Chapter One
"You are staring again, Vanessa."
Lady Vanessa Wayworth tore her gaze from the far side of the ballroom with the sort of violence usually reserved for removing splinters. Her mother stood beside her, fan moving in that deceptively lazy rhythm that meant she had noticed something worth commenting upon.
"I was not staring," Vanessa said. "I was merely observing. There is a significant difference."
"Is there?" Lady Wayworth's lips curved with the particular amusement of a woman who had raised three children and could spot a falsehood from across a crowded room. "And what, pray tell, were you observing with such intensity that you failed to notice Lord Haberton attempting to catch your eye for the past five minutes?"
Vanessa glanced toward the unfortunate Lord Haberton, who stood by the refreshment table looking rather like a hopeful spaniel who had been denied a treat. She felt a pang of guilt, which she quickly smothered. Lord Haberton was perfectly pleasant, if one enjoyed conversations about crop rotation and the finer points of sheep husbandry which did not particularly interest Vanessa.
"I shall speak with him presently," she said, which was not entirely candid, and they both knew it.
Her mother's fan paused its movement. "Vanessa. You are two-and-twenty. This is your fourth Season. Your father is beginning to make noises about settlements and sensible matches, and I can only deflect him for so long."
"I am aware of my age, Mama. I was present for all of my birthdays."
"Your wit will not secure you a husband."
"Then perhaps I shall have to secure something else. A small cottage, perhaps and some cats. I am told spinsters are required to keep cats. I should like to make a start on the collection."
Lady Wayworth sighed the sigh of a woman who had deployed this particular argument many times before and knew precisely how it would end.
"You are impossible."
"I preferdiscerning."
"You prefer…" Her mother stopped abruptly, her gaze shifting to something over Vanessa's shoulder. Her expression transformed into one of genuine warmth.
"Ah. Lord Montehood. How delightful to see you."
Vanessa's spine went rigid.
No. Not now. She had been doing so well. An entire forty-three minutes at this wretched ball without having to endure his presence, his insufferable smile, his way of looking at her as though she were a mildly amusing puzzle he had not yet bothered to solve.
"Lady Wayworth." That voice. Low and warm and carrying just the faintest edge of amusement, as though the entire world existed primarily for his entertainment.
"You are, as always, the brightest ornament in any room. I cannot imagine how Lord Wayworth managed to convince you to enter into matrimony with him. Bribery, I suspect or perhaps you have employed a touch of enchantment.”
Her mother actuallylaughedlike a woman half her age being paid an outrageous compliment. "You are a shameless flatterer, Your Grace."
"I am merely an observer of obvious truths."
Vanessa turned as she had no choice, really. To continue facing away would be rude, and more importantly, it would suggest that his presence affected her in some way which it obviously did not.
Martin Hale, Duke of Montehood, stood before her in evening black, his dark hair artfully disheveled in that manner that suggested he had spent no time on it whatsoever and yet somehow looked better than every other man in the room. His expressive grey eyes, framed by a luscious set of lashes which were irritatingly expressive, swept over her with lazy assessment.
"Little Wayworth," he said. "What a pleasure."
Little Wayworth.She had been "little Wayworth" since she was sixteen years old, when Edward had first brought his Oxford friend home for the summer holidays. She had been gangly then, all elbows and poorly concealed admiration, trailing after them like a lovesick duckling. Martin had been kind about it, in the careless way of young men who do not notice the devastation they leave in their wake. He had ruffled her hair once and called her Edward's "little shadow."
She had been overwhelmed by a sense of acute mortification, yet her heart remained shamefully eager for a repetition of the encounter.
Six years later, she was no longer gangly. She had grown into herself, learned to wield wit like a weapon and composure like armor. And yet, hestillcalled her little Wayworth, as though she were eternally frozen at sixteen, forever Edward's inconvenient younger sister.
"Your Grace," she said, and was proud of how steady her voice emerged.
"I had not realised you were attending this evening. I was told the entertainment would be exceptional."
