“Thank you, Wells.” Breanna squeezed his arm, grateful that a guard had been assigned to act as butler for the evening—not only because it meant added protection, but because it meant Wells could see the fruits of his labor by stationing himself at the ballroom door.
A cluster of chatting matrons breezed by, so engrossed in their gossip that they never noticed Breanna. They hovered at the ballroom doorway—all shimmering jewels and rustling silk—finishing their whispered conversation, then hastened in to rejoin the party.
A wave of familiar nervousness accosted Breanna in a rush, bringing with it the lingering remnants of a shy child who’d stayed in the background, let her bolder, more outspoken cousin lead the way.
“Wells,” she murmured tentatively, rubbing her skirts between her fingers. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me in? You know how I hate making entrances.”
Wells frowned, fully aware of Breanna’s reticence— and its cause. “Your father’s gone, Miss Breanna,” he reminded her gently. “And, yes, I know you hate making entrances. You hate anything that makes you the center of attention. Well, tonight youarethe center of attention—you and Miss Stacie. This party is in your honor. I refuse to pretend otherwise.”
He cupped Breanna’s elbow, guided her toward the ballroom. “In the eyes of theton,I’m a butler. Which doesn’t bother me a bit. I take great pride in my position. Besides, you and Miss Stacie view me as family, and that’s all that matters. My point is, I won’t escort you. That would cause those women who just passed by here to swoon, which would, in turn, detract from your entrance. What Iwilldo is announce you—just as I announced Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake. How would that be?”
Breanna studied the throngs of people, the movement of light and color as laughing couples whirled about the dance floor, helped themselves to plates of food and glasses of punch. There were easily a hundred and fifty people already filling the room.
Her gut clenched.
“Please, Miss Breanna,” Wells urged, resorting to the one tactic he knew would work. “Do it for me.”
How could she not? Especially when he was looking at her like a proud father about to present his treasure to the world.
“All right, Wells,” she managed. “Let’s get this over with. Once everyone stops staring at me, I’ll be fine.”
“You’re already fine,” he countered. “You’re far more than fine. In less than one minute, you’ll be swamped by admirers, most of whom will be totally unworthy. I, myself, shall keep an eye on things, make sure you’re not pestered by any one suitor for too long. Should you need further reinforcements, Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake are directly to your right, chatting with Lord and Lady Dutton and the Earl and Countess of Geldrick. Actually, they’re not chatting. Both men are frantically trying to make amends to Miss Stacie for their stupidity in snubbing her business proposition last summer. And Miss Stacie is having fun watching them squirm. She’s already done the same to the Duke of Maywood, the Marquess of Radebrook, and the Viscount Crompton.” Breanna couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you, fells. For pointing out where I can find a safe haven and for giving me that status report.”
“Your safe haven. I’m glad you brought that up.” Wells’s humor vanished, and his uneasy gaze traveled the room. “Lord Royce is near the French doors. So are two guards. The others are positioned everywhere on the estate. Given that a third nobleman was murdered in London last week, no one will question the added security. In fact, they’ll be grateful for it. So relax and have fun. All will be well.” Soberly, Breanna nodded, sickened by the re-minder of what was fast becoming an epidemic of killings. Three men had now died, and their wives had vanished. The whole situation was terrifying. Between that and the fear surrounding her own dilemma…
Her worried thoughts were interrupted by Wells trumpeting, “May I present this evening’s other love ly honoree, Lady Breanna Colby. While I realize Lady Breanna is your hostess, I am temporarily relieving her of that role—long enough to ask you to join me in wishing her a very happy birthday.”
Wells’s utterly unconventional announcement yielded a round of laughter and a host of good-natured wishes. It also did wonders for easing Breanna’s unsettled state—a state that had escalated from mere anxiety over a public appearance to blind fear over armed killers.
“You’re incorrigible,” she told Wells affectionately, grateful as always for his innate understanding of her. She knew he’d very intentionally made her entrance more relaxed and less ceremonious. And she loved him for it.
Drawing a slow breath, she walked into the room, greeting her guests as she did, finding that it was infinitely easier than expected to act the part of hostess. Many of her guests approached to thank her for considerately adding so many guards to the estate since, as expected, they were all terribly nervous about the string of murders taking place.
