Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom: Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable

That sardonic smile appeared. Lily’s heart jumped at the sight of it. ‘I do get out and amongst people on occasion, Miss Beecham. Thank goodness for it, too; I would not have missed making your acquaintance for the world.’

She ignored the good humour in his voice and let her gaze drop to his injured arm. ‘Yes, but I do hope you did not strain your arm in doing so.’

‘No, it is fine, thank you. I should be able to remove the sling in a week or two.’

‘When your mother told me of your profession, I asked her if you had sustained your injury in a fall from a library stepstool.’

Mr Alden choked on a sip of his wine. Lily saw his jaw tighten and when he spoke, his light tone had been replaced with something altogether darker.

‘No. Actually I was shot—while helping to prevent a group of thieves from making off with some valuable antiquities.’

‘So Lady Dayle tells me! I was quite amazed, and a little thrilled, actually.’ She smiled brightly at his reddening countenance. ‘You give me hope, you see.’

‘Hope?’ he asked, and his voice sounded only slightly strangled.

‘Indeed. For if a quiet scholar like you can find himself embroiled in such an adventure, then perhaps there is hope for a simple girl like me as well.’

It was a struggle, she could tell, but still he retained his expression of bland interest. Curse him.

‘Do you crave adventure, Miss Beecham?’ he asked.

‘Not adventure, precisely.’

‘Travel, perhaps? A flock of admirers?’ He was regaining his equilibrium, fast. ‘Or perhaps you simply wish for dessert?’ He flagged down a passing footman with a tray of pastries.

Lily had to suppress a smile. This oh-so-polite battle of wit and words was by far the most fun she had had in ages. She eyed the footman and decided to take the battle to the next level. She selected a particularly rich-looking fruit-filled tart. ‘Travel,’ she mused. ‘That would be delightful. But since I have it on good authority that I am of no age or situation conducive to easy arrangements, I suppose I must wait until I am older.’ She raised her tart in salute. ‘And stouter.’

Her eyes locked with his while she took a large bite, only to gradually close in ecstasy. She chewed, sighed and savoured. ‘Oh, I must tell your mother to try one—the burnt-orange cream topping is divine!’ Breathing deep, she held her breath for several long seconds before slowly exhaling. She opened languid eyes, taking care to keep them half-hooded as she glanced again at Mr Alden.

And promptly forgot to take a second bite. That had done it. At last she had cracked his polite façade. He stared, the green of his eyes nearly obliterated by pupils dilated with hunger. It wasn’t the tart that he hungered for, either. His gaze was fixed very definitely on the modest neckline of her gown.

‘So if travel must be a delayed gratification …’ he said hoarsely, then paused to clear his throat ‘… what will you substitute, Miss Beecham?’

‘This,’ replied Lily instantly, waving her free hand. ‘Delightful company with warm and open-minded people. The chance to exchange ideas, enjoy music and good conversation.’

‘I hear that Mrs Montague has opened her gallery to her visitors tonight,’ he returned. ‘She has several noteworthy pieces. Perhaps you will enjoy some good conversation with me while we explore it?’

Lily smiled at him. She popped the last bit of tart into her mouth and dusted the crumbs from her gloves. ‘Thank you, Mr Alden …’ she shook her head as he offered her his arm ‘… but I must decline. I see an acquaintance from the Foreign Bible Society and I simply must go and congratulate her on her gown.’ She dipped a curtsy and, fighting to keep a triumphant smile from her face, turned and set off.

Flummoxed, Jack watched Lily Beecham walk away. This was not at all going the way he had planned. He’d mapped his strategy so carefully, too, and the troublesome chit had derailed him completely.

Aberrant—that’s what she was. If it wasn’t against all the laws of nature for one female to inspire so many conflicting reactions in a man, then it should be. She acted in a manner completely unpredictable. Her sharp wit and quirky humour kept him perpetually unbalanced—just as he desperately sought an even keel.

His nightmares had grown worse over the last few days. He couldn’t sleep and had no wish to eat. Worse—he couldn’t concentrate on his work. The ability to form a coherent written thought appeared to have deserted him.

