Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom. Deb Marlowe

stood poised on the brink of madness. Ahead loomed naught but the chaotic pit and behind him lurked Lily Beecham, one tiny hand placed squarely at his back, urging him forwards to his doom.

      He could not believe that it had happened again. He’d come with a plan and a purpose. He’d visualised how he would proceed. He’d anticipated and prepared for her every response. Except, it appeared, for this one.

      She blended right in to the atmosphere of Chester House, as if she was meant to stroll amongst the beauties of the ages and enrich them with her own special appeal. He’d half-expected that. He’d expected her to be lively and vivacious. He’d hoped she’d be caught up in his own attempt at charm and charisma.

      He’d been at least partly right. Good God—her allure was a nearly palpable thing. She had every man here in her thrall. But something had gone missing. She seemed interested, happy—and utterly indifferent to him.

      Jack knew that he did not possess the renowned charm of his brother, but he exerted himself powerfully and did his best to channel Charles’s effortless likeability—to no avail.

      And just like that, all of his careful planning, and reason and logic, too, flew right out of the proverbial window. He could swear he heard his father’s mocking laughter mixed in with the gaiety of the company. Her complete lack of interest triggered something alarming inside of him. He felt hot and reckless, and uncertain as well, as if he would do anything to get her to look at him the way she had at their first, eventful meeting.

      He had a limited supply of self-control left, and it took every ounce of it to stay calm, act the perfect host, and exude amiability and unconcern. When he saw Keller take her into the gardens he breathed deep, squelched the urge to roar like an enraged bull, politely excused himself from his companions and followed.

      He found them in the middle of the gardens, where a large, flat lawn had been created. The two of them strolled slowly along the western edge, admiring the border of alternating stone urns and cypress trees. At least, the girl appeared to be admiring them. Keller’s attention was focused somewhere else altogether.

      ‘There you are, Keller,’ he called. ‘Lord Bradington is looking for you, old man.’

      ‘How nice,’ Keller responded. His eyes never strayed from Lily Beecham’s lithe shape.

      ‘Yes, he’s debating the dating on that collection of gold, die-struck belt mounts in the library. Apparently someone is arguing that they might be Viking-made.’

      ‘What?’ Now Keller’s head came up and he looked back towards the house. ‘That cannot be right. No, no. Those were clearly manufactured by early Saxons.’

      ‘Someone’s convinced Bradington otherwise. He’s already talking of changing the placard and moving them in with the other Viking artefacts.’

      ‘That will not do!’ Keller exclaimed. He looked with regret at the girl. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Beecham, but I will have to go back and remedy this. Shall you accompany me?’

      ‘No, you go in,’ Jack interjected. ‘Miss Beecham has hardly seen any of the grounds. I shall take her on. You can join us again once you have cleared up this travesty.’

      ‘Perhaps I should go back,’ she demurred. ‘My friends …’

      ‘Are all already strolling the gardens,’ Jack said smoothly. ‘I will help you find them.’

      She said nothing further. Keller hurried back towards the house and Jack decided it would be prudent to move on.

      ‘Have you seen the stone gateway?’ He inclined his head at her. ‘It is quite renowned as a place of good fortune.’

      ‘No …’ she gazed up at him with something that looked like exasperation ‘… I have not. Perhaps we should walk that way before poor Mr Keller discovers your ruse?’

      Jack laughed. ‘Was I that obvious?’

      ‘Perhaps only to those already familiar with your machinations,’ she said sourly.

      He indicated the direction and offered up his arm. After a long searching look, she sighed and laid her hand lightly on his.

      ‘A gate of good fortune, you said?’ she asked. ‘How does it work?’

      ‘I couldn’t say how the tales originated, but the legend says that you must pause on the threshold, thinking very hard on the difficulties of your life. You must concentrate and count to three silently while you swing open the gate and cross through.’

      ‘And then?’

      ‘And then your troubles are over.’ He shrugged. ‘The hardships you focused on will have disappeared.’

      ‘Would that it were that easy,’ she said wistfully. ‘But I shall definitely write and tell my old nurse of it. She adores tales of superstition and fancy.’

      The sun rode low in the afternoon sky. Its rays, filtered through spring leaves, painted the ancient statuary with a forgiving brush. Miss Beecham paused to admire the figure of Palladio. The soft light erased the harsh wear of time on his stern-faced visage, but Jack could not look away from the little fires it lit in the fall of her hair.

      ‘I tried to get away earlier and ask you to tour the gardens,’ he said. ‘I noticed that you looked a little pale and thought perhaps you’d welcome a quiet stroll with a restful companion.’

      An ironic snort was her only answer.

      Jack clenched his teeth. Even her sarcasm attracted him. When they resumed their stroll he allowed his gaze to run down the turquoise-and-ivory dress she wore and he briefly mourned the bosom-enhancing high waists that had lately fallen out of fashion.

      He breathed deep and forced himself to focus. All of his work today had been leading to this.

      ‘Hmm. I left myself wide open with that remark and you failed to take advantage of it. Forgive me, but you have not seemed yourself today, Miss Beecham,’ he said. They’d reached a paved circular area from which three avenues radiated outwards. He ignored them all and instead led her on to a smaller, gravelled pathway through a copse. ‘I’m sorry if the day has not been to your liking.’

      ‘Of course the day has been to my liking, Mr Alden.’ Had she been any younger he would have sworn she would have rolled her eyes at him. ‘I found a peacock feather on the drive as soon as we arrived, so I knew it was certain to be a good day.’

      He blinked at that, but she did not pause.

      ‘But you are right, I have not been acting myself and it has taken some of the shine from what might have been a perfect day—and given me a dreadful headache besides.’

      ‘Not acting yourself? Well, then, whose role have you been enacting?’

      She cast him an arch look. ‘Couldn’t you tell? I would have thought you found it a familiar picture.’

      They’d intersected the larger walk that would lead them to the gate. Jack stopped abruptly as his feet hit the smooth surface and stared incredulously at her. ‘Me? You thought to act like me?’

      Was that how he looked to her? Aloof, uninterested, distant? Was that how everyone else viewed him as well? The idea astounded him. He’d thought himself reserved, yes, but not so determinedly remote.

      Suddenly he began to laugh. He allowed her hand to drop away from his arm, walked over to lean on a sturdy horse-chestnut tree and proceeded to shake with amusement, long and hard.

      ‘It’s not funny, I assure you.’ Miss Beecham sniffed. ‘I have no idea how you go about like that every day. It’s too much work.’

      ‘No, no.’ He chuckled. ‘You did an admirable imitation of me. I dare say I should have enjoyed it more had I known what to look for.’ He straightened away from the massive trunk and grinned at her. ‘And, in truth, it was only fair. Now you must return the critique, for I’ve been doing my damnedest to act more like you!’

      ‘Were