Chapter Two

The potted fern whapped me in the arm, leaving a pink mark as I snaked between two wide, red pots. The fronds reached to my shoulder, offering some measure of privacy in this corner of the repurposed sitting room. Lady Dunlop had opened doors between three parlors in a long row to form a makeshift dance floor. My sister warbled in the first room, the one I had just fled, as she pounded on the keys of the pianoforte. Her performance was better tonight than it ever was at home.

Hunching my back to remain hidden behind the plants, I peeked over my shoulder. The Baron of Lestor’s heir squeezed past the dancing couple in the doorway. He matched me in height, and had a thin, lanky build and a rather long nose. His cravat drooped from his neck, where he’d tugged at it. Despite the hawkish way he scanned the interior of the room—from the heavily-laden buffet table, to the dancing couples, to the potted plants behind which I hid—he boasted a sweet demeanor. The kind of man who would make some woman very happy with his incessant attentions. Unfortunately, a few stolen kisses over the last month had proven that he wasn’t the man for me. I wanted love; he wasn’t it.

Perhaps because he didn’t seem to know when a woman’s interest had waned. Blast! Had he accepted Lady Dunlop’s invitation solely because he’d learned I’d also received one?

Crouching, I waddled from pot to pot. When I reached the end of the line, I raised my head over one of the fronds. Lestor’s heir, Pachycaul as my botany-mad friend had dubbed him, turned his back to peer into the first room again. I took the chance and dashed between a man and woman just as they crossed the floor in the next step of the cotillion.

In the third drawing room, I immediately stepped to the left to avoid standing in the doorway. My height and blond hair stood out among the forty-odd people at this intimate affair like a beacon. That number included the local gentry Lady Dunlop had invited to the dance. The walls of this salon, like the last, seemed to glow a cool blue in the lamplight. Potted plants lined the right hand side, a few unoccupied chairs on the left.

I caught my breath as I searched for one particular, short figure. I found Francine as she snuck close to the open terrace doors leading into the garden.

“No, you don’t,” I muttered under my breath.

One advantage to having long legs was the ability to cross a room in a heartbeat. I snagged Francine by the arm just as she stepped foot onto the threshold and hauled her back inside. I retreated with her into the corner.

“You can’t escape. You must hide me.” I pressed my back to the wall, using Francine’s plump form to shield myself.

She batted my hands away from her freckled arms. At some point, she’d misplaced her gloves and her detachable sleeves.

Her mouth twisted in a pucker of amusement. Her brown eyes glittered. “How, pray tell, am I supposed to hide you?”

I craned my neck, searching for Pachycaul. Safe, for the moment. Daisy’s caterwauling penetrated to the far end of the makeshift ballroom. As long as I heard her, my services as chaperone weren’t needed.

I answered absently. “I don’t care how.”

“Very well.” Francine spoke with an edge of annoyance to her voice. “Then perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re hiding?”

“I’m in love.”

Francine smirked. The dimple in her right cheek was almost swallowed by her swamp of freckles. “That’s hardly a reason to hide.”

“Of course not. But Pachycaul is here.”

“I take it he isn’t the object of your affections this time?”

“No. You know I’ve already ruled him out.” Reminded of the danger, I scanned the room again for the man I wished to avoid. Daisy pounded out a flourish, ending the song, and the frothing sea of colorful dancers jolted to a halt. They parted like wildflowers bent in the wind.

Instead of the traditional two-dance set, Lady Dunlop had implemented a one-dance-per-partner rule, so her guests would “become acquainted with one another.” Including the country squires, the daughters of a local factory owner, and even the town vicar.

There was one hidden gem in the rabble invited to plump out the visiting party. If Lady Dunlop hadn’t invited anybody and everybody local to this gathering, I might never have crossed paths with him.

Francine didn’t even have the good grace to ask who had caught my eye. Instead, she cast less-than-surreptitious glances at the open door to the garden. Cool air wafted in, smelling just a bit damp.

I coughed into my fist. “I am in love, you know.”

My friend took the bait. She heaved a sigh, an unspoken plea. With heavy reluctance, she asked, “Who is it this time?”

“Frederick.”

She speared me with a look of bald unrecognition. “Frederick…” She let the last syllable hang in the air, in question.

I nibbled on my thumbnail. “I don’t remember his surname. Last we met, I was twelve. He’s in the next room talking to a group of men including the Becklands or some other such rabble living hereabouts.”

