather.”

“A bit late, isn’t it?” Henderson said under her breath.

Ellie sent her a quelling look, then turned back to the footman. “Did she accompany you, by any chance?”

“She did not,” the man said. “But she gave strict instructions to convey you to the Queen’s Ball with all haste.”

“You must give her time to dress,” Henderson said, giving the man a cold look.

“I won’t be long,” Ellie promised. After all, her hair was already coiffed, and she still wore her jewelry.

“We will take as long as is necessary,” Henderson said. “Bring the trunk up to my lady’s dressing room now, if you please. Follow us.”

The footman nodded and heaved the trunk onto one shoulder. Little caring about the etiquette, Ellie led him directly up the main staircase. When they reached her room, he set his burden down with care, then made her a half bow.

“We await you downstairs,” he said. “At your convenience.”

As soon as he left, Ellie unfastened the latches, her fingers clumsy with anticipation. Henderson moved to brace the upright trunk, and Ellie slowly pulled it open.

“Oh,” she said softly as the ball gown inside was revealed.

The dress was stunning. The pale blue silk of the bodice and overskirt shimmered, as though interwoven with silver threads. Rosettes of darker blue velvet lined the edges of the skirt, setting off the embroidered gold underskirt beneath. Another rosette decorated the front of the bodice, with touches of gold at the sleeves and neckline.

“My stars,” Henderson said. “In that gown, you’re fair to outshine the queen.”

“No one can compare to Her Majesty,” Ellie replied. “But it is a beautiful gown.”

“Then let’s get you into it, posthaste.” Henderson lifted the dress out and laid it across the bed. “Fortunate that your hair ribbons match the gold. Oh, and look—a lace cap to go with it. That will suit perfectly.”

A blue velvet bag remained, tied to a hook inside the trunk. Ellie retrieved it and found a jewelry box tucked within. Inside the box was a set of sapphires—necklace, earbobs, and brooch—and her breath caught in a sob at the generosity of her godmother.

“Heavens.” Henderson laid a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “The Baroness has outdone herself on your behalf.”

There was a note tucked under the necklace. Ellie’s eyes were too blurred with gratitude to read it, so she handed it to Henderson.

“The jewels are a loan,” the maid read. “You may return them within the week. But keep the dress—I hope it fits. Your affectionate godmother, Constance Merriweather.”

Ellie pulled in a deep breath, mastering herself with effort. There were times to dissolve into tears—but this was not one of them.

Fortunately, the dress did fit. A few small adjustments in the shoulders and waist, a quick pinning of the lace over her hair, the sapphires fastened on, her gloves donned, and she was ready.

“I’ll accompany you in the coach,” Henderson said. “We must be mindful of the proprieties, and I want to see you safely delivered to Buckingham Palace.”

“Thank you.” In truth, Ellie was glad of the company.

She feared her nerve would fail her, arriving so late to the Queen’s Ball. But with Henderson there, she would not turn back from the intimidating thought of entering the palace alone.

True to his word, the footman waited below, with Mr. Atkins keeping a watchful eye.

“Best of luck, Miss Eleanor,” the butler said. “I’m pleased you’ll be able to attend the ball after all. Most unfortunate, that mishap earlier.” He frowned and shook his head.

“Thank you, Mr. Atkins,” she said, warmed once again by the support and kindness of the servants.

“Look after her,” he said gruffly to Henderson, then opened the front door.

The footman bowed and ushered them out to where the singularly orange coach waited. Inside, it was upholstered in pumpkin-colored velvet, with candles behind glass shedding a warm illumination. Ellie climbed inside, assisted by the footman, and settled her voluminous skirts. Henderson followed, taking the seat across from her.

They did not say much during the ride. Ellie’s heart hammered with fear and excitement. What would her stepmother say, to see Ellie gowned like a princess and arriving so remarkably late? Would Kit still be there? Oh, she desperately hoped so, and that she might claim one last dance with him.

Almost before she was ready, the walls of Buckingham Palace were in sight. The guards at the gate waved them through, and the coach pulled up to the Grand Entrance.

