Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom. Deb Marlowe

      ‘Not at all, as far as I can tell. He’s quite happy there. He’s a shipbuilder and doing tolerably well.’ She cocked her head. ‘Perhaps his business has increased and that is what keeps him from writing.’

      Disappointment and hope warred in Jack’s chest. For a moment he considered telling her the truth, but cast the thought quickly aside. She obviously knew nothing of the trouble her cousin had tangled himself in. Matthew Beecham might just contact his cousin and ask for help. It would behoove Jack to stay close as well.

      It was a sobering thought. She was damned perplexing. He didn’t know if he could win her confidence, and, more importantly, he didn’t know if he could keep a rein on his own unfortunate reactions to her.

      He’d been quiet too long. She watched him, curiosity etched in her clear, fresh face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘thank you for distracting me from my sombre thoughts. I had best return to the music room.’ She glanced at him again and made to move away.

      ‘Wait,’ he asked. His conscience still pricked him. He could not forget the earlier hurt in her voice.

      She paused.

      ‘About what I said earlier,’ he began, stumbling a little over the words. ‘I have no authority to dictate to you, or even advise you. Truly, I meant my words, as I said, as a warning. A friendly warning.’ She’d stopped on her way out and stood very close now. The darkened room contracted around them. ‘Perhaps you do not know, but my own family has shown a disregard for society’s expectations in the past—and been persecuted for it. I just wish to spare you that sort of pain.’

      Her face softened. Jack’s gaze locked with hers. Her colour heightened and he noticed that those adorable freckles disappeared when she flushed. ‘I begin to understand,’ she said softly. Jack had the impression that she spoke as much to herself as to him. ‘Perhaps you will scoff—’ she spoke in nearly a whisper ‘—but we are very alike.’

      A frown furrowed her lovely brow, and she caught that enticingly plump bottom lip with her teeth. Jack could not look away. Somehow the chit had turned the tables and was now worried for him. It was an intoxicating thought. Yet he was here with a purpose. He drew a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of anything else.

      Her hand rose between them. Jack’s pulse began to race. Small and uncertain, that hovering hand drove all thought of his objective from his head. For a moment, he felt sure she meant to draw it back. His gut twisted inside out as part of him longed to jerk away—and the other waited in breathless anticipation for her to touch him.

      She did touch him. He saw the resolution in her eyes as she extended her arm and then he felt the butterfly touch of her fingers tracing a path along his jaw. His eyes closed. Her warm little hand slid over his shoulder and came to rest on his chest.

      ‘When my father died, I thought just as you do,’ she whispered. ‘It is a very hard thing, to feel alone in a room full of people.’

      But Jack’s eyes were open again, and her words did not register. He could not think past the mix of empathy and desire swimming in the cool blue of her gaze, could not focus on anything but the movement of that tempting lower lip. Logic, his close companion all these years, screamed at him to stop, shouted a warning that, for the first time ever, he ignored. Her mouth beckoned. He had to taste it, mark it as his.

      His gaze fixed, he mimicked her earlier movement, raising his hand and brushing the silky skin of her jaw. She gasped. He did not let it deter him. He ran his fingers into the smooth knot of hair at her nape and cupped her jaw. He leaned in, intent on his purpose—

      ‘Miss Beecham?’

      She jerked back, her eyes wide. Jack blinked. Then he cursed. Ever so slowly, awareness began to return. She stepped quickly towards the door, but the alarm in his head did not fade.

      ‘Miss Beecham, there you are!’

      It was one of the young pups who had drooled over her in the music room. He gave an extravagant bow and offered her his arm and a friendly grin. ‘Miss Beecham, I’ve been sent to fetch you. Our hostess hopes you will entertain us all with a song on the pianoforte.’

      She glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. The boy’s gaze followed. His engaging smile faded.

      Jack managed a grim nod. ‘There, Miss Beecham,’ he said, keeping his tone brisk. ‘Perhaps this young man will take you back to my mother while I find the footman seeking me? Thank you for informing me of the message awaiting me.’

      The boy’s grin returned at the welcome request. ‘I would be happy to escort you, Miss Beecham. Mr Bartleigh is but newly arrived, but he tells us you have more than a passing knowledge of many of the older broadsheet ballads. He’s hoping you’ll share your rendition of “Ballynamony”.’

      She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should not.’ She glanced at Jack again, and this time there was a challenge glittering in her eyes. ‘So many of the ballads are sentimental. I should not wish to expose myself to ridicule.’

      ‘Never say such a thing! A lovely young lady such as yourself, in genial company such as this? Impossible,’ he scoffed. ‘And should anyone dare to suggest otherwise, I will deal with them myself.’

      Jack’s jaw clenched. Miss Beecham smiled up at her young admirer.

      He had to escape. Logic whispered fervently in his ear again and this time he paid heed. Logic stood correct and unassailable as always. He should feel grateful for the boy’s interruption, not ready and willing to strangle both him and the baiting chit.

      ‘Miss Beecham—’ he could not look directly at her ‘—thank you for your kindness in coming for me. Please convey my farewells to my mother?’

      ‘Of course. Goodnight, Mr Alden.’

      He ignored the thread of steel in her voice and brushed past them into the hall. He did indeed go searching for a footman and sent the man off after his coat and hat.

      He should be thrilled. He’d accomplished the first step and verified Miss Beecham’s connection to his target. Now he only had to wait for him to communicate with her, or he might even prod her into discovering her cousin’s whereabouts. She might even know more, such as where the shipbuilder might have gone when he disappeared.

      He was not thrilled. The vague restlessness that had been plaguing him roiled in his gut, transformed into something altogether uglier. He’d had a narrow escape tonight, on several levels. This could not continue. He must control himself around the girl, no matter what tender emotions lived in her blue eyes and in spite of that damned tempting mouth of hers.

      Control. Restraint. They were his allies, his support, as necessary to his existence as air. He breathed deep. He could do this. Hell, he’d already spent a lifetime doing this.

      The footman brought his things. As he shrugged into his coat, the first few strains of a sprightly song began in the music room. Miss Beecham’s bright, lilting voice wafted out and over him.

       Wherever I’m going, and all the day long,

       At home and abroad, or alone in a Throng,

       I find that my Passion’s so lively and strong,

       That your Name when I’m silent still runs in my Song.

      Jack placed his hat firmly on his head and walked out.

       Chapter Five

      Lady Dayle’s morning room shone bright and airy, as warm and welcoming as the viscountess herself. Unfortunately, Lily’s mood did not reflect the serenity of her surroundings. She sat at the dainty writing desk, trying to compose a letter to her land steward.

      Last night’s conversation had triggered the idea. She’d spoken of her cousin Matthew to Mr Alden and she’d woken this morning with a sudden longing for one of his breezy, affectionate letters. She’d realised that it had