Things had grown so bad that scenes from his youth—memories of his father’s disdain for his third son—had begun to haunt him even while he was awake. But Jack had not allowed his father’s casual cruelty to touch him while he’d been alive, and he would be damned before he let the old codger torment him from the grave.

He’d focused all of his energies instead on the thought of capturing Batiste. One advantage Lord Dayle’s ‘damned bookish’ son possessed was a wide correspondence. Jack had contacts all over the world and, though it had been a painfully slow process, he had been for several weeks laboriously writing and put them all on notice. If Batiste put in to port near any of them, Jack would hear of it.

His next step was to track down Matthew Beecham. The shipbuilder had had extensive dealings with Batiste, and he might just be able to lead him straight to him. But first Jack had to get through Lily Beecham.

He circulated amongst Mrs Montague’s guests and tried not to be obvious in his observation of the girl. He’d taken note of her altered appearance straight away. She had a number of new freckles sprinkled across her nose, if he was not mistaken, and her red-gold mane had been tamed into a sleek and shining coiffure.

He thought he detected his mother’s hand in the new style of gown she wore. She still dressed conservatively, but the gown of deep blue poplin represented a vast difference from the shapeless sack she’d worn when they met. The white collar, though high, served to draw the eye unerringly to her substantially fine bosom, and the soft and sturdy fabric snuggled tight both there and down the long, shapely length of her arms.

She looked quiet, constrained, the veritable picture of restraint—until she spoke. Then a man found himself either cut by the razor edge of her tongue or riveted by her marvellously expressive face. Nor was he the only one affected. She made the rounds of the room, talking easily with everyone she encountered, and laughing with uninhibited abandon. Clearly she had a gift. Every person she spoke with ended up smiling right along with her. The ladies gazed fondly after her and the gentlemen stared, agape and entranced.

Jack hovered across the room, in complete sympathy with the lot of them. Like a naturalist who had discovered a new species, he could not look away. The girl appeared perfectly comfortable conversing with strangers and seemed to be on the best of terms with Minerva Dawson, too. He’d heard some nonsense about those two being distantly related. They flitted about the room like a couple of smiling butterflies, one darkly handsome, the other shining like a crimson flame. Jack saw Miss Dawson’s mother gazing fondly on the pair, but her companion—her sister, he thought—observed them with a frown. Well. Perhaps not everyone in the family was enamoured of their new connection.

Jack, watching closely as well, failed to see why. To his relief and chagrin, Miss Beecham never made a mis-step—until an elderly couple, arriving late, paused on the threshold of the room.

Obviously, she knew them. Mrs Montague had begun to herd her guests back to their seats in preparation for the music to begin again, but Miss Beecham struggled against the flow of people to fight her way to the newcomers. Her eyes shone and her sparkling smile grew wider still as she embraced them both with enthusiasm.

It looked to be a happy reunion. Jack watched surreptitiously as they talked. A few of the other guests had glanced over at the chattering threesome, but he thought he was the only one still paying attention when the older lady sobered, laid a gentle hand on Lily’s arm and said something in a soft voice.

Jack stood too far away to hear the words she spoke, but he could see that they were not welcome to Miss Beecham. She paled, instantly and noticeably. All of the joy faded from her face and her hand trembled as she grasped the other woman’s.

Mrs Montague chose that moment to notice her new arrivals. The little tableau broke apart as she greeted the couple heartily and began to pull them forwards towards the seating. Miss Beecham did not follow. Blank disbelief coloured her expression as she stared after the couple. She flashed a glance his way and Jack averted his eyes, pretending to be scanning for a seat. He looked back just in time to see her slipping away into the hall.

Jack’s heart began to pound. She was clearly distressed and probably sought a quiet moment to herself, but this was it—his chance to get her alone and talking about her family. He had to take it. He edged towards the door and followed.

The tinkling and tootling of tuning instruments followed him into the hall. The few people left out there began to move past him, into the music room. Jack could see no sign of the girl. He glanced up the stairs. Several women still moved up and down, seeking or leaving the ladies’ retiring room. No, not there. Instinct pointed him instead down the dimly lit hallway leading towards the back of the house.