“At least there’s not a crush to get in,” Henderson remarked. “There’s one advantage of arriving so late.”

Ellie simply nodded, her throat tight with anticipation.

The footman opened the door and handed her down from the coach.

“If you find it agreeable, I shall escort you in,” he said to Ellie.

“Yes. Thank you.” Even an elderly footman was better than approaching that intimidating facade by herself.

“And I will find the ladies’ maids and wait until the ball ends,” Henderson said. “Dance well.”

“I’ll do my best.” Ellie managed a smile.

She would not mention that her embroidered slippers still pinched her feet quite uncomfortably. A pity the baroness had not sent footwear, but, she chided herself, her godmother had been more than generous.

Luckily, the gown was a trifle long, the skirts sweeping down to trail on the ground. If Ellie removed her slippers to dance, well, no one would be the wiser.

Setting her gloved hand on the footman’s arm, she entered Buckingham Palace. The red-coated guards on duty at the front door did not even glance at her as she and the footman walked between them. She supposed that was better than reproving glances on the tardiness of her arrival, though it rather did make her feel invisible.

At the long, red-carpeted sweep of the Grand Staircase, she nearly lost her nerve—but truly, she could not turn back now. Instead of focusing on her racing heartbeat, she tried to concentrate on the ornate gilded balustrade, the huge portraits of former monarchs lining the high walls.

They reached the top of the stairs, and now she could hear the crowd—a murmur like the sea, punctuated by occasional strains of music. The doors of the Green Drawing Room were open, though she could not see much of the room beyond except a few bright dresses and plumed hats. An official-looking fellow—perhaps an under steward—presided over the threshold.

“My lady,” he said, stepping forward. “Have you an official invitation?”

“I was invited, yes.” Ellie met his gaze. “I am Miss Eleanor Tremont, joining Lady Tremont and her daughters, who arrived earlier.”

Much, much earlier. But there was nothing to do but brazen it out.

“Miss Tremont, is it?” The steward gave her a penetrating look. “I was not notified you would be coming so late. The ball is well underway.”

“With all due apologies,” the footman said, “she was unavoidably delayed by my mistress, the Lady Merriweather. But Miss Tremont is here now, and, as you can see, quite ready to make her entrance.”

The steward raised one bushy brow. “Lady Merriweather, you say?”

“Yes,” Ellie said. “She is my godmother.”

The man let out a harrumph, but it seemed the baroness’s reputation as an eccentric stood Ellie in good stead.

“Very well,” he said. “I will announce you. Most everyone is gathered in the Throne Room, however, and will not hear you come in.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“Best of luck, milady.” The footman bowed over her hand.

She smiled her thanks at him, and then he was gone and the steward was announcing her name in a deep voice. It was time to step forward—in every sense of the word. Shoulders back and chin high, Ellie made her entrance to the Queen’s Ball.

Chapter Eleven

It was, admittedly, rather anticlimactic. As the steward had said, most of the attendees were packed into the Throne Room, just visible through the double doors at the end of the Green Drawing Room.

Ellie walked through the high-ceilinged room, trying not to wince as her slippers pinched her toes. The chandeliers shed brightness over the figured green carpet and olive-hued walls. A half-dozing elderly gentleman in one of the scattered chairs marked her passage, as did a wilted-looking young lady and her companion, but with those two exceptions, the room was strangely empty.

Noise poured from the scarlet-draped Throne Room ahead, however—a blast of music followed by the sound of applause. She edged into the room in time to see a line of costumed dancers make their bow to the queen and prince, who stood on a raised dais to one side of the crowded space.

Ellie noted with relief that Queen Victoria wore a magnificent ball gown. Intricate lace framed the neckline, and gold trimmings accented the white silk bodice and overskirts, while the underskirt was a rich, rose-colored brocade. The queen made an altogether splendid picture, especially with her equally well-garbed consort at her side.

Pride filled Ellie, that she was a subject of such a regal couple. And thank heavens she would not have to worry about outshining the monarch at her own ball.

