Rake in the Regency Ballroom. Bronwyn Scott

naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’

      He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.

      Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too sacred to escape sacrifice. There was something Lucien Canton wanted and Philippa was a vital link in his ability to get it. He speculated that Lucien Canton would be willing to do more than marry to secure it as well.

      The man had portrayed no signs of lover-like affections, but had instead acted like a man in possession of a great treasure around which he must place guards and fences. It didn’t take a large amount of speculation, even knowing as little as he did about the state of Philippa’s inheritance from Cambourne, to surmise Canton had his eye on some aspect of her estate.

      Beldon had asked him in the coach if he believed in serendipity. Absolutely not. He had not survived the dark side of diplomacy by luck. He’d survived because he believed a man made his own chances. From the looks of things, Lucien Canton believed that too. That made the man more dangerous than he might have been otherwise.

      He wondered if Philippa knew Canton didn’t love her, but what she owned. If not, he’d be sure to call it to her attention by showing her the depths of his own passion for her. It looked like he wouldn’t make Roseland Hall by New Year after all.

       31 December

      The dancers whirled about Valerian in a dervish of luxurious winter velvets and satins to a rowdy country dance played by the five-piece orchestra seated above the crowd in the small balcony at the top of the ballroom, designed for just such a purpose. The guests were in high spirits as midnight approached. Philippa had done a splendid job playing hostess, making sure everyone had partners for dancing. No one went unnoticed, from the plainest of girls to the quietest of matrons.

      He and Beldon had done their parts to ensure her success in that pursuit. They’d danced with the matrons and charmed the local wallflowers until they blossomed.

      But for the most part, Valerian had spent the evening listening to the rhythm of Cornwall. What did people think about these days? What was the lifeblood of the Cornish economy? Where did people think their future lay? The answer repeatedly came back to mining.

      It was not surprising. Mining had been an ongoing consideration in the region for literally centuries. Valerian’s own family had mining interests upon which the family fortunes were built. He knew the Duke of Cambourne had invested heavily in tin and copper mines as well as the ancillary businesses that accompanied the industry of mining: smelting, furnace parts and mining equipment.

      What did surprise him was the growing competition. Mining had not yet reached its apex, but the foundations for managing those future interests were being laid now. Mining had become a full blown industry and much more highly politicised than it had been before.

      Valerian had caught snatches of conversations regarding mining-related legislation. House of Commons members, home from the Michaelmas session of Parliament, and members of the House of Lords, debated the need for safety laws that ensured a quality of life for the miners and their families.

      More intriguing to Valerian were the conversations he overheard regarding the merits of importing metal ores from British settlements in Chile and Argentina. The capitalists of the group argued importing would certainly help meet growing industrial need, while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.

      Canton sided with the capitalists, avidly arguing for aggressive expansion in South American mining. Valerian’s earlier suspicions about Canton coveting the assets brought to him through marriage to Philippa were finding substantiation in Canton’s avaricious stance on the economics of mining. Valerian made a mental note to ask Beldon about the extent of Philippa’s mining assets.

      ‘Fifteen minutes until midnight!’The cry went up from the orchestra conductor, who urged everyone to find a partner for the ‘last waltz of the year’. There was an excited flurry on the dance floor as people laughingly paired up.

      Valerian strode purposefully towards the group Philippa stood with. Other than acting as a willing dance partner for her wallflowers, Valerian had stayed apart from her. He preferred to study her movements and behaviour from afar—a certain kind of exquisite torture he’d imposed on himself as punishment for the prior evening. In hindsight, he acknowledged that he had not handled himself well on the balcony. He’d rushed his fences without knowing his quarry.

      Tonight, she sparkled among an already glittering crowd. The deep gold of her gown was an elegant foil for the mass of burnished hair piled on her head and coiffed in strands of gold, woven through the coils like other women wove pearls. Her long neck was shown to advantage with the upsweep of her hair and Valerian was seized with the urge to kiss her nape as he came up behind her. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders as if he were settling an imaginary cloak about her. He bent close to her ear, saying, ‘I believe this dance is mine.’

      It was a proprietary overture on his part and he knew it well. Most women thrilled to such a seductive, possessive claim. Odds were that Philippa wouldn’t. But neither would she be able to politely refuse without looking like a shrew in front of the others.

      Whatever scold she had in store for him would be worth the feel of her in his arms. Waltzing was something they’d done often and well in the old days.

      ‘Viscount,’ Philippa said, recovering from having been caught unaware by his gambit, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve left it until the last minute.’ She gave a smile, forced to cover for his presumptions.

      ‘My apologies.’ Valerian swept her a gallant bow and escorted her to the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t get off that easily. He had no sooner fitted his hand against her back when she showed her displeasure.

      ‘Don’t ever handle me like that again,’ she began.

      ‘I am afraid it would be rather difficult to dance without touching you,’ Valerian said obtusely.

      ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You put me in a position where I could not refuse you without looking rag-mannered. Moreover, you insinuated claims on my attentions that you do not have.’

      ‘Haven’t I?’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with her.

      The music started up before she could fire another insult at his head. Valerian swept her out into the centre of the floor, effortlessly creating space for them in the crowd. He was confident her pique wouldn’t last long. Philippa could not resist the lure of the waltz. It had always been her favourite dance.

      He had waltzed women across dance floors from the Black Sea to St Mark’s Square in Venice, but no partner could rival the beauty of Philippa in his arms. Her long legs matched his stride with ease; her body answered the subtle guidance of his hand. She was all fluid grace as they moved through the turn at the top of the ballroom, her anger at him erased in the exhilaration of the dance.

      They turned swiftly and tightly, giving him a reason to bring her up close to him instead of holding her at arm’s length. She gasped at the change in contact, then threw back her head and gave an honest laugh. ‘You waltz scandalously, St Just. Is this how they do it in Vienna?’

      ‘It’s how I do it.’ He wondered how long he could keep her like this. The sight of her smile was breathtaking. In that moment, the smile was all for him. It was not her hostess smile, or her duchess smile, just