Breanna scarcely had time to answer before she was swept up into a whirl of activity, being claimed for a dance, then moving from one partner to another. She found herself wishing she could stop long enough to take a breath and exchange a word with Stacie.
Not that her cousin was any more idle than she. Dressed in an exquisite gown of bottle-green silk overlaid with French gauze, Stacie was holding her own kind of court. With Damen adhered firmly to her side, she was politely accepting the stammering apologies of a half dozen businessmen—apologies, Breanna suspected, that were motivated by equal doses of regret over their missed profit-making opportunities and worry over the glares they were receiving from Damen Lockewood, whose bank was at the heart of all their ventures. As she circled the dance floor with the arrogant nd handsome Lord Percy Gilbert, Breanna caught Stacie’s eye, saw the amusement there, and nearly laughed aloud. Those poor men. They didn’t stand a chance.
The strings fell silent, and Breanna was just about to excuse herself and head toward Stacie and Damen when she heard a soft, feminine voice ask, “Breanna, may I speak with you?”
She turned, surprised to see Lady Margaret Warner waiting impatiently beside her.
As the most sought-after young woman in thecrowd,Margaret never approached anyone, certainly lot at a ball. She waited forthemto approachher.Ever coy, friendly but not eager, Margaret was always surrounded by far too many friends and admirers to weak free and chat. True, she and Breanna had become friends over the past months, but doing needlepoint together and seeking her out at a ball were two different things entirely.
“Margaret.” Breanna hid her surprise well. “Of course.” She smiled at Lord Percy. “You’ll excuse us?”
“Of course he will.” There was that flirtatious charm Margaret exuded so well. She gazed intently at Gilbert, batted those long, irresistible lashes, and murmured, “His lordship, understands that we ladies have things to discuss. You don’t mind, do you?”
Gilbert bowed, an anticipatory gleam flashing in his eyes. “Of course not.”
“I knew you’d understand.” She touched his arm, ever so slightly. “Thank you.” With that, she led Breanna off, guiding her close to the musicians so whatever they discussed would be drowned out once the dancing recommenced.
The next set began and Margaret came to a halt, pivoting about, the skirts of her blush-colored gown swirling about her ankles like a pastel cloud. “This ball is delightful,” she told Breanna with an unexpectedly warm squeeze of her hands. “The whole party is a stunning success.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Breanna offered her new friend a genuine, if puzzled, smile. She waited, wondering what the real reason was behind Margaret’s unprecedented behavior.
She didn’t have long to wait.
“Tell me,” Margaret whispered, leaning closer to Breanna as if to share a coveted secret. “I’m dying to know. How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
A puff of tinkling laughter. “You needn’t be modest. Not with me. I’m duly impressed. So tell me, how did you convince him to come?”
“Convincewhoto come?” Breanna was beginning to feel like a total idiot.
The look Margaret gave her did nothing to erase that feeling.”Who?”she repeated incredulously. “Why, Royce Chadwick, of course. He’s refused every invitation since returning from India. And last Season he made only three appearances, none of them for more than an hour. Yet you managed to lure him to your party. How did you do it?”
Breanna followed Margaret’s line of vision, easily spotting Lord Royce conversing with a group of gentlemen. Then again, Lord Royce would be easy to spot anywhere, even in a large crowd such as this.Hisheight and build, his powerful presence, those hard, ark, dangerously handsome good looks—especially lad in formal evening clothes— were enough to at-:act any woman’s eye.
Clearly, they attractedeverywoman’s eye. And Margaret Warner was no exception.
“I…” Breanna wet her lips with the tip of hertongue ,desperately trying to think of a reply. She recalled Lord Royce mentioning that he rarely attended parties, but it never occurred to her that his appearance here would cause such an extreme reaction.
Then again, it should have occurred to her. Judging from the look on Margaret Warner’s face, RoyceChadwickwas not onlynoticedby every breathing unattached female in theton,he was coveted by them, as well.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Margaret hissed. Tell me. Have you known him long?”