While the dancers filed off the floor, Ellie glanced about the room, hoping to catch sight of Kit. And her stepfamily, so that she might avoid them.

She thought she glimpsed Abby’s red hair in the far corner, but she couldn’t be sure. Then her heart lurched as she spotted Kit making his way toward the door. He looked rather unhappy for a fellow who was attending the most celebrated ball of the Season.

“Excuse me,” Ellie said, wedging herself between a woman wearing bright green skirts and a courtier in a coat that stuck out so far from his body she wondered if he’d put part of a hoop crinoline beneath.

After a brief struggle, she emerged, just in time to catch Kit’s arm as he went past. He turned, and the look on his face transformed in an instant, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The light in his eyes made her catch her breath, and she berated herself for a fool.

Even if Kit had feelings for her, he’d made it all too clear that he would never ask for her hand.

But in that moment, with the musicians striking up a waltz and the crystal chandeliers overhead sparkling with a thousand tiny fires, she didn’t care.

“Ellie,” he said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I was delayed,” she said. “Luckily, my godmother managed to procure me a gown at the last instant.”

“And a lovely one it is too. You look particularly beautiful in it.”

She blushed. “You weren’t leaving, were you?”

“Not any longer.” He lifted his head and scanned the floor. “I know it’s cramped quarters, but might I have the pleasure of this dance?”

“I’d be delighted,” she said, then frowned at the thought of trying to waltz in her too-tight slippers.

“What is it? I promise not to step on your toes.”

“I am worried about my toes,” she confessed. “My dancing slippers are intolerably small.”

He leaned forward. “Slip them off, then,” he said in a confiding tone. “I won’t tell.”

“I’m scandalized,” she teased. “What an improper thing to suggest.”

However, she had already stepped out of the offending footwear, pushing them off each foot with her toes. The bare floor felt blessedly comfortable.

“They’re already off, aren’t they?” His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Yes—except I can’t bend over to pick them up.” Not only was the space too crowded, she feared her skirts would fly up. She wasn’t used to wearing such voluminous lengths.

“Push them to the edge of your gown, then drop your fan,” he said. “I’ll pick it up and collect your shoes into the bargain.”

“But where can I put them? My reticule is too small.”

“Leave that to me.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile.

Trying not to grin too broadly in return, she let her fan fall, then scooted the slippers out from under her hem.

Kit swooped them up. Bowing, he presented her with her fan. His other hand was tucked awkwardly beneath the skirts of his coat.

“You can’t simply hold them there,” Ellie said. “It looks very odd.”

“Take my arm, then. Your sleeves will cover them. Yes, like that.”

It was ridiculous, smuggling her slippers through the crowded room, and she was on the verge of laughter as Kit maneuvered them close to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. With one swift motion, he thrust the footwear behind the red velvet draperies, then turned to her with a triumphant look.

“Now we are free to dance.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, laughing.

It felt like old times—like she had a family and friends and no worries for the future.

“And yet eminently practical.” He gazed down at her with a warm smile. “You can retrieve them when you go. It’s the last curtain.”

“Yes, I’ve marked it.”

“Then come—this dance won’t last forever.”

He deftly swung her out onto the floor, and suddenly Ellie wished it would last forever. She could happily spend an eternity with her hand clasped in his, his arm about her waist as they whirled in a scarlet sea beneath a thousand diamond suns.

Her pale blue skirts swung out, and anyone watching could have seen her stockinged feet—but she did not care. Nothing else mattered except this moment, waltzing with Kit—the way they used to practice in the daisy-starred meadow, when she had no cares, no sorrow chaining her to the ground.

But, as it must, the music ended, and her heart regretfully returned to earth. Kit released her, and she was conscious that her pulse was racing—partly from dancing, but mostly from being near him. The heat and jostle of the throng pressed in upon her.

“Might we step out a moment?” she asked. “I could use a bit of air.”

“The Picture Gallery should be less crowded,” Kit said.

“You know your way about the palace.” She lifted one brow. “One might almost think you’re a frequent visitor here.”

