The Wayward Debutante. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

If not for that fact, she surely wouldn’t have answered him. But with his hand covering hers she couldn’t think too clearly. Her voice didn’t sound quite like her own. “Eleanor.”

      He cocked his head, waiting for more. His fingers drifted up her arm, across her shoulder, to trace a gentle line along her jaw.

      “Surely you have more of a name than that?”

      Did she? What was her name? “Um…Smith.”

      “Are you newly married, Eleanor…um, Smith?”

      “Why do you ask such a question, sir?” Her sense was finally returning, and she pulled her head away from his wandering hand.

      He smiled, his eyes darkening wickedly. “You stumbled a bit over your name, Eleanor Smith,” he explained. “I thought perhaps it might be…new to you.”

      She blushed deeply, but her voice was sharp. “I stumbled because I am unused to such rudeness.”

      “I see. Are you married at all, then?”

      She just glared at him before turning her head away to face the stage. She would not answer him this time. Doing so had obviously only encouraged further impertinent questions.

      “I don’t believe you are married.”

      She could hear the laughter in his voice and cursed him silently. She picked up the thin program she’d been given upon entry and began reading it for a second time.

      “If you’re not married—and you’re not—then you must be employed.”

      Still without looking at him, she gritted out, “I never said I wasn’t married.”

      He chuckled. “But you’re not, of course. You’re lucky you aren’t, too…if you were, your husband would be obliged to give you a thorough spanking for coming here alone. It’s not at all proper, you know.”

      Eleanor didn’t turn her head for a moment. She was too shocked, not believing he’d really said what she thought he’d just said. Spanking?

       Spanking?

      With the word raging in her mind, she turned on him, eyes flashing, forgetting for the moment the dangerous effect he had on her. “You, sir, are not at all proper!”

      He was unfazed by her indignation. “How are you employed, did you say?”

      “I did not.”

      “I see. Then shall I guess?”

      “I am a governess,” she answered shortly, hoping that austere and respectable occupation would change the direction of his lecherous thoughts. Scathingly, she added, “And you are…what, a professional libertine?”

      She’d meant to insult him, but her remark seemed only to amuse him further. “No…I rather wish, but…” He paused, perhaps realizing he’d baited her too much. “Don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet—perhaps I should start over. I’m James Bentley.”

      “Do you intend to sit here all night, Mr. Bentley?”

      “Just until I figure something out,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze roaming over her face. “You see, it’s a rather odd thing that a governess should be here alone. I mean, you ought to have an untarnished reputation, oughtn’t you? You ought to be at least as proper as the brats you look after.”

      Eleanor swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t come up with that particular profession. He was right. No governess would traipse off to the theater alone—not if she expected to keep her position, anyway. “It is not a crime to enjoy the theater. And I’m not employed. Currently, that is,” she blurted out. “I am looking for work.”

      James leaned forward. “I can help you with that,” he said, his voice low and slightly thick.

      “You can?” With his face so close to hers, she felt her train of thought begin to slip carelessly away. Her eyes wandered to his mouth. She was watching him speak, but not really attending to what he said.

      “You’ve overlooked one crucial point, Miss Smith. You’re far too pretty to be a governess. No one will ever hire you.”

      “No?” Her voice sounded small and faint.

      He shook his head. “Afraid not. But I’d be happy to employ you.”

      She blinked, not understanding at first what he meant. But when the meaning of his words slowly became clear, all the anger and embarrassment she’d felt that evening came back to her in one large dose. She opened her mouth to retort, but she had no insult to equal the one he’d just dealt her. So instead she said nothing and rose. He didn’t try to stop her as she pushed past him. What a fool she’d been. She knew he was watching her, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was leaving the building, finding her hack, and getting home as soon as possible. With her head down, she picked up her pace.

      And then the next thing she knew she’d crashed into a large, solid object. It was the man who’d been sitting in front of her, the one who’d started her disastrous night off on such a sour note. She glared up at him. He was coming back to his seat for the second act, but unfortunately, he seemed to have had several pints of ale in the interim. He wasted no time latching his fat hands on to her shoulders.

      “Well, ’ullo. What’s the ’urry, luv?” he slurred. She backed away from him quickly, but she tripped on the hem of her dress as she did so. With a startled cry, she fell backward.

      She should have hit the floor, and she braced her body for the inevitable pain, but it didn’t come. She found herself instead being held by a pair of strong arms. She didn’t have to look behind her to know to whom they belonged. She went rigid, trying to ignore the unfamiliar sensation that washed over her, a feeling of both helplessness and safety, of anger and, most frightening of all, of thrilling pleasure. She took a deep, steadying breath and regarded the large man in front of her. Although she couldn’t see it from her position, something in Mr. Bentley’s expression—that handsome face that had been laughing and mocking her until just a moment ago—must have told him to retreat. Any menace the man had possessed was now replaced by an almost comic apprehension, and he nodded apologetically as he backed away. She shivered, wondering if Mr. Bentley really could be dangerous if provoked.

      He turned her around in his arms and looked down at her face with concern. “Are you all right?”

      She nodded shakily and tried to straighten. He was too close, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. Heavens, he was tall. She hadn’t noticed when he’d been sitting.

      He brushed a finger across her cheek, and she realized he was wiping away a tear. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been crying. There was something…almost tender in his expression, something truly apologetic for having upset her. It only lasted a second—perhaps she’d even imagined it—but it sent a shock of uncertainty through her body. Was he to be her friend or her foe? At that moment it wasn’t clear which. One minute he was arrogant and insulting, and the next he was protecting her from harm. A tiny inexplicable part of her wanted to bury her head in his arms, even though prudence told her to kick him in the shins and run.

      He was still holding her, still looking down at her face. She couldn’t look away. His head dipped and she was certain he was going to kiss her; it felt inevitable, like a force she was powerless to stop and didn’t want to stop, anyway. She’d never been kissed before and she didn’t know what to do. She closed her eyes and waited.

      Nothing happened.

      “Miss Smith?”

      She opened her eyes. He was looking at her questioningly and holding up a long, chestnut-colored curl. With a startled intake of breath, she reached her hand up to feel her wig. It had slipped to the side just slightly, probably when she’d run into that man. He reached out his hand, too, and she stepped away quickly, concerned that he was going to pull it off.

      They faced each other. She didn’t know what