“The Beckwiths? Did you speak with them?” She craned her neck, trying to see above the crowd towering around her. He wasn’t in here, anyway. I’d left him in the first parlor when I’d made my escape.

“Does it matter?” I brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Was that a leaf in my curls? I yanked the deep green sprig out and tossed it to the floor.

“I know them.”

My breath caught. I clutched her hand. “You do? You can introduce me.”

A small furrow formed between her eyebrows. “To the Beckwiths?”

“No. To Frederick.”

“I thought you said you knew him.”

I sighed. Would I have to spell everything out? “I met him almost ten years ago, before Papa gave up our country house and moved us to Town. Back then I was wild. Better we start anew.”

She shook her head. “How can you be in love with a man you haven’t seen in ten years?”

“Our eyes met.” In an instant, I’d been transported to the past. To the drizzly afternoon in the village when my two older sisters had tripped me into a patch of mud to escape my company. Lo and behold, Frederick had arrived armed with a ready smile and a handkerchief that couldn’t hope to clean my arms. He looked harder now, more reserved, but I’d recognized him instantly.

Francine met my gaze with a droll expression.

“We had a moment,” I insisted. “Like the poets say.”

She covered a chortle with her hand. “Which poets would these be, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Shakespeare.”

She laughed in earnest. A flush crept up her neck in splotches. I feared she might turn purple. “Shakespeare’s plays never end well for the courting couple.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Maybe not the tragedies, but the comedies, surely.”

“Name them.” She crossed her arms and lifted her eyebrows in the challenging stance she seemed to reserve for me. When gentlemen were present, she remained as quiet as a mouse.

I opened my mouth, grasping for a reply. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. I hadn’t read all the plays in question. Francine, with her inordinate love of books, no doubt had read every play and memorized the sonnets.

I scowled. “You know what I mean.”

“I do not.” She swept her arm toward the crowd, now grouped in clusters to chat and pick new partners before the next dance. “You could have any man you want. You never lack for dance partners.”

“Neither do you.”

She rolled her eyes. “And do you know what they talk about while they dance? You, and how best to secure your affections.”

They’d likely pay more attention to Francine if she endeavored to speak in their presence. She had wit and insight to put me to the pale. If she refrained from rolling her eyes in the presence of men, she might conquer them all. She could, at the very least, pretend at ladylike behavior until after the wedding. We argued over the point frequently.

I opted not to veer onto that long-standing topic. I examined the room once more, hoping to get a glimpse of Frederick. And, if I was lucky, find a way to wrangle an introduction.

“I’m holding out for love. You know that.”

“I do.” Francine sidled to stand beside me, examining the crowd. “I can’t fathom why. It’s impractical.”

My mouth dropped open. I glanced down. Her unruly, brown curls obscured her face, but from her tone she meant every word.

“How can you say that? You know better than most the power of love.”

She batted the hair away from her face. Her thick eyelashes fluttered as she stared at me. “I do?”

“Of course you do. Your parents are the epitome of love.”

She grimaced. “Oh. That. It was an arranged marriage.”

“That blossomed into love.”

“Funny you should say blossom…”

Oh no. Not another rant about plants. I diverted her before she was lost to me for the rest of the night.

“Did you mention you knew that baronet with whom Frederick was speaking?”

Francine stopped in mid-sentence, mouth agape. After a moment, she closed it. “I do. But I was twelve. He wasn’t particularly fond of me back then.”

“You were children. His opinion of you must have changed.”

As if speaking of the man summoned him, Baronet Beckwith strolled with Frederick and another fellow into the room. I stopped breathing for a moment as I soaked in Frederick’s features. His brown skin beamed against the paler hues from the gentlemen surrounding him, from alabaster to suntanned. His dark hair was clipped short on his head, a striking contrast to the messier manes of the ton. As I stared, he lifted his gaze from across the room to meet mine. A warm ache bloomed in my chest. I gasped for air.

After capturing Francine’s hand, I tugged her around the perimeter of the room.

She dug in her heels. “Where are we going? It is cool by the doors.”

“It’s April. It’s far from sweltering,” I countered, though the stuffiness of so many bodies mounted as we navigated the crush. “It will only be for a moment. You must introduce me.”

“To Baronet Beckwith?”

“To his friend Frederick.”

Francine shook her head. The stray curls escaping her pins bounced. “But I’ve never met Frederick.”

