Scandal At The Midsummer Ball: The Officer's Temptation / The Debutante's Awakening. Marguerite Kaye

streaked the hazy blue sky. It was another beautiful day, the sun already warm on her face, though it was not yet eleven in the morning. She pushed the casement as high as it would go and leaned out. A light breeze ruffled her hair, which was coming loose from its tight night-time braid. The sleeping quarters she and Alexandr had been allotted were on the top floor, one below the servants’ cramped garrets which were squashed into the attics, and one floor above the luxurious guest chambers. It summed up perfectly their place in the grand scheme of things: coveted by the elite but excluded from polite society; envied by the hoi polloi but treated with a mixture of admiration and circumspection.

      Her window overlooked the working gardens. From this height, she could see down into the stables, over the top of the glinting glass of the succession house, pinery and orchid house, and into the walled garden beyond. Alexandr was walking on his hands along the practice rope. She had never seen anyone more skilled than her brother, and though she had watched him perform this trick countless times from much more vertiginous heights, she still felt that familiar combination of fear and awe. She had only managed to complete just over half the rope in this manner herself, and certainly never attempted to perform it in public. Alexei was most likely going to feature it in his solo performance scheduled for later in the week.

      A small group of women had entered the walled garden. They did not usually permit an audience to watch their practice sessions, but the Duchess of Brockmore was paying them well over the odds for their residency this week, so even Alexei would not be so bold as to deny her female guests this unscheduled opportunity to gawp at him as he went through his paces. He did not look at all enamoured though, his brow furrowed deeply in one of his most formidable frowns.

      He was however, like her, an artiste above all, and once back on the rope lost himself in his performance. His audience watched him, rapt, their expressions as openly admiring as ever. To those rooted to the ground, there was a cachet and glamour attached to skilled exponents of the tightrope. For those at the very peak of their profession—as the Flying Vengarovs were—this manifested itself as a form of fame, and sometimes notoriety. Alexei professed to despise the slavish admiration he habitually received from women, but he was no saint—there had been countless affaires over the years.

      She could not blame him. It was a lonely and itinerant life they led. But while her brother was happy to take what he called comfort in the arms of his admirers, Katerina had foolishly longed for something more lasting. What she had discovered was what she should have known all along. There was nothing more thrilling than the tightrope. Not for the performer. Certainly not for the men who watched her, who had no interest in the woman who walked it. And most certain of all, not that particular man who had caused her to fall to earth, where she had landed with such force that she carried the bruises still, two years later.

      In a way, she envied Alexei. He stuck to the rules. He never made false promises. He never pretended to emotions he did not feel. He loved and he left. He was no more interested in the woman behind the beguiled spectator than his lover was interested in the man behind the artiste. When the Flying Vengarovs packed up their act and headed for the next venue, the next country, he did not leave behind any broken hearts or shattered dreams. He never dallied where he could compromise. His lovers were as discreet as he. Being women, they had to be. It was different for men.

      Katerina pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, resting her chin on her hands. With the possible exception of the voluptuous redhead in the clinging gown, the ladies down in the walled garden were quite safe in their summer gowns the soft shades of the English countryside—rose-pink, primrose-yellow, leaf-green. Clustered together, their parasols in matching colours raised to protect their complexions from the sun, they looked like a posy of pretty blooms. Very elegant, delicate and much-prized hothouse flowers.

      Though her own petite frame suited her artistic requirements to perfection, Katerina felt a pang of envy watching the tall, willowy figures possessed by the duke’s aristocratic guests. Two in particular stood out, one a disdainful blonde, the other a dusky brunette, perfect foils for each other. Perhaps one of those two was Fergus Kennedy’s intended bride. Though he’d tried not to show it, he had been hurt yesterday by whatever snub she had handed him. Perhaps she was the type who took pleasure in humiliating her admirers, or perhaps she was the type who thought her value enhanced by constant refusals. After all, men desired most what they could not have, Katerina thought bitterly, until they had it, and then it became a mere trophy.

      But the Duke of Brockmore’s niece had no need to play games. Foolish woman, whichever of these beauties she was, if she continued to do so, for Fergus Kennedy was most certainly not the type of man who would meekly play along.

      At least, she would not have thought he was. But then, she would not have thought he was the type of man who would allow himself to be ordered to marry. He was neither spineless nor passionless. Yesterday, when she had worked the rope as he looked on, desire had connected them like another, more ethereal, rope. Last night, when she was performing, she had had felt it tug powerfully at her again. He never took his eyes off her. Knowing that he was watching had given her display a new soaring quality, almost as if she had grown wings.

      It was a sobering thought. Rather a frightening one. She could fly perfectly well without Fergus Kennedy. He was no different from all the other male admirers who found her skimpy costumes and flexible limbs alluring. Men who would boast to their friends of their exploits, but who would never dream of introducing her to their family. Men for whom the conquest was all, and the woman they had conquered—valueless. She knew that. She could not afford to forget that. Yesterday, Fergus might well have seemed interested in her, but yesterday, Fergus had arrived in the walled garden with a bruised ego and a wish to forget, for a moment, why he was here at Brockmore Manor in the first place. She had been a short-term distraction, no more. She’d do well to keep her distance from him.

      A burst of applause startled her from her melancholy musings. Alexei stood in the centre of the circle of women, his arms crossed, his expression stormy. Finally, the duchess realised that she and her ladies were persona non grata, for she was leading the way out of the garden, presumably to resume their tour of the gardens and the legendary orchid house. A posy of traditional English roses to be introduced to the duchess’s exotic blooms.

      * * *

      Fergus grasped the oars of the rowing boat and concentrated on gently pushing it away from the little jetty on the island and out on to the lake. Lady Verity had been his allotted passenger for the return trip after the picnic luncheon, but when he’d dutifully invited her to step aboard, she had demurred, thrusting the Kilmun twins at him in her stead.

      He had not attempted to cajole her. In truth, he’d felt guiltily relieved. She was very beautiful, but there was something about the haughty way she surveyed the world, the cold, clipped way she conversed, that he found most off-putting. At dinner last night he’d tried to be attentive, but to little avail. He had tried to persuade himself that she was most likely nervous given the circumstances, but today during the picnic, watching her perfectly relaxed with the other guests, he had caught glimpses of the vivaciousness that had by all accounts made her the toast of the ton. Yet in his company, he could almost see the icicles forming. And if he was brutally honest, lovely as she was, eminently suitable as she was as a diplomat’s wife, as a woman, she left him as cold as he appeared to leave her.

      He wasn’t the kind of conceited dolt who expected every woman he met to fall at his feet, though he’d never before failed to charm when that was his stated intention. Was she one of those women who were incapable of feelings? No, that was his male pride talking. Besides, the point of this week was not to charm or woo, but to forge an alliance. A matchmaking fair, Katerina had called this Midsummer Party, and she was right. A marriage market is what it was.

      Clear of the shallows around the island, he began to row towards the boating house with long, powerful strokes. The Kilmun twins smiled their almost-identical smiles at him.

      ‘You handle the oars like a master mariner, Colonel Kennedy.’

      ‘We are in safe hands, Sister.’

      ‘I rather think you were intended to be in different hands,’ Fergus said, relieved to turn his thoughts away from his own matrimonial prospects. ‘Brigstock,