“He’s a friend of Damen’s,” Breanna finally replied, realizing that she couldn’t stand there gaping and saying nothing forever. “I believe they’re business associates.” She prayed that wasn’t a confidential tidbit he’d just revealed. But Lord help her, she had to say something.
“So you’re not acquainted with him yourself.” Margaret’s face fell. “I was hoping you could put in a kind word … that is…”
Breanna understood precisely what Margaret was toping. The question was, how did she respond?
She was mulling it over when Royce Chadwick looked up, staring directly toward the musicians and finding her with an ease that made her suspect he knew exactly where she was now, and probably where he’d been from the instant she entered the ballroom.
His midnight blue gaze locked with hers.
The impact was staggering, like a blow knocking the breath right from her lungs, and Breanna had to fight the urge to gasp in air. Instead, she merely stood there, unable to look away, watching as he made his way across the room, heading purposefully toward her.
“Breanna?” Margaret repeated, obviously unsettled by Breanna’s silence, as well as by the fact that she had to humble herself in a fashion that was utterly foreign to her. “Have you met him or not?”
“Yes,” Breanna heard herself say. “I’ve met him.’’
“Ah.” Margaret released a heartfelt sigh. “Then Anastasiahasintroduced you. Good. Would you do me the same favor? I mean, I’ve actually been introduced—twice—and even shared a dance or two with him. But it can’t hurt to refresh his memory. It would certainly ease my way—some idle chatter, a waltz, maybe even a moonlight stroll. After that, the rest should go smoothly.”
Breanna scarcely heard what Margaret was saying. Because at that moment, the very man her friend was plotting to snare was reaching their sides.
“Good evening, Lady Breanna.” Royce bowed, lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Thank you for inviting me to this lovely party.”
Breanna’s heart began slamming against her ribs and, suddenly, she knew why she’d reacted so strongly.
This was a different Royce Chadwick, not the implacable man who hunted down criminals, understood their minds. This was an elegant, polished nobleman who blended in with theton —polite, sociable, alarmingly charismatic.No —not just charismatic Seductive. Desirable. Exciting in a way that hadnothingto do with outwitting an enemy.
This man was more dangerous than the one she’d originally met.
“I’m delighted to have you, my lord,” she managed, then felt hot color rush to her cheeks at the implication of her own words. She found herself praying it was only her heightened senses that were causing her to view her comment in such a lascivious fashion.
If Lord Royce perceived anything out of the ordinary, he didn’t show it. “I’m delighted to be here.”
Thank heavens. He’d missed it.
“You’re flushed,” he added with offhanded ease. “May I get you some punch?”
He hadn’t missed it. Or if he’d missed the indecent connotation of her words, he certainly hadn’t missed her flustered reaction to them.
Once again, Breanna summoned her now-faltering inner reserve. “Yes. Thank you. I do feel warm. I suppose it’s all the excitement.” From the corner of her eye, she spied Margaret, inching purposefully closer. “Lord Royce, are you acquainted with Lady Margaret Warner? If not, let me introduce you.”
Royce’s smile was the essence of gentility. “Lady Margaret and I have met. How are you, my lady?” he inquired.
“Very well, thank you, my lord. And, yes, I do recall our introduction. It was last year, during my first Season.” Margaret lowered her lashes and moistened her lips—ever so scarcely—prompting Breanna to wish she could master the fine art of furring as well as her friend.
“Will you excuse us?” Lord Royce was asking Margaret, simultaneously gripping Breanna’s elbow. “Our hostess deserves something cool to drink.”
“Of course.” Whatever disappointment Margaret was feeling she kept carefully in check.
Royce led Breanna across the room and over to the punch bowl. “Here.” He offered her a glass. “This will help.”
Help what? Breanna wanted to ask. Her hand trembling, she accepted the glass, drinking down the entire goblet in an attempt to cool her throat and calm her nerves.
“More?” Royce asked.
It was only fruit juice, flavored with a little Madeira, a bit of champagne, and an insignificant amount of brandy, Breanna reminded herself. She nodded, swallowing the second glass almost as quickly as she had the first, then reaching eagerly for a third.
She was three-quarters of the way through with that glass when Royce murmured, “I think you should take a few breaths before going for a fourth.”
He sounded amused.
Breanna glanced up at him.
Helookedamused.