“No, but if you introduce me to the baronet while he is standing in the group, the baronet will have to introduce him. It is only polite.”

Francine took one last, longing glance toward the sconce by the door. No wonder she wasn’t married yet. Aside from her father’s impossible standards, she always chose the one place in the room she would be overlooked.

When she faced forward again, in time to sidestep a couple that paid no attention at all to where they walked, she hung her head in defeat. “It had best be quick. I’ll introduce you, and I’m going out into the garden.” She spoke so softly her words barely traveled over the indecipherable babble of the crowd.

I smiled. “Bless you, Francine.” I squeezed her hand.

Daisy’s high-pitched laugh drifted to my ears. I reared my head. Where was she? But then Mary’s sharp voice pierced the air, calling my sister’s name. Mary would occupy Daisy for a moment or two, at least.

We reached the trio of men. Nervous wingbeats batted the inside of my belly. I let Francine take the lead.

She stopped squarely in front of the baronet, a short, blocky fellow with a wide grin and bushy sideburns. She inclined her head, but didn’t dip in a curtsey. “Jonathan, I hear congratulations are in order.”

He narrowed his eyes and gave a short-lived bark of a laugh. “Damnation, Francine… I mean, Miss Annesley. Is that really you?”

She spread her arms. “Well, I certainly do not pretend to be anyone else.”

He shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Beside him, a leaner man with the same grin and dark eyes drawled, “I think you’ve even gathered a few more freckles.”

Crossing her arms, she donned a most pugnacious glower. I brushed my hand over her shoulder. What was she doing? She was supposed to introduce me, not start a spat in the middle of a crowded country parlor. She twitched her shoulder, throwing off my touch.

“I find that insulting,” she accused, eyeing both men.

Oh no. Now she sounded like Mary. With Mary’s keen nose for insults against women, my friend would undoubtedly materialize within moments. I didn’t need her spreading her peculiar ideas about women’s independence while I searched for a husband. Plenty of time after the vows were said to educate the man in question as to the uses of an intelligent woman.

Francine lifted her chin. Even though the baronet stood a good deal shorter than me, Francine had to look up to meet his gaze. “I’m a woman now, not a child.”

To my immense gratification, he chose to ignore her entirely. “If only Julian was here to see you.”

His friend chuckled. “You should have dragged him along.”

Francine scoffed, but a smile teased the corners of her mouth, winking her dimple in and out of existence. She dropped her arms to her sides again. “If he were here, I would fear for my feet.”

“And your sanity, no doubt,” Beckwith said with a good-natured smile.

I nudged Francine surreptitiously with one elbow. This time, she took the hint.

She stepped slightly to the side, gesturing to me. “May I introduce my dear friend, Miss Wellesley? Rose, this is Jeremy—”

“Captain Beckwith, now,” the taller man corrected with good cheer.

“Forgive me,” Francine said. “Captain Jeremy Beckwith and his older brother Jonathan Beckwith… I believe you have inherited the title of baronet, now?”

The gentleman in question inclined his head. “I have. My father died shortly before my son was born.”

Gravity befell Francine’s features. “I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been a terrible blow.”

He nodded, but didn’t dwell on the issue, thankfully. To me, he said, “Miss Wellesley, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” As he bowed, I returned the gesture with a slight curtsey, offering my hand. He laid a kiss to my knuckles and dropped it. His brother did the same, but lingered a bit.

I eyed the captain. He sported the same broad shoulders and military posture as Frederick, but carried an amused twinkle in his eye. He lit up the room with his mischievous grin, whereas Frederick remained to the side, a solemn shadow with piercing brown eyes. A pity I was already in love.

The baronet indicated the gentleman to his right, Frederick. “May I present Captain Paine? He is recently returned from the war with the French.”

Two gentlemen home from war at once? “I didn’t know the war was over.” Though I didn’t read the newspaper, if there had been a triumph or defeat Papa would have mentioned it over the breakfast table.

Frederick shook his head. “It wages still, miss. I was granted special dispensation to return to attend my father’s funeral.”

I shot him a sympathetic smile. “My condolences. You must have piles of affairs to tend to in settling your father’s estate.” I feathered my fingers over Frederick’s forearm, clad in his black evening attire.