He gave her an amused look. “I’m not, I assure you. I discovered the gallery as a useful retreat earlier this evening when your stepsisters were trying to cajole me into multiple dances.”

“Completely understandable,” she said, tucking her arm through his. “Lead on, good sir.”

He wove them through the mob to the wide opening leading to the gallery. Several other guests had the same notion and were perambulating about the wide hall, but on the whole it was much less crowded.

They paused before a large painting of Queen Charlotte, and Ellie pulled in a breath. “This is much better.”

“I agree—though I did enjoy our waltz very much.”

“As did I.” Bittersweet melancholy tugged at her heart.

She was nerving herself up to ask him when he was departing England, when an older gentleman viewing the next painting glanced over at her.

“Why, is that Miss Eleanor Tremont?” he asked, a note of pleased surprise in his voice.

“Hello, Lord Brumley.” She made the earl a curtsy, recognizing him as one of Papa’s old friends. “Yes, it’s Eleanor.”

“How good to see you, my dear—and looking well. I must say, I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”

“Thank you.” And for the first time in eight months, she was able to respond without fighting back tears. “Allow me to introduce my escort, Lord Christopher Newland.”

“A pleasure.” Lord Brumley extended his hand. “Newland, is it? Any relation to the new marquess?”

“Yes, he’s my father,” Kit said.

“Will he be taking his seat in the House of Lords this fall? I understand he has connections in India. I’m rather interested in the spice trade myself.”

“My father certainly intends to take up the duties of his new title,” Kit said. “He plans to arrive in England within the next two months.”

“Excellent. Tell him to call upon me when he reaches London. We can trade tales of our travels abroad, compare India to Indonesia and whatnot.” Lord Brumley gave him a jovial smile. “In fact, why don’t you pay a visit yourself, young man? Find me at Brumley House on Grosvenor Square.”

“I shall, thank you.”

“Now, off with you both,” the earl said, waving them away with a shooing motion. “You young folk should be dancing and enjoying yourselves.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ellie said. “It was nice to see you again.”

With a lighter heart, she and Kit continued their stroll. His company, plus her newfound ability to bear hearing condolences on Papa’s death, made her feel as though she were returning to herself. No longer the grief-stricken shadow of a girl or the pliant servant of her stepfamily, but Ellie Tremont, who would face the world on her own terms.

They reached the end of the gallery, where columns flanked a small, nearly hidden anteroom. Ellie glanced at Kit.

“Is this the last time I’ll see you before you return to India?”

“I expect so.” His gaze met hers, green eyes the color of shadowed oak leaves, no trace of a smile on his firm lips.

As she had feared—and expected. “Will you give me something to remember you by?”

“Of course.” He pressed her hand. “Anything you ask.”

Her heart thumped wildly. Oh, it was daring of her, but this was her last chance . . .

“A kiss,” she said softly. “Just one.”

If she were fated to life as a spinster governess, she wanted a glimpse of what it would be like to share a kiss with the man she loved. A single, perfect moment to hold next to her heart and carry with her always.

His eyes widened a fraction, but he nodded. Without a word, he pulled her into the shadows behind the columns. His head dipped to hers, and between one heartbeat and the next, their lips met.

Sensation glittered through her, as though starlight were pouring atop her head and sifting down through her body in silver waves. The place where their mouths touched tingled, and she swayed forward. He caught her against his chest, and tears pricked her closed eyes at the feeling of being pressed so close to him.

It was anchor and storm all at once, safety and tempest whirling in a delicious mix through her very being.

And then it was over.

Blinking, she stepped back. His gaze fixed on hers, Kit gave her a crooked smile that seemed equal parts tenderness and regret.

“Will that do?” he asked.

No, she wanted to say. Never. Stay with me.

Instead, she gave him a somewhat stiff nod and stepped back into the main gallery. None of the others in the room had seemed to notice their brief absence, although she thought she saw a flutter of pastel skirts at the entrance to the Throne Room.

After a moment, Kit joined her.

“My ship sails next week,” he said, a hint of bleakness in his voice.

