She withdrew her hand, spine straight. “I recommend you prepare better, my lord. I am merely warming up.”
He laughed, loud enough to draw attention. She turned on her heel, refusing to look back, and headed for the relative sanctuary of the terrace.
She paid no mind to Lady Honoria whispering to her circle, nor the admiring or envious glances. All she saw was the night, wild and inviting, and the improbable feeling that maybe, just maybe, she wanted the game to continue.
Louisa allowed herself a small, secret smile, as she stepped onto the terrace.
CHAPTER 3
The world outside Lady Louisa’s bedchamber conspired against her rest, refusing to let her sleep off the indignities of the night. Below, a clock chimed four in the morning—late enough that any self-respecting debutante should be deep in dreams or at least cocooned in her sheets, shielded from scandal.
Louisa was not a self-respecting debutante. Judging by her current state—half-crouched on the windowsill, hair unbound, shivering in a chemise so thin it might as well have been woven from mist—she doubted she respected herself at all. The window’s leaded glass gaped open, its frame cool against her palms and feet as she calculated the distance to the gravel walk below.
She could not fathom why she felt compelled to escape in such an undignified manner. The house felt suffocating as the aftermath of the evening’s dance simmered feverishly in her mind. Every glance, every whispered slander, and every memory of Foxmere’s confident hands at her waist during the waltz stitched into her nerves. The library lay closed to her. Her pride was too bruised to endure another defeat at Foxmere’s hands.
Thus, the window. Thus her predicament. Ankles hooked over the stone ledge, fingers clenched into the sill, breath a visible fog against the glass.
Below, the garden shimmered in moonlight. The topiary yew trees hunched like gossiping dowagers. Louisa surveyed the drop, which appeared reasonable from a distance but now loomed like a chasm eager to shatter her bones and what remained of her reputation.
She wriggled forward, teeth chattering, almost losing her grip. Her shift snagged on a splinter as she reached for the edge of her balcony. A sharp gasp escaped her—an involuntary sound so small it felt like a betrayal. She froze, suspended between escape and humiliation, unable to move for fear of toppling. In a moment of madness, she considered clinging to the ledge until morning, like some tragic heroine preserved in her own folly.
A shadow detached itself from the hedge below, and a voice drifted upward—soft, laced with the amusement of a man who had never faced consequences.
“Planning a midnight adventure, Primrose?”
If moonlight could speak, it would sound like Lord Foxmere’s voice—bright, indifferent, and just a touch too loud for the hour.
Louisa went rigid. Her first thought was: Kill me. Her second: If I jump and the fall doesn’t finish me, he certainly will.
She found her voice, a hissed whisper barely louder than the rustle of the hedges: “You are the last person I wish to see.”
Foxmere appeared fully, standing in the moonlit path. He was not dressed for nocturnal seduction or lurking. He wore what appeared to be the remnants of his evening attire—shirt unlaced, hair a disheveled mess, and eyes trained on her with infuriating alertness.
“You’ll freeze, you know,” he called, his voice so civil it felt rude. “Or worse. That drop’s farther than it looks.”
“Go away,” Louisa snapped, mortification battling hypothermia for control of her voice.
“Not a chance,” he replied. “You’ll break your neck.”
She gritted her teeth and attempted to maneuver herself back into the room, but the sill was narrow and the window narrower. In her struggle to untangle her hem, her hair slipped forward in a wild curtain.
The silence below stretched, and for a moment she hoped, against all evidence, that Foxmere had simply evaporated.
“Lovely view from here,” he observed. “Though I feel I should avert my eyes for your modesty. It’s a point of pride with me to preserve the honor of damsels in distress.”
“If you valued my honor,” she ground out, “you would remove yourself and your idiotic commentary.”
“Primrose,” he said, “if I left you hanging, I’d never forgive myself. And think of the ton. Society would collapse for lack of scandal.”
With great effort and personal disgrace, she leveraged the balcony frame and scrambled back onto the sill. Her bare feet landed on the wood with a slap. She yanked the window shut—nearly catching her hair in the process—then sagged to the floor, pulse racing.
Minutes later, there was a polite knock on her door. She cursed—eloquently, in three languages—then hurried to lock it. The knock came again, followed by a low, urgent whisper: “Louisa. Let me in.”
She pressed her back to the panel, shivering. “No. I am not decent.”
“You’re hardly decent at the best of times,” he replied. “And I have already seen you, so you’re perfectly safe.”
“I will scream,” she threatened.
