Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom. Deb Marlowe

against the coming confrontation.

      Despite his fine words to Charles, he knew his last encounter with Miss Beecham had been a disaster, start to finish. His shoulders hunched involuntarily. Especially the finish. He’d been sick at the thought of what he’d almost done and horrified at his own complete loss of control.

      So close. His hand had buried itself in the glowing softness of her hair. Her breath had mingled, hot and sweet, with his. He’d stood mere seconds away from locking her within his embrace and ending her disturbingly empathetic conversation with a searing kiss.

      After his escape he had waged a silent war with himself, wavering between his wish to stay as far away as possible from the dangerous chit and his need to ask for her co-operation in finding her cousin. She had every right to refuse him—to slap his face and order him to keep his distance. But he hoped fervently that she would not.

      He felt better, more like himself, now. His success in finding a first trace of Batiste’s whereabouts had taken the edge off of his desperation. He’d slept at last without being haunted by taunting visions of the captain and his father. He’d clamped down hard on his wayward emotions and taken a step back towards the equilibrium he craved.

      This exhibition should be the perfect venue to help him get back in Miss Beecham’s good graces. A gorgeous house, intellectual stimulation, fascinating antiquities, beautiful gardens—what more could he ask for? He could deal with her in his own milieu, impress her, charm her and get her alone where he could offer up his proposition and in no way act again like a weak-willed fool.

      She was just a woman. One endowed with wit and beauty and a good deal of spirit, to be sure, but no longer a match for his discipline and determination. He could do this. If only she gave him the chance.

      Traffic quieted as they made the turn on to Bruton Street. Jack stared as the landau slowed, approaching his brother’s house. What was this? At first he tried mightily to hide his dismay. Then he gave up, gave in and simply laughed out loud. He had not granted the wily Miss Beecham enough credit. Give him the chance? Clearly she meant to leave nothing to chance.

      Instead of a pair of ladies waiting patiently inside, a large group of people milled on the steps and on the pavement in front of the town house. Several vehicles waited empty in the street. He spotted Minerva Dawson and her betrothed, Lord Lindley. There stood Mrs Montague and—Lord, was that Sally Jersey? In the midst of them stood Miss Beecham. He caught sight of her as she gave a little jump and a wave.

      ‘Good morning, Mr Alden!’ she called. ‘I hope you won’t mind a few additions to your party!’

       Chapter Six

      Lily had succeeded in her ploy. She’d been unable to deny the twinge of satisfaction she’d felt when she’d glimpsed the surprise on Jack Alden’s face this morning, but, she had to admit, he’d succeeded in surprising her, too.

      A country villa? She turned round and round inside the incredible central hall of Chester House. Awestruck, she let her eye rove from the stone floor, over the magnificent plaster ornamentation and on to the high windows and the lofty dome overheard. Her jaw had dropped when they had pulled up to this gleaming neo-Palladian villa, but with her first step inside she’d fallen instantly in love.

      Oh, how her mother would despise the place. A wealthy gentleman’s playhouse. A hedonist’s dream, replete with everything fanciful, ornate and overblown.

      But so much more, as well. Like a light and airy treasure box, it showcased art and antiquities flanked by and contained within the most exquisite architecture. It stood testimony to man’s capability for beauty, celebrated his sense of ingenuity and wonder. It spoke directly to Lily’s soul.

      Guests, laughing and boisterous, began to spill in behind her. Lily was swept along to an elaborate, tripartite gallery where, en masse, they were met by their host. In the midst of all the splendour, Lord Bradington looked short and somewhat ordinary, yet he stepped up to a lavishly inlaid marble podium and welcomed them with generous and open arms.

      ‘The best way to properly see the collection is in small groups,’ he announced. ‘We will split up. Besides myself, we are fortunate to have several experts among us. They will be happy, I am sure, to share their knowledge and thus enhance your own enjoyment of the treasures on display. There will be plenty of time to see everything before we gather back here …’ he gestured ‘… in the gallery, to hear our notable speakers and enjoy a light repast.’

      Good-natured chaos ensued as people began to separate into groups. Lily took advantage of the confusion. She slipped behind a gilded pillar, anxious for a quiet moment to recover and take it all in.

      This was it—what she had been anticipating, hoping for, when she came to London. Not the riches that surrounded her, but the happy exuberance and simple joy to be found in sharing them, their history and the grand idea that they somehow connected every single person here.

      Heart pounding, she leaned against the cool marble and peeked out into the crowd. Her eye unerringly went to Jack Alden, as it had done foolishly, repeatedly, all morning.

      Why now? she wanted to cry at him. Why now, when she had reached her decision to stay away, made her resolution to avoid him, did he abruptly turn himself into the exact thing she hadn’t acknowledged that she was looking for?

      He’d had every right to be angry at her perfidy in inviting along Minerva and her fiancé, the Bartleighs, and a few others besides, to his outing. But he’d acted quite the opposite. He had taken off his hat, thrown back his head and laughed heartily at the sight of her entourage and she had been captivated by the sight of the breeze wafting through his dark hair and the green sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Even as she’d stared, he’d replaced his hat, and given her a jaunty salute, making her wonder if he’d guessed at the reason behind her strategy.

      Nor had he objected when she had climbed up with Minerva to ride in Mr Brookin’s flashy demi-landau. Instead, he had welcomed the Bartleighs into his own vehicle and, from what she could see, had spent the drive out chatting and charming them completely.

      Now he gathered her friends into a group and then he raised his head and ran a searching gaze about the room.

      ‘Lily Beecham?’ he called. ‘Miss Beecham must join us as well.’

      The others echoed his cry. Lily breathed deep. There was no help for it. All she could do was join the group and avoid Jack Alden as best she could.

      This, it turned out, was no easy task. In fact, she thought at one point that it just might be the hardest thing she had ever tried to do.

      Gone was Jack Alden’s veneer of cool reserve. Not once did she catch even a hint of worldly cynicism. Instead, he led their group on a private, informative, highly entertaining tour. The Anglo-Saxon antiquities on display throughout the house were fascinating and it seemed he knew something about every piece. He explained the incised decorations on a disc brooch, and pointed out the faint remains of tinning on a Saxon wrist clasp. He spoke at length and with enthusiasm about the theories regarding the Alfred jewel and the possibility that more might exist. He showed himself to be knowledgeable and passionate.

      And nigh irresistible.

      Lily was unceasingly aware of him all day. She felt attuned to his every clever remark and deep, husky laugh. She grew warmer every time she noticed that his relaxed manner only emphasised the strength of his form and his long-limbed grace. All day she watched him and her body hummed, head to toe, with a heated, shivering awareness.

      And yet she forced herself to behave with complete indifference. She did not meet his eye, kept at least two others between them at all times, permitted herself only a distant smile so many times when what she really wished was to laugh out loud.

      It was torture.

      By the time the papers were read, the speeches given and the lavish spread of food consumed, Lily’s head was aching. She was tired of fighting to keep her gaze from straying to wherever Jack Alden stood. When Mr Keller, another of the scholars invited to