Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

Or, at least, this one. Damn it, he was proposing to go and risk his life for her honour and what did she do? Treat him to a Cheltenham tragedy, that’s what. She had not even mentioned the duel. The door slammed behind her as he brushed himself down.

      Well, he had introduced himself to society in his true colours, he had achieved his aim of calling Randall to book and now he was here, dressed up like a damned dandy, he was going to dance at the ball, whatever Rich Miss Moneybags had to say about it. The simmering anger subsided into a stubborn resolution not to let Lily France get the better of him, which, given that he loved the woman to distraction, did nothing for his common sense and everything to put a sharp edge of reckless danger into his mood.

      He ran a hand through his modish crop, grimacing at the unfamiliar feel of it, and opened the door on to the heat and light of the ballroom.

      Lily swept down the corridor and abruptly round a corner, only to stop short. The woman approaching her stopped too, then Lily realised that she was looking at her own, almost unrecognizable, reflection. A furious, imperious stranger stared back at her, hair swept up, elegant gown still fluttering from the speed of her steps, colour high. She looked magnificent—there was no point in false modesty. She had utterly altered the way she looked for Jack, and all the insensitive, unobservant beast could think of to say was to ask her if she had changed her hairstyle!

      It was much easier to be angry about that than it was to think about anything else: all the reasons why she hurt so much inside, all the hideous images of death or wounding that rose up if she thought about the duel. If she thought about those, about how much she loved Jack—stubborn, pig-headed, beast that he was—she would cry. And he was not worth crying about. She stamped her foot and the troubled green eyes looking back at her seemed to protest silently that he was.

      Lily unfurled her fan with a snap and opened the door into the ballroom. Here she was a success. Here she was admired. Doubtless here were dozens of men who would be honoured to marry her.

      ‘Miss France? Our cotillion, I believe.’

      ‘Of course.’ She directed a glittering smile at Mr Fancot, tossed her diamond earbobs and allowed herself to be led out to take her place in the set. They had worked through the first set of changes and figures and were just going down the grand chain when Lily caught a glimpse of the set on the other side of the room. There, cheerfully smiling at his partner and executing a rigadoon as though he did it every day of the week, was Jack Lovell. Lord Allerton.

      Lily lost her place, found she was holding out the wrong hand for the circle and hastily corrected herself. What was he doing here still?

      ‘Are you all right, Miss France?’

      ‘I am sorry, Mr Fancot, merely a moment’s inattention.’

      The demands of the cotillion were enough to keep her attention focused until it ended, but she was searching the room for him as Mr Fancot led her off. Would Jack approach her? Would he have the intolerable effrontery to ask her for a dance? She would soon deal with him if he did.

      Unfortunately, he did not give her that satisfaction. Lily danced every dance, even when her feet were aching and she wanted nothing more than to sit one out and take a little refreshment. And Jack—Lord Allerton—danced every one as well. He had no shortage of partners, and no lack of skill either, she observed resentfully.

      And then it was the last waltz on the programme, with just the closing cotillion yet to come. Lily watched the approach of her partner, Mr Beresford, second son of the Earl of Stan-don. He was pompous, he was crashingly boring, but he was also one of the handsomest men in London, and every young lady present felt that to dance with him could only lend them distinction.

      Before he reached her, Jack was at her side. ‘Miss France, our dance, I believe?’

      ‘It is not, my lord, you are mistaken. I am promised to Mr Beresford.’ Lily produced a glittering smile for the gentleman.

      ‘Miss France, how could you forget? I am wounded. You promised me this last dance only the other day.’ There was a shadow of emphasis on last.

      Punctiliously Mr Beresford bowed. ‘Lord Allerton, I would naturally not wish to intrude.’

      ‘But—’ Lily found her hand firmly possessed and then she was on the dance floor, held in such a way that she could only escape by a very obvious struggle. ‘Let me go!’

      ‘Smile, Lily. People will be watching.’

      ‘I will not!’ He swept her round as the music started and Lily found she could not dance and quarrel at the same time—not without falling over her own feet, at any rate. She plastered a complaisant smile on her lips and glared at him with her eyes. ‘Lout.’

      ‘Cat.’

      ‘Stubborn, pig-headed, snobbish, deceitful, odious man—’

      ‘Meddling, patronising, vulgar, spoilt brat.’

      ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’

      ‘I have absolutely no wish to speak to you at all.’ Jack said it so blandly that it took Lily’s breath away and she found herself whisked through the terrace doors and out into the open air before she had a chance to protest. ‘I just want to do this.’

      The kiss was an outrageous, arrogant gesture that rocked her back against his constraining arm. She could feel her heartbeat thundering in her breast, her whole body yearning towards him even as she strained away. Her hands were trapped, one in his grasp, the other pressed against his chest. When he released her she staggered, too shaken to slap him as he so richly deserved.

      ‘Goodbye, Lily, my love. Good luck finding your lord.’ He paused on the threshold of the ballroom, outlined in dark elegance for a moment against the rich gold brocade, smiling back at her as she stood panting with fury and arousal on the flags. ‘I do like your hair.’

      ‘Well, I do not like yours!’ she flung back childishly. But he was gone.

      Somehow Lily got herself back into the ballroom, danced the final cotillion with perfect grace and an absolute lack of awareness, made her farewells and thanks to the duchess and, at long last, sank back against the squabs in the carriage.

      ‘You may well sigh,’ Lady Billington remarked, settling down opposite her. ‘What an evening, I declare I am quite worn out and I was not dancing. You must have holes in the soles of your shoes, Lily dear.

      ‘But what a success you were. And, of course, there was that incredible revelation when your Mr Lovell turned out to be an earl. I can recall his father, now I come to think of it—a more classically handsome man than the son. What a surprise that he appeared at the ball tonight.’

      ‘He came to challenge Lord Randall to a duel,’ Lily said listlessly. Her temper had ebbed into sick anticlimax, her feet ached and she was filled with the miserable realisation that not only had Jack hurt her abominably, but that she had been cruelly unfair to him. And that he was now in peril of his life. Because of her.

      ‘But why?’ Jane Billington dropped her reticule as she sat bolt upright.

      ‘Over Adrian’s insults to me.’ Oh, God, Jack is going to die. Or he will kill Adrian and then he will be a fugitive. Or be hanged. And it is all my fault. I love him and I let my wretched pride and my temper rule me and now I have lost him for ever. ‘Lady Billington, what can I do to stop it?’

      ‘Nothing! Good heavens, child, that would be a disaster—a scandal. And in any case, nothing you can do would stop them. A challenge is a matter of honour—they cannot withdraw now, not without one of them apologising.’

      ‘I’ll inform on them,’ Lily said vehemently, as the carriage lurched round a corner, hitting the kerb and throwing her against the door post. She pushed herself upright without noticing. ‘I’ll find out where it is and inform at the magistrates’ office.’

      ‘They will just go elsewhere. It is a matter of honour, Lily.’

      ‘I have