He shifted away. My chest constricted. Did he remember me? If he recognized me for the horse-mad, mud-faced girl I’d been, I’d never convince him to fall in love in time. We only had a week. No gentleman wants a wild wife. Mama had drummed the notion into me with such vigor, I mumbled the words in my sleep.

As my hand fell short, my fingertips grazed his sleeve before I returned them to my side. They tingled. His gaze dropped to my fingers. He raised it inch by inch up my arm to my face.

Our eyes locked.

The warm bloom in my chest returned tenfold. Did he feel it, too? He held my gaze a moment longer before turning his attention to Francine then Baronet Beckwith, seeming to recall the conversation.

“My brother can aptly handle that. He’s been training for it all his life. He is the heir, after all.”

“Then you won’t be staying long?” I asked in a weak voice.

My stomach sank. If he planned to leave, I’d have to move Heaven and Earth to secure a marriage proposal. Convincing men to fall in love took a Herculean effort, better suited to weeks rather than mere days.

He answered, “Now that we’ve laid my father to rest, I’m due back on the continent by the middle of next week.”

“So soon.” I counted the days. Five, at best, but some of those would be spent traveling. “Surely you’ll be granted a bit of leeway to grieve?”

He raised his gaze to mine again, now cold and glittery as ice. “Napoleon grants no quarter, miss. No one is allowed time to grieve.”

Captain Beckwith snorted. Frederick turned his icy glare on his compatriot instead.

The loud whine of piano keys signaled that the next dance was about to begin. I recognized Daisy’s poor playing. Good. I had time to dance.

I gave my prettiest smile and said, “Oh dear. I’m afraid I find myself without a partner for this set.”

Instead of falling over himself to partner me, Frederick inclined stiffly in a partial bow. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ve promised this dance to someone else.”

He…what?

He strode away with purpose, approaching a young woman who parted ways with a hulking blond shadow.

I gaped after him until Captain Beckwith offered me his arm. “I would never be so crass as to allow a young woman to stand up unpartnered.”

Not you. My smile wavered at the corners of my mouth. I fixed it in place. I had just uttered the ton’s cardinal challenge, after all. I couldn’t back down now. I laid my hand on his sleeve.

Francine snagged Baronet Beckwith’s arm and tugged him along the perimeter of the room. “Where is your wife, Jonathan? You must introduce me.”

Captain Beckwith led me onto the makeshift dance floor. We found a place in the line forming down the center of the three parlors just in time—Pachycaul squeezed into the room. I smiled at the captain and pretended not to see my former suitor.

As we settled into place, standing across from each other in the two lines of alternating men and women, I peered down the line to pick out Frederick’s form. He stood on the other side of the woman bracketing my partner on the right. Only one place down. And who was his partner? I leaned around the portly man who smelled of pickled beets on my right and recognized the woman’s profile immediately. Miss Johnstone, a young woman who had fallen into disfavor after her father’s disgrace. Did I still have a chance to win him over? In accordance with the hostess’s rules, she could only dance with him once. All I had to do was ensnare his attention afterward.

Daisy played the introduction to the quadrille as a man squeezed in beside me. “Miss Wellesley,” Pachycaul said in my ear. His voice was low and intimate. I ignored him.

Across from me, Captain Beckwith narrowed his eyes.

The dance began. I bolted to complete the honors and first two advance-and-retire figures. Pachycaul remained hot on my left side as he performed the same. Even the draft wafting from the door wasn’t enough to dampen his presence. He danced with a graceful brunette. “I trust your ride from London was bearable.”

Bearable wasn’t the word I would use to describe it. With both Mary and Daisy trapped beside me, and Francine stopping the carriage every hour to pick flowers, the ride had been torture.

“I had a lovely drive,” I lied.

Without looking at me, he said, “I found my drive rather long and lonely.”

Although Pachycaul’s tone was even, there was a syrupy edge to his voice. Not quite a whine or a plea, though it was born of the same desperation.

I bit my lip. The warm feeling in my chest soured quickly as Pachycaul’s presence conjured memories of our short-lived courtship. He was a sweet man, quick-witted, and he armed himself with humor. But he wasn’t the man for me. Was I supposed to pretend I returned his feelings when I didn’t?

I couldn’t. I refused. It wasn’t fair to either of us. If only he would accept that without me spurning him.

Benediction arrived in the form of the traversez. The maneuver required me to switch places with the woman diagonally to my right. As I retired into my new position, I stood directly to Frederick’s left.