“And what of your quest to find a bride?” The words felt like shards of glass in her throat, but she must ask.

“I believe Miss Olivia Thornton is amenable to my suit,” he said, not sounding any happier than she.

Ellie swallowed. She did not know Miss Thornton other than as a very distant acquaintance. “She seems a pleasant young lady. And well dowried, I suppose.”

“Yes, that.” Kit shook his head, his expression strained. “Please, can we talk of something else?”

“There she is!” Delia’s shrill voice cut through the air.

Ellie glanced at the doorway to the Throne Room to see her stepfamily approaching. A sneer of triumph on her face, Delia marched in the lead, followed by Abigail and Lady Tremont. Ellie curled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to turn and flee. Cold apprehension washed through her, erasing the last echoes of Kit’s kiss.

“Eleanor.” Lady Tremont’s voice was hard. “How very irregular. You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

Ellie’s throat went dry as she confronted Lady Tremont’s baleful stare.

“My godmother sent me a ball gown,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And Henderson accompanied me.”

“You should have joined us directly,” Lady Tremont said. “Instead, I discover you sneaking off with Lord Christopher—”

“I asked Ellie to dance,” Kit said, stepping forward to shield her. “She’d only just arrived. And then the crush on the dance floor demanded we take a moment to catch our breaths. If you must find fault, Lady Tremont, then I ask you lay it at my feet, not hers.”

Delia sniffed and gave him a pointed look. “You are not the gentleman you’ve led us to believe, Lord Christopher.”

“I never pretended to be anything other than who I am,” he replied.

“Be that as it may,” the viscountess said, “you are henceforth forbidden to visit our home, sir. And speaking of which, we are headed there directly. Girls, collect your things.”

Ellie wanted to protest that she’d only just arrived, but the evening was well and truly ruined in any case. She moved toward the ballroom to retrieve her slippers, but Lady Tremont took her arm in a tight grasp.

“No more sneaking away into corners,” her stepmother said. “You’ll wait outside with me while they bring the carriage around.”

Pointedly turning her back on Kit, the viscountess stalked to the doorway leading into the Green Drawing Room, pulling Ellie along with her.

Ellie glanced over her shoulder, hoping Kit could read the apology in her eyes. It was a mortifying end to a night that had careened from bliss to humiliation, and it was certainly not the way she’d wanted to bid him farewell.

“Goodbye, Kit,” she called.

His expression set, Kit made her a low bow, as if she were truly a princess. He straightened and their gazes met one last time.

Then Lady Tremont hustled her out of the room, and everything was gone. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her childhood friend.

Everything, except herself.

Ellie pulled her arm out of her stepmother’s grip.

“I can navigate the stairs on my own,” she said coolly.

Not to mention the rest of her life. On the morrow, she would pay a call on Lady Merriweather to return the sapphires—and secure her help in finding a governess position as quickly as possible.

***

Kit watched Ellie go, a hot, uncomfortable knot in his chest.

He shouldn’t have kissed her—he knew better—but he’d wanted to for weeks, if not years. And she had asked.

Unfortunately, all he wanted to do was keep kissing her. That, and sweep her off to India with him. She would thrive there, he suspected, once she grew accustomed to the climate and culture.

Tonight, he’d seen the old Ellie—the girl who’d challenged him to a tree-climbing contest and, when he’d lost, forced him to read books of poetry that he’d found surprisingly enjoyable. The girl who’d teased him into being a better person and awakened his sense of adventure. The girl he’d once known he’d marry—known fiercely, with the entire burning surety of his fifteen-year-old heart.

As Kit stood in the opulent gallery, the sounds of gaiety drifting from the Throne Room, the realization slowly crystallized within him. His younger self had been right.

He could not marry anyone except Eleanor Tremont.

If he did, he knew that, despite his best efforts, he would constantly compare whomever he wed with Ellie, and find her lacking. That was a sure recipe for a miserable marriage.

Ellie might have no dowry, but life with her was the only path to happiness he could see. For both of them, if he read her emotions aright.

