Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom. Deb Marlowe

had not set off a warm glow in her chest. ‘I should think that this line of inquiry is very different from your usual research. Your mother tells me that you are a notable scholar.’

      He nodded.

      ‘You mentioned the ancients at our late supper a few days ago. Is that your area of specialty?’

      ‘Yes, ancient civilisations.’

      She eyed him shrewdly. ‘I imagine you find it much easier to shut yourself up and study people of long ago than to deal with them in person. Real people can be so … tempestuous.’

      That sardonic smile appeared. Lily’s heart jumped at the sight of it. ‘I do get out and amongst people on occasion, Miss Beecham. Thank goodness for it, too; I would not have missed making your acquaintance for the world.’

      She ignored the good humour in his voice and let her gaze drop to his injured arm. ‘Yes, but I do hope you did not strain your arm in doing so.’

      ‘No, it is fine, thank you. I should be able to remove the sling in a week or two.’

      ‘When your mother told me of your profession, I asked her if you had sustained your injury in a fall from a library stepstool.’

      Mr Alden choked on a sip of his wine. Lily saw his jaw tighten and when he spoke, his light tone had been replaced with something altogether darker.

      ‘No. Actually I was shot—while helping to prevent a group of thieves from making off with some valuable antiquities.’

      ‘So Lady Dayle tells me! I was quite amazed, and a little thrilled, actually.’ She smiled brightly at his reddening countenance. ‘You give me hope, you see.’

      ‘Hope?’ he asked, and his voice sounded only slightly strangled.

      ‘Indeed. For if a quiet scholar like you can find himself embroiled in such an adventure, then perhaps there is hope for a simple girl like me as well.’

      It was a struggle, she could tell, but still he retained his expression of bland interest. Curse him.

      ‘Do you crave adventure, Miss Beecham?’ he asked.

      ‘Not adventure, precisely.’

      ‘Travel, perhaps? A flock of admirers?’ He was regaining his equilibrium, fast. ‘Or perhaps you simply wish for dessert?’ He flagged down a passing footman with a tray of pastries.

      Lily had to suppress a smile. This oh-so-polite battle of wit and words was by far the most fun she had had in ages. She eyed the footman and decided to take the battle to the next level. She selected a particularly rich-looking fruit-filled tart. ‘Travel,’ she mused. ‘That would be delightful. But since I have it on good authority that I am of no age or situation conducive to easy arrangements, I suppose I must wait until I am older.’ She raised her tart in salute. ‘And stouter.’

      Her eyes locked with his while she took a large bite, only to gradually close in ecstasy. She chewed, sighed and savoured. ‘Oh, I must tell your mother to try one—the burnt-orange cream topping is divine!’ Breathing deep, she held her breath for several long seconds before slowly exhaling. She opened languid eyes, taking care to keep them half-hooded as she glanced again at Mr Alden.

      And promptly forgot to take a second bite. That had done it. At last she had cracked his polite façade. He stared, the green of his eyes nearly obliterated by pupils dilated with hunger. It wasn’t the tart that he hungered for, either. His gaze was fixed very definitely on the modest neckline of her gown.

      ‘So if travel must be a delayed gratification …’ he said hoarsely, then paused to clear his throat ‘… what will you substitute, Miss Beecham?’

      ‘This,’ replied Lily instantly, waving her free hand. ‘Delightful company with warm and open-minded people. The chance to exchange ideas, enjoy music and good conversation.’

      ‘I hear that Mrs Montague has opened her gallery to her visitors tonight,’ he returned. ‘She has several noteworthy pieces. Perhaps you will enjoy some good conversation with me while we explore it?’

      Lily smiled at him. She popped the last bit of tart into her mouth and dusted the crumbs from her gloves. ‘Thank you, Mr Alden …’ she shook her head as he offered her his arm ‘… but I must decline. I see an acquaintance from the Foreign Bible Society and I simply must go and congratulate her on her gown.’ She dipped a curtsy and, fighting to keep a triumphant smile from her face, turned and set off.

      Flummoxed, Jack watched Lily Beecham walk away. This was not at all going the way he had planned. He’d mapped his strategy so carefully, too, and the troublesome chit had derailed him completely.

      Aberrant—that’s what she was. If it wasn’t against all the laws of nature for one female to inspire so many conflicting reactions in a man, then it should be. She acted in a manner completely unpredictable. Her sharp wit and quirky humour kept him perpetually unbalanced—just as he desperately sought an even keel.

      His nightmares had grown worse over the last few days. He couldn’t sleep and had no wish to eat. Worse—he couldn’t concentrate on his work. The ability to form a coherent written thought appeared to have deserted him.

      Things had grown so bad that scenes from his youth—memories of his father’s disdain for his third son—had begun to haunt him even while he was awake. But Jack had not allowed his father’s casual cruelty to touch him while he’d been alive, and he would be damned before he let the old codger torment him from the grave.

      He’d focused all of his energies instead on the thought of capturing Batiste. One advantage Lord Dayle’s ‘damned bookish’ son possessed was a wide correspondence. Jack had contacts all over the world and, though it had been a painfully slow process, he had been for several weeks laboriously writing and put them all on notice. If Batiste put in to port near any of them, Jack would hear of it.

      His next step was to track down Matthew Beecham. The shipbuilder had had extensive dealings with Batiste, and he might just be able to lead him straight to him. But first Jack had to get through Lily Beecham.

      He circulated amongst Mrs Montague’s guests and tried not to be obvious in his observation of the girl. He’d taken note of her altered appearance straight away. She had a number of new freckles sprinkled across her nose, if he was not mistaken, and her red-gold mane had been tamed into a sleek and shining coiffure.

      He thought he detected his mother’s hand in the new style of gown she wore. She still dressed conservatively, but the gown of deep blue poplin represented a vast difference from the shapeless sack she’d worn when they met. The white collar, though high, served to draw the eye unerringly to her substantially fine bosom, and the soft and sturdy fabric snuggled tight both there and down the long, shapely length of her arms.

      She looked quiet, constrained, the veritable picture of restraint—until she spoke. Then a man found himself either cut by the razor edge of her tongue or riveted by her marvellously expressive face. Nor was he the only one affected. She made the rounds of the room, talking easily with everyone she encountered, and laughing with uninhibited abandon. Clearly she had a gift. Every person she spoke with ended up smiling right along with her. The ladies gazed fondly after her and the gentlemen stared, agape and entranced.

      Jack hovered across the room, in complete sympathy with the lot of them. Like a naturalist who had discovered a new species, he could not look away. The girl appeared perfectly comfortable conversing with strangers and seemed to be on the best of terms with Minerva Dawson, too. He’d heard some nonsense about those two being distantly related. They flitted about the room like a couple of smiling butterflies, one darkly handsome, the other shining like a crimson flame. Jack saw Miss Dawson’s mother gazing fondly on the pair, but her companion—her sister, he thought—observed them with a frown. Well. Perhaps not everyone in the family was enamoured of their new connection.

      Jack, watching closely as well, failed to see why. To his relief and chagrin, Miss Beecham never made a mis-step—until an elderly couple, arriving late, paused on the threshold of the room.