Tarnished Amongst the Ton. Louise Allen

of clear green, like leaves unfurling beside a waterhole, attracted his attention. The unmarried girls were all wearing white or pastel gowns, the matrons strong jewel colours for the most part. That green gown was unusual, delightful in its freshness. Ashe propped one shoulder against a pillar and watched as its owner stood and talked with another lady.

      The backs of these gowns were almost as intriguing as their low-cut fronts, he was coming to think. With their wearers’ hair piled high, the columns of white necks, the vulnerable napes, the tantalising loose curls or dangling earrings all had a subtle erotic charm.

      It was definitely too long since he had lain with a woman. Ashe shifted against the pillar, but did not take his eyes off that particular neck even though it made the tension in his groin worse. The lady in the green gown had a mass of shiny brown hair caught up in a knot with a single ringlet left to fall on her shoulder. He imagined curling it around one finger, feeling its caress like raw silk. He would pull each pin from her hair and the whole mass would come down, spilling over his hands, veiling her breasts as he freed her from the verdant silk…

      A tall young man joined the two ladies and Ashe saw a resemblance between him and the brown-haired charmer at once. High cheekbones, straight noses, that dark hair. She seemed to be introducing the man to her companion and after a moment they walked on to the floor together to join the next set that was forming. The brunette watched as the dance struck up and then strolled away.

      Ashe narrowed his eyes as she wandered along the edge of the dance floor, stopping now and then to chat. Three years in an environment where women habitually covered their faces with their dupattas, long semi-transparent scarves, had left him able to identify individuals by their walk, by their posture, their gestures. And he had met that woman before somewhere.

      But where? Intrigued, Ashe began to shadow her along the opposite edge of the ballroom. Despite her fashionably languid progress she had an air of suppressed energy about her, as though she would rather run than walk, as if there was not quite enough time in the day for all she wanted to do. He was becoming fanciful, but her quick, expressive gestures when she stopped to talk, the direct way she resumed her trajectory when she parted from each acquaintance, attracted him. He liked energy and purpose.

      ‘Clere.’

      He was so caught up in his pleasantly erotic pursuit it took him a moment to recall that was him. Ashe stopped and nodded to the man who had hailed him. They had been introduced earlier. A baron… Lord Hardinge, that was it. ‘Hardinge.’

      ‘Enjoying yourself?’

      ‘Frantically remembering names, if the truth be told,’ Ashe lied to cover his hesitation. He liked the look of the other man who seemed bright, alert, with a humorous glint in his eyes.

      ‘Stuck with anyone in particular?’

      ‘I was wondering,’ Ashe said, ‘who the brunette in the pale-green gown was. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.’

      ‘Want an introduction?’ The other man was already heading in her direction. ‘She’s Fransham’s sister.’

      And who was he? The tall man she had seen on to the dance floor, presumably.

      ‘Miss Hurst?’ Hardinge said as they reached her. She turned as Ashe was working that out. Miss, so her brother was of the rank of a viscount or lower. That didn’t narrow the field much.

      ‘Lord Hardinge.’ Her smile was immediate and genuine. Ashe registered warm brown eyes, white teeth, attractive colour on her high cheekbones… And then she turned to smile at him and went pale, as though the blood had drained out of her.

      ‘Miss Hurst? Are you quite well?’ Hardinge put out one hand, but she flicked her fan open and plied it vigorously in front of her face.

      ‘I am so sorry, just a moment’s faintness. The heat.’ Her voice was low and husky. Ashe found himself instantly attracted, even as his senses grappled to make sense of what he was seeing. The fan wafted the subtle, sweet odour of jasmine to him and only yesterday those brown eyes, now shielded by lowered lids and fluttering fan, had glared indignantly into his as he lifted his mouth from hers. That mouth.

      ‘Allow me to assist you to a chair, Miss Hurst.’ He had his hand under her arm, neatly removed the fan from her fingers and was waving it, even before the other man could step forwards. ‘There we are.’ In front of them a window embrasure was shielded by an array of potted palms. The casement had been opened several inches for ventilation and there was a bench seat just big enough for two. ‘It is all right, Hardinge, I have her. Perhaps you could get hold of some lemonade?’ That would get rid of him for a few minutes.

      Miss Hurst did not resist as he guided her through the fronds to the padded seat. For a moment he thought she was, indeed, overcome, but as he sat beside her he saw from her expression that she wanted privacy just as much as he did.

      ‘You!’ she hissed with real indignation. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

      Ashe raised an eyebrow in deliberate provocation. The angrier she was, the more off guard she would be. ‘What was I doing when we have met?’ He began to count off points on his fingers. ‘Disembarking from a ship, shopping with my sister, attending a ball with my family. All perfectly innocent activities, Miss Hurst, or whatever your real name is. What is your objection to them?’

      ‘You are following me… No, you are not, are you? It is just horrible coincidence.’ She sighed, all the fight going out of her, and leaned back against the heavy brocade swags of the curtains as if suddenly weary.

      ‘I have been called many things, but never a horrible coincidence,’ Ashe said. ‘Ah, here is Hardinge with the lemonade. Thank you so much. Miss Hurst is feeling a little better, I believe. I’ll just wait with her a while so no one disturbs her.’ He smiled the frank smile that seemed to lull most people into believing him completely straightforward.

      There was patently no space in the alcove. The other man handed over the glass with good grace. ‘Clere, Miss Hurst.’ He took himself off, leaving them alone in their leafy shelter.

      ‘Thank you, Lord Clere.’ Miss Hurst took the glass, drank and set it down on the cill. ‘If it were not for you, I would not require reviving.’

      Ashe was tempted to observe that all the girls said that, but one glance at her expression warned him that perhaps humour was best avoided. ‘Hardinge never got the opportunity to introduce me. How do you know my name?’ Had she been asking about him?

      ‘I know your title, that is all, and he just called you Clere. I saw you come in with your family and Lady Malling deduced who you all were. I was attempting to avoid you,’ she added bitterly, apparently with the intent of flattening any self-congratulation that she might be interested in him.

      ‘My name is Ashe Herriard, Miss Hurst. Have you any other disguises I am likely to meet with?’

      ‘No, you have viewed them all.’ She regarded him, her head tipped a little to one side. He was reminded of Lucifer assessing a strange object for its potential as food or plaything. ‘Ashe. Is that an Indian name? I know a trader down at the docks called Ashok. He has been here for years and has an extensive business, but he told me he came from Bombay.’ She smiled. ‘A bit of a rogue.’

      ‘No, that element of my name is from my paternal grandmother’s family. If you want the lot I am George Ashbourne Talish Herriard.’

      ‘And Talish means?’

      ‘Lord of the earth.’

      ‘That seems… appropriate,’ Miss Hurst observed astringently. She was still leaning back, gently fanning herself, but the tension was coming off her in waves.

      ‘It is somewhat high-flown,’ Ashe agreed. ‘After my great-grandfather, the Raja of Kalatwah.’ He might as well get that out of the way now.

      ‘Truly?’ Miss Hurst sat up straight, dark arched brows lifting. ‘Does that make you a prince? Should I be curtsying?’ That last, he could tell, was sarcasm.