He found her in the bookroom. Only a small pair of lamps fought the dark shadows here. Her head bowed, she stood, poised in graceful profile at the window. One hand stretched, holding the heavy curtain aside, but she did not look out. Jack’s breathing quickened. Flickering light, reflected from the torches set up outside, danced like living flames in her hair. He stopped just inside the door. ‘Miss Beecham? Are you all right?’

For a long, silent moment, she did not respond. Then she simply drew a breath and looked back at him, over her shoulder.

Jack, about to step closer, froze. There it was again, in her eyes. Pain, sorrow, loss. It had been the first expression he had seen on her face and it had struck him hard then. Now, when he could so closely contrast it with the joy and animation that had shone from her all evening, it hit him a staggering blow.

‘Good God,’ he said involuntarily. ‘What’s happened?’

She dropped the curtain. ‘I … that is … Nothing, thank you. I am fine.’

The urge to know, the compulsion to help her, fluttered in his breast. He realised that it happened every time he was with her. She forged in him a disturbing and unfamiliar yearning for a connection. He had to ignore it, to find a way to remember his purpose. To regain control.

‘Come, Miss Beecham, I’m not a fool. I can see that something has upset you.’

A china shepherdess graced the table next to the window. She avoided his gaze and touched the delicate thing with the lightest touch of her fingertips. Jack watched them glide over the smooth surface and swallowed.

‘It’s just … some disturbing news from a friend, I’m afraid,’ she said, still not looking at him.

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

Now she looked up. She set the figurine aside. Her chin rose and the icy coldness of her glare held him fast. ‘I should think you’d be happy to find that I am following your advice.’

‘Advice?’ Once again she had him at a loss. Ancient Sumerian was easier to translate than this girl’s fits and starts.

‘Yes. You see—here I am, hiding away, keeping my unsuitable emotions private.’

Stunned, Jack stared at her. Was this the reason for her hostility? Had he hurt her? He considered stepping closer, taking her hand, but he felt inept, clumsy. ‘I do apologise. If you thought I meant to criticise … I hope you will understand, I only meant to help you.’

She crossed her arms defensively in front of her. ‘Help me what?’

He took a moment to answer. ‘Protect yourself, I suppose.’

Her arms dropped. Her eyes grew huge and some emotion that looked dangerously like pity crossed her face. ‘Protect myself from what, Mr Alden?’ She gestured towards the door. ‘In there is a roomful of people come to pass a pleasant evening and enjoy some good music. It is not a den of monsters.’

She was so young. So naïve. Jack wanted to wrap her in swaddling and spirit her away, to somehow keep her safe in this pristine, happy state.

He took a step back. He was doing it again. She was doing it again. This was not why he had come here. He sketched a quick bow. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to insult you.’

She inclined her head a little. He took what he could get and forged ahead. ‘Your mother, she is well? I hope that was not the nature of your news?’

‘Oh. No. Mother is fine. I had a letter from her yesterday. She and Lady Ashford appear to be enjoying themselves. They have met many new people and even approve of a few of them.’

‘And the rest of your family?’ he persisted. ‘I hope they are well, also?’

‘Thank you, but I have no other family. Mother and I have been alone since my father died.’

Jack’s fist clenched. His breath caught. It could not be. Please. He did not want to have been wrong about her connection to Matthew Beecham. ‘Just the two of you alone in the world?’ he asked past the constriction in his throat. ‘That is sad enough, in and of itself.’

‘Just the two of us,’ she said. ‘Unless you count my cousin Matthew—but he lives in America now.’

Jack almost slumped in relief. Almost. He grinned at her. ‘An American cousin? My brother’s wife boasts such a connection. I hope yours is not so, ah, vibrant a character as hers.’

He’d actually drawn an answering smile. ‘Oh, Matthew is a character, without a doubt.’ She laughed. ‘You would never believe me if I shared half the antics we used to get up to.’

‘Are you close, then?’ He held his breath.

She sighed. ‘We were. Matthew lived with us for several years after his parents died. I was just a girl and I thought the sun rose and set with him.’

‘I hope he returned the sentiment.’

‘He did, or close enough to please me.’ She smiled. ‘He taught me the most unsuitable things! And I loved him for it.’

‘Hmm, now he sounds like my brother Charles.’