He must find a way to save the tea plantation without marrying for money. True, he and his father had spent long nights turning the problem over and they had not seen a better way.

But he could not save the plantation at the expense of his own heart.

There had to be a solution—and he vowed he would find it.

Chapter Twelve

––––––––

Ellie regarded her bare wardrobe, then glanced at the partially empty trunk on her bedroom floor. Perhaps she would fill the rest of it with her favorite books. There was no guarantee her new employer would let her make free with their library, after all.

“Must you really leave?” Abby asked from her perch on Ellie’s bed. “And to take a job as a governess, of all things? I’m going to miss you.”

“I know.” Ellie sent her a fond glance. “But I must take this position with the Granvilles, especially as Lady Merriweather arranged it on such short notice. Please, try to understand.”

“Oh, I do.” Abby grimaced. “As soon as I can, I’m going to find an agreeable husband and leave the house, myself.”

“Don’t settle for just anyone.” Ellie tucked her small pouch of jewelry into one of the trunk’s pockets. “You deserve someone who will treat you with consideration.”

Abby heaved a sigh. “I would much prefer love—but as Lord Christopher has been banned from the house, there’s no hope of that.”

Not that Kit had ever intended to offer for Abby, but Ellie kept that thought to herself. There was no need for unkindness, especially during this last hour before her employer’s coach came to collect her.

“Kit has left for India, in any case,” Ellie said, the knowledge weighing heavily upon her heart.

She’d hoped for a note of farewell, at least, and kept a careful eye on the mail to make sure Lady Tremont didn’t get her clutches on any envelopes meant for Ellie. But the days had passed, and there was nothing from Kit.

And now he was gone.

“Miss Eleanor.” Mr. Atkins rapped upon her half-open door. “You have a caller.”

Sir Granville must have sent his carriage early.

“I’ll be down in a moment,” she said.

With a sigh, she shut the lid of her trunk. As she straightened from doing up the latches, Abby flung herself off the bed to give her a tearful embrace.

“Don’t go,” her stepsister said with a choked sob.

“There, there.” Ellie patted her back. “I’ll have one day off a week, and I’ll come visit. The Granvilles don’t live so far away as all that.”

When they were in town, that was. She didn’t mention that the family was planning to repair to their country estate for the rest of the summer. Why add to Abby’s unhappiness? With her mercurial nature, she’d recover as soon as Ellie stepped out the door.

Well, perhaps not that quickly, but still.

Leaving her stepsister blotting her eyes, Ellie went downstairs. She paused before the parlor door to pat her hair into place, wondering who Sir Granville had sent to escort her.

A man stood in the center of the room. Ellie froze, heart clenching as she saw it was not some unknown stranger, but Kit Newland, grinning unrepentantly at her.

“Hello, Ellie,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if the butler would let me in.”

With a tremendous thud, her heart resumed beating.

“It’s really you?” she asked, trying to balance her careening emotions. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—or quite how to interpret his unexpected visit. “I thought you’d taken ship already.”

“Not yet,” he said. “I brought you something.”

He stepped forward and handed her the slippers they’d hidden behind the curtains at the Queen’s Ball.

“You fetched them out?” she asked, a catch in her throat.

He certainly had no obligation to do so, and his thoughtfulness nearly undid her altogether—no matter that she despised the too-small slippers.

“Of course.” He raised his brows. “It wouldn’t do to leave evidence of the crime behind. This way, you can dispose of them properly.”

“Please don’t tell me you delayed your journey simply to bring back my slippers,” she said, setting them aside.

“Not entirely.” His expression turned serious. “The truth is, there’s something I couldn’t bear to leave behind.”

Her hands trembled, and she squeezed them tightly together.

“What might that be?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Can’t you guess?” He took another step and gently set his hands on her shoulders. “My heart, Ellie. Don’t you know it’s in your keeping?”

She shook her head. “But . . . what of Miss Thornton and her dowry?”

“After the ball, I realized you were the only one for me. Drat it, I’m not doing this properly.” He released her shoulders and went down on one knee. “Miss Eleanor Tremont, would you do me the very great favor of becoming my wife?”