I tilted toward him to gain his attention. If I enticed a marriage proposal from him, it had to be soon. A few more days would be a boon, though.

“You should stop by London for a day or two,” I said, keeping my voice light, pleasant, and enticing. I didn’t want to sound too coy or wanton. Without knowing him better, one wrong word, however innocent the intention, might chase him all the way back to the continent. I added, “It will not be out of your way.”

The two lines stepped forward in an advance. As I took a small step to avoid colliding with the portly man’s protruding paunch, Pachycaul’s scowl caught my eye from down the line. I averted my gaze, focusing on the man in front of me. Although the dance had only started, sweat beaded across his wide forehead.

Frederick regained my attention by saying, “I am not at liberty to indulge in frivolity.”

The army might be demanding, but that was a sorry excuse, if ever I heard one. His companion Captain Beckwith didn’t seem to be under the same compulsion.

I fought the urge to raise my eyebrows and kept my voice light. “Oh? You are here, after all.”

We retired a step back and prepared for another such figure. The two lines of dancers completed the figure before Frederick answered, “I am here at the hostess’s behest.”

The music prompted another traversez. I had no choice but to return to my original position. Across from me, Captain Beckwith shot me a curious glance.

Had he never seen a courting couple before? I deflected his interest with an innocent smile. To my left, Pachycaul brooded in silence.

The moment the dance afforded me the chance to return to Frederick’s side, I suggested, “Come to London at my behest.”

“No.”

I stumbled. One word, a terse and undeniable answer. My hope of gaining his affections withered. I fought to keep from frowning.

But then, as we retired from an advance, our hands brushed. One short contact, impeded by gloves, but it jolted through me with awareness. I cast him a sideways glance. He didn’t look at me, but maybe that was by design. He had to have felt the contact, too.

I ventured, “You’ll stay, of course, for the other festivities our hostess has planned?”

“I plan on leaving directly after the ball tonight.”

No. I had only tonight with him? His estate must reside within an hour or two’s ride, or he wouldn’t chance the distance at night. My head spun with the news. I had only a few short hours to convince him I was the woman of his dreams.

My chest heaved with the force of my breaths. I grappled to delay him. “In the dark? A storm is brewing. Our hostess will not hear of it.”

“I believe you should let our hostess speak for herself.”

Thankfully, another traversez began and I was able to shield myself from the icy statement with some distance.

I hadn’t overstepped. Any polite hostess would attempt to detain a guest from travelling during perilous conditions.

Pachycaul jumped on the dip in cordiality between Frederick and me to recapture my attention. “Are you certain a storm is brewing, Miss Wellesley? The sky was overcast earlier but nothing alarming.”

The weather. It was this sort of uninspired conversation that had led me to have nightmares over marrying him. He’d bore me to death. I smiled, muttering over non-consequential things until I rejoined Frederick.

The string of banal conversation continued, as I tried to engage Frederick in a neutral topic. He was receptive to none, not even that of his family, and offered only terse answers silencing further conversation. I chattered, if only to keep Miss Johnstone from doing so. His partner had remained mute thus far, but he never took his eyes off her.

Or did he focus on the dance steps? I hoped he wasn’t a poor dancer. I loved to dance.

Before long, Daisy pounded out the end of the dance. I winced at the discordant sound, covering the expression with a curtsey to Captain Beckwith. The moment I straightened, I turned my attention toward Frederick. As I maneuvered closer, he asked Miss Johnstone to accompany him outside.

Say no. Please say no.

“That sounds lovely, Captain Paine.”

Hoyden. I bit the inside of my cheek before I voiced the uncharitable thought. After all, it was exactly what I’d hoped to do.

Movement from behind alerted me that Pachycaul attempted to recapture my attention. I dashed toward the garden. My knees weakened with relief as his dance partner batted her eyelashes at him and requested a flute of lemonade. He couldn’t say no.

He retreated to the second parlor, but even so, I didn’t have much time. Frederick and Miss Johnstone had already disappeared into the night air.

Where was Francine? There—her wild brown head was ensconced in a tête-à- tête with a sable-haired woman beside a fern. Baronet Beckwith hovered behind the pair but didn’t contribute to the conversation.

I caught Francine’s eye and signaled toward the terrace. She met me in the open doorway. Her eyes were bright. Pinpricks of color in her cheeks amplified her freckles. “Are we visiting the gardens?”

