The Wayward Debutante. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

stopping at her shoulder.

      And then he turned his gaze in her direction.

      Oh, dear.

      She knew she should have looked away the very second their eyes collided, so why was she still staring, only now with her mouth ajar like a simpleton? Her mind told her what to do, only her body was slow to respond. It didn’t help that he was staring right back at her, looking every bit as surprised as she felt. And why shouldn’t he be? She’d been ogling him. His gaze traveled over her face as if remembering every detail, and she blushed deeply as his bemused expression gradually gave way to something far more sensuous. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from such a distance, but she could easily discern that they were dark and sinful. His lips curved appreciatively.

      Her jaw snapped shut and she turned around so quickly that her head hurt. Dear God. What had she told herself? Do not look at anyone, particularly not men who look like that. Particularly not handsome rakes who seduce women in public places.

      She wrinkled her nose at that last thought. Was that really what he was doing? Seducing that woman? What she would have given to be able to turn around to double-check. She’d certainly never seen such a thing before, and here was her chance to find out the precise mechanics. But she clearly couldn’t do that, no matter how curious she was. Especially since she sensed that he was still watching her. No, she couldn’t turn around. Not again, and she shouldn’t even be thinking such unchaste thoughts. What would her family think? She was Eleanor, the good, studious child, and although she’d strayed that evening she’d since learned her lesson.

      All she could do was wait for the intermission. It seemed like an eternity, and she was too flustered to pay attention to the action onstage. She just counted the minutes and endeavored not to think about the wicked man behind her.

      As the curtains began to close at the end of the first act, Eleanor quickly rose from her seat. She tried not to look too agitated as she walked down the aisle, her eyes trained on the floor and her heart pounding in her chest. He was still watching her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

      She was the first person out the theater doors, and once into the foyer she began to run. The street outside was still busy but she had no trouble picking out her driver. In her current state he shone like a beacon.

      Thank heavens she’d be home soon.

      James Bentley’s office was situated on the south side of his large home. Its floor-length windows filled the room with bright sunlight, light that was gradually bleaching his mahogany furniture of its original dark sheen and endowing it with the warm and weary look of age. Shades of brown and green dominated the office, but were tempered—if one wishes to be strictly honest—by dust. The sunshine brought the dust to prominence, although this fact often went unnoticed by the occupant’s selectively unobservant male gaze. His maid, a girl of about twenty, was too scared of him to enter most days, although he couldn’t fathom why. So the dust quietly collected on the skirting boards; on the chairs and desk; and on the randomly placed piles of books, stacked three, four or five high. It was a cluttered room, but it was an intelligent clutter, a masculine clutter. It was exactly as a productive office should look.

      That’s what James told himself as he regarded the room from his desk, even though his day thus far had been marked by inactivity and distraction. He’d accomplished little more than a good lunch at his club.

      He rose from his seat and crossed the room to look out the window, onto the well-appointed houses that faced him from across the street. He’d been living at this address for just over a year. Just a year since he’d returned to London after twelve years away. It had been a busy time: furnishing a new home, rekindling old friendships, helping finance a friend’s business and sorting out his own neglected finances. But now the novelty and challenge of these endeavors had begun to fade. He feared he was getting bored.

      That thought worried him—he’d been having it too often, and he couldn’t put his finger on the source of his discontent. He supposed taking advantage of the season’s entertainments might help. Despite his lengthy absence, he still received piles of invitations every week—to dinners and balls and every other type of social torture imaginable. And, if he ever decided that standing around in a hot room with a gaggle of silly girls whispering about him behind their hands was a pleasant way to spend an evening, then someday he just might accept one of these invitations.

      He ran a hand through his dark hair and glanced at the papers scattered across his desk. He still had work to do, but it could wait until tomorrow. A brisk walk would clear his head, and besides, he was supposed to have dinner with his older brother, Will, in a few hours. William Henry Edward Stanton, now the seventh Earl of Lennox, to be exact.

      James grabbed his jacket in preparation to leave, but just as he started walking to the library door it opened. His butler, Perkins, announced, “Mr. Kinsale to see you, my lord.”

      Jonathon Kinsale, his best friend and now a business partner, too, was right behind him, not waiting for permission to enter. “You’re not leaving?” he asked in his mild Irish brogue.

      James resignedly draped his jacket onto the back of an armchair. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but Jonathon was already helping himself to a glass of brandy. “I’m dining with my brother tonight. Thought I’d take a constitutional first.”

      “Oh? And how’s Will?”

      “Just returned from six months in the country. Haven’t seen him yet. Why don’t you come along? You’d be doing me a tremendous favor.”

      Jonathon made himself comfortable on the worn sofa. “Why, so I can play buffer between you? No thanks. You can handle him perfectly well on your own.”

      “He’s bloody persistent, though. Every time I see him, he brings up things I don’t want to talk about.”

      “Like Richard.”

      James shrugged. Even in the privacy of his home, with his best friend, he still didn’t want to talk about his eldest brother. “Richard is dead. He doesn’t concern me anymore.”

      “Of course,” Jonathon said, obviously unconvinced.

      James sat back down, wishing Jonathon wasn’t so bloody astute. But the truth was, he didn’t think Richard would ever cease to concern him.

      Both Richard and William shared the same mother, but she’d died giving birth to Will. Their father, the fifth Earl of Lennox, had remarried one year later, this time to Diana Bentley, a renowned Irish beauty and his lifelong love. Unfortunately, she’d also been an actress.

      James was born a year later and Will, only two at the time, had adored his little brother instantly. But Richard was another matter. He’d been eight when his father remarried, old enough to be aware of the traces of infamy that clouded James’s mother’s past. He’d despised her, and he’d hated James, too. To his sneering and slightly mad eyes, she was a lowborn whore, and her son carried her tainted blood. He’d told James this every chance he’d got. Although James hated Richard right back, these words dominated his childhood. He’d always been afraid that despite a polite facade, the rest of society felt much the same way.

      Unfortunately, Richard concealed this side of his personality well, and when both parents died in a fire, no one questioned his ability to be guardian to James and Will, who were only nine and eleven. As the eldest son, Richard would control their education and incomes. He also inherited the title and the bulk of family estates until they came of age.

      Will hadn’t fared too badly, but for James, the years that followed were marked by unhappiness and abuse. Will did what he could to protect his younger brother against Richard, but he, too, was just a child. James bore his brother’s cruelty as long as he could, and if only he could have borne it for a few more years he would have come into his inheritance—not a great fortune, but enough to pay his commission and become an officer in His Majesty’s service, like every other third or fourth son. Instead, he’d run away at sixteen, with only the money in his pocket. He’d slept on the side of the road for two days, but then came across a recruiting