She wanted to say yes—oh, how she wanted to—and yet . . .

“What about your tea plantation?” She knew she must turn him down, despite the anguish burning in her chest. “I can’t let you ruin your future for me, Kit.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he said solemnly. “Lord Brumley has agreed to become an investor.”

Ellie drew in a disbelieving breath. “He has?”

Kit reached and took her hands, smoothing her fingers and clasping them in his. “It took some convincing—and even more time to settle the paperwork, or I would have been here days ago—but yes, the plantation is saved, whether I marry for money or not.”

“And would we live in India?”

“Is that agreeable to you?” Concern shaded his eyes.

“Yes,” she said fervently. “I would very much like that. And more to the point, I would very much like to marry you, Lord Christopher Newland. Someone has to keep that title from going to your head, after all.”

He gave a shout of laughter and stood. Then they were in one another’s arms, and Ellie’s despair turned to a brilliant, shining joy.

“What’s this?” Lady Tremont’s voice snapped through the room. “Lord Christopher, you are not welcome beneath this roof. I require you to leave, immediately.”

“He can’t.” Ellie faced her stepmother defiantly. “He’s my betrothed.”

Lady Tremont blanched, her eyes wide with shock.

“You can’t marry,” she said in a voice shrill with anger. “I forbid it. Forbid it! Do you understand?”

Kit stepped between them. “Too late. And now I require you to cease threatening my fiancée.”

“Out!” Lady Tremont shrieked, pointing toward the door. “Out, the both of you.”

“Gladly,” Ellie said, feeling a sure calm descend over her. “My trunk is already packed. See it delivered to Lady Merriweather’s. Come, Kit.”

Ignoring her stepmother’s poisonous glare, she brushed past and headed for the front door, Kit at her shoulder.

Mr. Atkins held the door open, an apologetic look on his face.

“So sorry, miss,” he said. “I’ll send Henderson to you.”

“Please do.” She paused. “When we depart for India, I’ll offer you a place. If that’s all right, Kit?”

“Of course,” her fiancé said, his hand warm at her back. “And your maid too, it goes without saying.”

A loud crash from the parlor made them turn, and Mr. Atkins winced. “I’m afraid that was the Chinese urn. You’d best be going.”

Ellie nodded. “Please tell whomever Sir Granville sends that I’ve had a change in plans.”

She would have to make her apologies to that family, and to her godmother, but under the circumstances, she wagered they’d understand.

As she and Kit climbed into the cab he’d hired, another shriek of rage drifted from the house. She’d no idea why her betrothal had sent her stepmother into such a fierce tantrum, and she had no intention of returning to find out.

“Lady Merriweather’s,” Kit told the driver, and the man nodded.

The coach jolted into motion, and Kit took her hands once more.

“I even brought a ring,” he said, a bit forlornly, “but that didn’t go at all as planned.”

“It was a memorable proposal, at any rate.” She smiled at him, her spirits rising with every moment they traveled away from Tremont House. “May I see it?”

He drew a small velvet bag from his pocket and shook out the ring. “I had to guess on the fit.”

She held her left hand out, and he slipped the ring onto her finger.

“It’s perfect,” she said, looking down at the yellow tourmaline surrounded by diamonds.

“The closest thing I could find to a daisy,” he said with a smile.

“Absent that flower, it will have to do.” Then she laughed and leaned forward to kiss him, and everything was right with the world.

***

It was not, of course, quite as simple as that.

Lady Merriweather required several explanations, but at last she was satisfied and agreed that Ellie might remain with her until their departure for India.

Henderson appeared in due time, along with Ellie’s trunk, which proved to contain some books and Abby’s second-best pelisse. The additions made Ellie’s heart warm even further toward her stepsister, and she vowed to ask Kit’s parents to look in upon Abby when they arrived in England.

The most surprising development, however, came three days later, when Papa’s solicitor paid Ellie a call.

Her godmother gave a nod, as though she’d been expecting such a visit, and accompanied Ellie down to the yellow parlor to meet with the man—a brown-haired fellow named Mr. Tippet.

