Courting The Forbidden Debutante. Laura Martin

society, rumours bouncing off them left and right, without anyone really knowing who they were. One of the more believable pieces of gossip was that one of the young men was related to Lady Winston, which would explain their easy entrance to the ball, but other than that Georgina didn’t know what to believe.

      ‘Tell me,’ Mr Robertson said, leaning casually against the stone balustrade, ‘Do you like all the attention from your little crowd of admirers?’

      Georgina sighed. She’d been out in society for three years after making a rather late debut at the age of eighteen and ever since she’d been followed around by a persistent group of men. Every ball, every evening at the opera, she would find herself with too many glasses of lemonade, too many offers of an escort, too many eager faces ready to do her bidding at the snap of her fingers. At first she’d enjoyed the attention—what young woman wouldn’t?—but after a few weeks she’d realised why they were quite so attentive.

      ‘Sometimes I think I might marry the next man who asks just to be rid of them,’ she said, surprising herself with her honesty.

      Throwing his head back, Mr Robertson laughed, drawing curious looks from the other couples on the terrace.

      ‘It sounds terribly conceited, I know,’ Georgina said quickly.

      ‘You think they’re after you for your family connections?’

      ‘And my dowry.’

      Georgina knew she was pretty enough and her mother had ensured she was tutored in all the things women were supposed to be accomplished in; she could play the piano and sing like a lark, she could organise a household with military precision and she could paint a vase full of flowers with any type of paint, but all of these things were just little bonuses. The real prize was being married to the daughter of an earl, an earl who was one of the most influential men in England.

      ‘You’ve turned down marriage proposals?’ Mr Robertson asked.

      Nodding, Georgina felt the heat rise in her cheeks when she thought of quite how many men she’d turned down. Her father hadn’t minded, not at first, but she knew soon his patience would wear out. The next well-connected, titled gentleman who asked for her hand in marriage would be pushed upon her whether she liked him or not.

      ‘I should be getting back,’ she said, taking a step towards the glass doors.

      A hand on her arm stopped her instantly. It was warm and firm and made Georgina want to throw caution to the wind.

      ‘Surely a couple more minutes couldn’t hurt,’ Mr Robertson suggested. ‘Or will your father be looking for you?’

      ‘My father?’ Georgina asked, frowning.

      ‘You said your mother was home in bed...’

      ‘My father never attends these sorts of events. I came with a friend and her mother.’

      There was a flash of something in Mr Robertson’s eyes. For an instant it looked like disappointment, but whatever it was the look was gone quickly and replaced by the relaxed amusement Georgina was already beginning to associate with her companion.

      ‘Then there really is no reason we shouldn’t tarry a little longer.’

      ‘You forget my reputation, Mr Robertson. If I am not back in the ballroom within the next couple of minutes, all fashion of rumours will begin to spread.’

      ‘I find rumours are best ignored.’

      ‘But some of us are unable to ignore them. A young woman is only worth as much as her reputation. It has been lovely talking to you, Mr Robertson, but I must return to the ball.’

      With a small bow he offered her his arm and led her back towards the glass doors. As they stepped inside Georgina felt the collective stare of the guests upon her. It had been foolish allowing Mr Robertson to lead her outside in the first place, foolish to want a break from the monotony of a ball she felt as though she’d attended a thousand times. Now there would be whispers, nothing too malicious, she was the daughter of an earl after all, but whispers all the same.

      ‘They’re striking up for a waltz,’ Mr Robertson said, his lips surprisingly close to her ear.

      ‘I think I’m meant to be dancing with Mr Wilcox,’ Georgina said, glancing around the room to see if she could spot her next companion.

      ‘Dance with me.’

      She laughed, thinking he was joking, but the expression on his face told her he wasn’t. It was tempting, oh, so tempting. Just the thought of being held close by his strong arms, being smiled down upon with those lips that never seemed to stop smiling, but Georgina knew she had to have more willpower than that.

      ‘I cannot disappoint Mr Wilcox,’ she said, pulling away.

      ‘Even though you want to?’

      Before she could stop him, Mr Robertson had pulled her into his arms and manoeuvred them into a free spot on the dance floor among the other couples getting ready to dance the waltz. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mr Wilcox striding towards them, stopping as he saw Georgina in the arms of another man, taking her first steps as the music began.

      ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Georgina hissed.

      ‘Dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room.’

      ‘I told you I was engaged for this dance. With someone else.’

      Mr Robertson shrugged, managing to complete the movement and continue to hold her in the correct position without missing a step.

      ‘I wanted to dance with you, Lady Georgina, and I find not much is achieved in this world if you are content to stand back and wait your turn.’ Normally she would shy away from a man with quite so much self-assurance, but it suited the man in front of her and she found herself pulled in by his easy manner and strong arms in equal measure.

      He was a good dancer, certainly not a natural, but managed to twirl her round with a practised ease. She wondered how a proficiency at dancing a waltz fitted in to any of the rumours about his origins, but then as he gripped her a little tighter all thoughts of corsairs and French spies left her mind.

      ‘You’re a good dancer,’ he said as he executed a turn, taking the opportunity to pull her in another inch closer.

      ‘I’m an adequate dancer,’ she corrected. It was true, she could remember the steps, seldom stomped on her partner’s toes and was able to keep a conversation going throughout the less energetic dances, but she would never be one of those debutantes. The ones who sailed across the dance floor with barely any effort and looked as though they were skating across ice, their movements so smooth.

      ‘You’re a difficult woman to compliment,’ he murmured, silencing her protest with a stern look. ‘Not because it is difficult to find things to compliment you on, but you do argue back rather a lot.’

      ‘Not normally,’ Georgina said under her breath. Normally she accepted compliments with a small smile and a demure downcasting of her eyes. Her many suitors often extolled the beauty of her hair, her eyes, the curve of her mouth, and Georgina found it all rather ridiculous, but normally it was easier just to accept the compliment rather than get into a discussion about why her eyes weren’t like two shimmering emeralds.

      ‘You owe me,’ Georgina said, hastily changing the subject.

      ‘I owe you?’

      ‘Now I will have to find a way to make it up to Mr Wilcox for missing his dance.’

      ‘Lucky Mr Wilcox.’

      Georgina ignored the provocative remark and pushed on. ‘So as my reward I want to know the truth about you.’

      ‘Whether I’m a French spy or an evil criminal?’

      ‘Exactly. Who are you, Mr Robertson?’

      He leant in closer, far too close for propriety, but Georgina couldn’t