‘Oh, I’ve already heard a few of the tales about Charles.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t think we could have kept up with him, even on our best days.’

‘Nor could I.’

She glanced sharply at him and Jack wondered if he’d revealed too much.

‘Matthew was special to me. Other than my father, I would say that he may be the only person in the world who has ever truly known me.’

Jack fought a twinge of conscience. He was too close to back down now. ‘Was special? Do you not keep in touch any longer?’

‘We exchange the occasional letter.’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘I confess, although I have altogether less to write about, I am far more likely to write him than vice versa. And though his correspondence has always been irregular and infrequent, it is always a delight when it comes.’ She grinned again. ‘American life has some rather droll differences from ours, based on his descriptions.’ Jack watched, hopeful and more than a little enchanted, as a tiny frown of concentration creased her brow. ‘But it has been months and months since last I heard from him. I don’t think I realised until now just how long it has been.’

‘And how does he find America, besides droll? Does he not miss his home?’

‘Not at all, as far as I can tell. He’s quite happy there. He’s a shipbuilder and doing tolerably well.’ She cocked her head. ‘Perhaps his business has increased and that is what keeps him from writing.’

Disappointment and hope warred in Jack’s chest. For a moment he considered telling her the truth, but cast the thought quickly aside. She obviously knew nothing of the trouble her cousin had tangled himself in. Matthew Beecham might just contact his cousin and ask for help. It would behoove Jack to stay close as well.

It was a sobering thought. She was damned perplexing. He didn’t know if he could win her confidence, and, more importantly, he didn’t know if he could keep a rein on his own unfortunate reactions to her.

He’d been quiet too long. She watched him, curiosity etched in her clear, fresh face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘thank you for distracting me from my sombre thoughts. I had best return to the music room.’ She glanced at him again and made to move away.

‘Wait,’ he asked. His conscience still pricked him. He could not forget the earlier hurt in her voice.

She paused.

‘About what I said earlier,’ he began, stumbling a little over the words. ‘I have no authority to dictate to you, or even advise you. Truly, I meant my words, as I said, as a warning. A friendly warning.’ She’d stopped on her way out and stood very close now. The darkened room contracted around them. ‘Perhaps you do not know, but my own family has shown a disregard for society’s expectations in the past—and been persecuted for it. I just wish to spare you that sort of pain.’

Her face softened. Jack’s gaze locked with hers. Her colour heightened and he noticed that those adorable freckles disappeared when she flushed. ‘I begin to understand,’ she said softly. Jack had the impression that she spoke as much to herself as to him. ‘Perhaps you will scoff—’ she spoke in nearly a whisper ‘—but we are very alike.’

A frown furrowed her lovely brow, and she caught that enticingly plump bottom lip with her teeth. Jack could not look away. Somehow the chit had turned the tables and was now worried for him. It was an intoxicating thought. Yet he was here with a purpose. He drew a deep breath and tried to clear his mind of anything else.

Her hand rose between them. Jack’s pulse began to race. Small and uncertain, that hovering hand drove all thought of his objective from his head. For a moment, he felt sure she meant to draw it back. His gut twisted inside out as part of him longed to jerk away—and the other waited in breathless anticipation for her to touch him.

She did touch him. He saw the resolution in her eyes as she extended her arm and then he felt the butterfly touch of her fingers tracing a path along his jaw. His eyes closed. Her warm little hand slid over his shoulder and came to rest on his chest.

‘When my father died, I thought just as you do,’ she whispered. ‘It is a very hard thing, to feel alone in a room full of people.’

But Jack’s eyes were open again, and her words did not register. He could not think past the mix of empathy and desire swimming in the cool blue of her gaze, could not focus on anything but the movement of that tempting lower lip. Logic, his close companion all these years, screamed at him to stop, shouted a warning that, for the first time ever, he ignored. Her mouth beckoned. He had to taste it, mark it as his.

His gaze fixed, he mimicked her earlier movement, raising his hand and brushing the silky skin of her jaw. She gasped. He did not let it deter him. He ran his fingers into the smooth knot of hair at her nape and cupped her jaw. He leaned in, intent on his purpose—

‘Miss Beecham?’