After the pleasantries had been concluded, the solicitor set his folder of papers on the table before them.

“Now that you’re to be married,” he said, “we have the details of your inheritance to be worked out.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ellie regarded him with some confusion from her place on the sofa. “I was given to understand that Papa left me no money.”

Mr. Tippet gave her a precise nod. “True, but only until your marriage. Then you are to come into the thirty thousand pounds he left you.”

The breath left her in a whoosh, and she sagged back. It was a substantial sum, and suddenly Lady Tremont’s rage at hearing of her betrothal made sense.

“Excellent,” Lady Merriweather said, lifting her quizzing glass. “If I might take a look at those papers?”

The solicitor pushed the neat stack her way, and she made a few hms and tsks as she paged through.

“I take it my stepmother knew of this provision,” Ellie asked, the first surge of anger overcoming her shock.

“Of course she did.” The solicitor blinked at her in dismay. “Do you mean to say she did not inform you? She said the news would come better from her and bade me not to speak of it.”

“No.” Ellie’s voice was hard. “She said nothing.”

So much of Lady Tremont’s behavior made sense now—keeping her in mourning, treating her as a servant so that she would remain downtrodden in her own home. Telling her she had no dowry! It was the outside of enough. Bitterly, Ellie wondered how many callers her stepmother had turned away for fear of Ellie catching some suitor’s eye.

“I am so sorry.” Mr. Tibbs sounded flustered. “I had thought . . . that is, I assumed . . .”

“Not everyone is as honorable as you are, sir,” the Baroness said dryly. “However, all the paperwork appears to be in good order. Congratulations, my dear. You are an heiress.”

Ellie still could not grasp it. If only she’d known! She and Kit might have married right away.

And then she would have spent the rest of their marriage wondering if he loved her more for herself, or for her money.

No. Despite the terrible enormity of Lady Tremont’s lie, it had allowed Ellie and Kit to find their true way to one another, to follow the compass of their hearts without going astray.

“I imagine your young man will be glad of the news,” the solicitor said. “He must think quite highly of you, if he believed, er . . .”

“That he was marrying a penniless orphan?” Ellie said tartly. “As a matter of fact, he does love me, very much. And while this is a very welcome circumstance, it will not matter to our happiness.”

Lady Merriweather cleared her throat. “I assure you, it will make a difference—though I’ve no doubt you would have been happy either way. But it is far easier to be content in life when one has a small fortune at one’s disposal. Speaking of which, I rather fancy the thought of coming to India for your wedding. Perhaps I’ll be your chaperone until you’re wed. What do you say to that?”

Ellie smiled at her. “I think it would suit very well.”

She and Kit had decided to have the ceremony abroad so that his parents might attend—and so that her stepmother might not. After the revelations of the afternoon, Ellie preferred never to set eyes on that dreadful woman again.

“Then it’s settled,” the baroness said. “We set sail next Wednesday. In the meantime, I’ll help you with opening bank accounts and the like. One doesn’t want a sum that size sitting about in bills, after all.”

“Very wise,” the solicitor said. “We can meet tomorrow at the Royal Bank. Two o’clock?”

While her godmother settled the particulars, Ellie contented herself with imagining telling Kit the good news. With the investment from Lord Brumley, she had no doubt the tea plantation would thrive.

And with her inheritance, she had no doubt their family would, too. She closed her eyes a moment, conjuring up a vision—a house with a wide veranda tucked beside a prosperous tea plantation, she and Kit sitting outside, watching their children play. Two—no, three of them—a girl and two boys.

Henderson was there, and Mr. Atkins, who found the heat a blessing to his old bones. The Baroness visited every few years, bringing the children strange, exotic items from England. And surprisingly, Abby would visit as well, along with her ambassador husband, who altogether doted upon her.

Through it all—the year of drought, the monsoons that washed away a third of their crop, the blight five years after that—she and Kit persevered. And, at last, found financial prosperity.

But it was nothing compared to the wealth of love and companionship they would share together till the end of their days.

~*~

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