“Yes.” Before she got any ideas about collecting plant specimens, I added, “Frederick just left with Miss Johnstone.”

“Who is Miss Johnstone?”

Trust Francine to pay more attention to plants than to people. I sighed and tried to remember what silly nickname she’d designed for the poor girl. Nothing sprang to mind. “Thin girl, only a bit shorter than me, boney as a skeleton and with black hair? Her father died two years back.”

“Oh, Miss Catkin.”

“Yes. Her. Now hurry, we must follow and secure his attentions for me once more.”

“How?”

I caught her quizzical gaze and held it. “By any means possible, Francine.”

I led her into the garden. The cooler night air pimpled the flesh of my upper arms, left bare by my dress and gloves. The full heat of summer hadn’t yet arrived. So far north of crowded London, the air was almost refreshing, if burdened by the heavy scent of rain. Perhaps there was a storm brewing, after all. I bustled forward with a buoyant step.

Francine trotted at my right heel. “Tell me you have some semblance of a plan.”

I didn’t. But I didn’t bother telling her that. She might turn back.

“We have to find him first.” My voice was clipped, but I hope she attributed that to the urgency of the situation rather than any ill feelings toward her. I did appreciate her company. I couldn’t very well have scrambled off into the gardens alone. Pachycaul—or anyone else—might have caught me in a compromising position.

I spotted the shadowed figures of a couple strolling arm-in-arm. I led Francine off the tiny terrace and onto a pebbled walkway. When it split, I tugged her down the right-hand path, urging her to a faster pace.

The light spilling from indoors was cut off by tall hedges. The path twisted like a maze, only sparsely lit by half-shuttered lanterns swarming with black flies. I swatted the bugs away when they came too near. Francine slowed to inspect some flower or leaf. I dragged her onward.

“We have no time.”

She grumbled, but trudged behind me.

We reached a fork in the path. By this time, the figures had drawn too far ahead for me to discern which way they’d ventured. Did Miss Johnstone run Greek marathons in her spare time? She moved with the speed of a gazelle.

“This will never do.”

I tossed my hands into the air in exasperation. A glance heavenward granted no strike of guidance. Tears sprung to my eyes as a vise tightened around my chest. I wanted to scream.

I held myself in check, but the idea gave me pause. I threw myself onto the ground.

The pebbles stung as they dug into my side. I winced, then exaggerated the motion and moaned loudly. I twisted to clutch my ankle.

Francine fell to her knees at my side. “Goodness, Rose. What’s gotten into you? Why did you do that?”

“Play along,” I whispered. “If Frederick hears a damsel in distress, he’ll have to come to my rescue.”

“I highly doubt—”

“Please, Francine?” I begged. I clutched her hand fiercely. I couldn’t catch her expression by the light of the lanterns, but I beseeched her with my eyes nonetheless. “Frederick is only here tonight. I must convince him to propose.”

“Why tonight? Even if he returns to war—”

I cut her short. “My father is arranging a marriage. He alluded that he might have begun the negotiations with a man who has asked him before. He wants me married before Daisy makes her bows next Season.”

Francine’s shadowed form bobbed its head slowly. “So he doesn’t have to delay her come out.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m glad I don’t have siblings,” she muttered under her breath. Louder, she proclaimed, “Oh no, Rose, I fear you’ve turned your ankle.”

Her voice was well past loud. She projected like a trumpet.

On cue, I moaned as loud as I could.

She continued, “I want to find you help but I fear leaving you here all alone where any cad might stumble upon you. Please, is there no one nearby to help?”

She was a poor actress, but I appreciated the help. With luck, Frederick would be just far enough away to hear, but not decipher her unrealistic tone.

I loosed another moan, which turned into a sharp oooh!

“I can’t stand on it,” I said, even though I made no move to try. “You’ll have to find help. Please.”

A gigantic form separated from the shadows the way we’d come. “No need,” the man said. His strides devoured the ground as he crossed toward me. I shrunk back, toward Francine, as he kneeled.

The lantern lit up his face for a moment. A face I recognized. The light played over the burnished gold of his hair, ending in a slight curl on his neck and glinted off wicked eyes a color I couldn’t decipher in the dim light. His grin pulled his mouth even wider, impossible to ignore.

The servant I’d had a spat with earlier, the one who had warned me not to invite him into my room. Only, from his crisply folded cravat and expensive dark jacket, he was no servant.

He was a guest.