She jerked back, her eyes wide. Jack blinked. Then he cursed. Ever so slowly, awareness began to return. She stepped quickly towards the door, but the alarm in his head did not fade.

‘Miss Beecham, there you are!’

It was one of the young pups who had drooled over her in the music room. He gave an extravagant bow and offered her his arm and a friendly grin. ‘Miss Beecham, I’ve been sent to fetch you. Our hostess hopes you will entertain us all with a song on the pianoforte.’

She glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. The boy’s gaze followed. His engaging smile faded.

Jack managed a grim nod. ‘There, Miss Beecham,’ he said, keeping his tone brisk. ‘Perhaps this young man will take you back to my mother while I find the footman seeking me? Thank you for informing me of the message awaiting me.’

The boy’s grin returned at the welcome request. ‘I would be happy to escort you, Miss Beecham. Mr Bartleigh is but newly arrived, but he tells us you have more than a passing knowledge of many of the older broadsheet ballads. He’s hoping you’ll share your rendition of “Ballynamony”.’

She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should not.’ She glanced at Jack again, and this time there was a challenge glittering in her eyes. ‘So many of the ballads are sentimental. I should not wish to expose myself to ridicule.’

‘Never say such a thing! A lovely young lady such as yourself, in genial company such as this? Impossible,’ he scoffed. ‘And should anyone dare to suggest otherwise, I will deal with them myself.’

Jack’s jaw clenched. Miss Beecham smiled up at her young admirer.

He had to escape. Logic whispered fervently in his ear again and this time he paid heed. Logic stood correct and unassailable as always. He should feel grateful for the boy’s interruption, not ready and willing to strangle both him and the baiting chit.

‘Miss Beecham—’ he could not look directly at her ‘—thank you for your kindness in coming for me. Please convey my farewells to my mother?’

‘Of course. Goodnight, Mr Alden.’

He ignored the thread of steel in her voice and brushed past them into the hall. He did indeed go searching for a footman and sent the man off after his coat and hat.

He should be thrilled. He’d accomplished the first step and verified Miss Beecham’s connection to his target. Now he only had to wait for him to communicate with her, or he might even prod her into discovering her cousin’s whereabouts. She might even know more, such as where the shipbuilder might have gone when he disappeared.

He was not thrilled. The vague restlessness that had been plaguing him roiled in his gut, transformed into something altogether uglier. He’d had a narrow escape tonight, on several levels. This could not continue. He must control himself around the girl, no matter what tender emotions lived in her blue eyes and in spite of that damned tempting mouth of hers.

Control. Restraint. They were his allies, his support, as necessary to his existence as air. He breathed deep. He could do this. Hell, he’d already spent a lifetime doing this.

The footman brought his things. As he shrugged into his coat, the first few strains of a sprightly song began in the music room. Miss Beecham’s bright, lilting voice wafted out and over him.

Wherever I’m going, and all the day long,

At home and abroad, or alone in a Throng,

I find that my Passion’s so lively and strong,

That your Name when I’m silent still runs in my Song.

Jack placed his hat firmly on his head and walked out.

Chapter Five

Lady Dayle’s morning room shone bright and airy, as warm and welcoming as the viscountess herself. Unfortunately, Lily’s mood did not reflect the serenity of her surroundings. She sat at the dainty writing desk, trying to compose a letter to her land steward.

Last night’s conversation had triggered the idea. She’d spoken of her cousin Matthew to Mr Alden and she’d woken this morning with a sudden longing for one of his breezy, affectionate letters. She’d realised that it had been quite some time since she’d last heard from him and resolved to ask Mr Albright to forward any personal mail on to London. Perhaps a lighthearted, teasing missive from America awaited her even now.

She hoped it was so. She could use a bolster to her confidence. She’d thought she’d come to London to find culture and learning and to broaden her experience. She’d begun to realise, however, that what she was truly looking for was acceptance, the casual sort of recognition and approval that most people experienced on a daily basis. She had found it, too, and from some truly amazing and worthy people.

But she had not found it in Jack Alden. She had seen flashes of approval from him, to be sure, and flares of something altogether darker, more dangerous and intriguing. But there had also been wariness and reserve and something that might be suspicion. And it was driving her mad.