Chapter One
Ignoring the glitteringsea of silks, lace, and jewels that swirled about Lord and Lady Montague’s cavernous ballroom, Regina Taylor slipped between clusters of guests, her skirts brushing against brocade coats and crinolines as she searched with single-minded urgency. The air was thick with perfume and candle wax, the mingling scents almost cloying, and the babble of conversation competed with the lively strains of the stringed quartet. Ordinarily, she might have delighted in the spectacle of fluttering fans, whispered gossip, and shimmering chandeliers, but tonight she scarcely noticed any of it. Her thoughts were fixed on only one person.
Jane Meyers.
The Earl of Penrose’s only child, and Regina’s dearest friend since childhood. As little girls, they had played in meadows and whispered secrets beneath apple trees. As young women, Regina sometimes wondered how Jane had managed without the guidance of a mother, for her dear friend’s romantic notions often needed steadying. More often than not, Regina felt less like a companion and more like Jane’s guardian.
Tonight was no exception. If Jane truly meant to attach herself to Wayne Worthington, Regina could not stand idly by. Someone must save the earl’s daughter from making the gravest mistake of her life.
Regina hurried her steps, ignoring the curious glances of passing couples. Her heart thudded in time with the violin’s quickening notes. The engagement had not yet been announced, thank heaven, but Regina feared Lord Penrose would see this grand occasion as the perfect moment to parade his daughter’s betrothal before theton. Time was slipping away.
At last, she spied Jane.
Her friend stood half hidden near a towering potted palm, a glass of champagne in hand, the very picture of stubborn defiance with her chin tilted high. The scowl Jane cast in Regina’s direction confirmed what Regina already suspected. Her friend was as weary of hearing cautionary lectures as Regina was of giving them. But friendship, true friendship, was not so easily dismissed. Regina had weathered Jane’s sulks before, and she would weather them again if it meant saving her from a disastrous marriage.
Regina wove through the final cluster of gentlemen debating horseflesh, and stationed herself next to her friend. Jane tried to feign indifference as her gaze fixed on the dancers gliding across the parquet floor. She even smiled—radiant, girlish, besotted.
Inwardly, Regina groaned. That expression was entirely due to Mr. Worthington, the man Jane had scarcely known a week and already dreamed of marrying.
If only Regina could share her friend’s enthusiasm. Indeed, Wayne Worthington possessed the kind of looks that drew sighs from impressionable young ladies. He was broad-shouldered, golden-haired, with a smile designed to charm. But beneath the polish, Regina’s instincts screamed a warning. Men such as he valued wealth above devotion, ambition above tenderness.
She knew this truth far too well from her own bitter experiences. The whispers she had overheard of tales of his debts, his restlessness, his calculated pursuit of advantageousconnections, were enough to convince her that Jane’s happiness would wither under such a union.
“Jane,” Regina began firmly, though her voice was nearly swallowed by the music and chatter. She stepped closer, lowering her tone. “It is imperative that we talk.”
Jane’s slight frame swayed unconsciously to the rhythm of the violins. Her blonde ringlets bounced as she resolutely turned away, as though Regina were a figment of her imagination.
Regina ground her teeth and tried again, louder this time. “You might as well face me now, because I will follow you wherever you go. I assure you, your shadow will not be as close as I will be.”
At that, Jane shot her a withering glance, her brown eyes sparking. “No, Regina. We do not have to talk. I already know what you will say, and I’m not in the mood to quarrel.”
Regina planted herself directly in her friend’s line of sight, folding her arms in a gesture she knew would infuriate Jane. “’Tis not a quarrel I seek, only a chance to be heard.”
Jane huffed, rolling her eyes in dramatic fashion. “We have been friends since we were five, Regina Taylor. I can read you as plainly as I read the morning gazette.”
“Splendid,” Regina countered. “Then you already understand why I’m determined to speak.”
Her friend’s lips pressed together in a mulish line. “How many times must I repeat it? I have fallen in love with him! When Mr. Worthington and I first met, he had no idea my father was an earl. That alone proves his affection is genuine.”
Regina’s frown deepened. “Or it proves he is clever at pretending ignorance. How could any man of ambition not know your father’s name? Everyone in London does.”
“Not everyone,” Jane said crisply, lifting her chin. “Mr. Worthington is from Devonshire. He is hardly immersed in London Society.”
“And what is his father? A farmer? A shopkeeper? Tell me, Jane, does this paragon of yours not read the newspapers or the society pages?”
Jane bristled. “I doubt his father troubles himself with idle gossip. Mr. Worthington, I’ll have you know, owns several jewelry shops across England. He is a gentleman of industry.”
Regina restrained the urge to laugh outright. “Industry, perhaps. Gentility, I think not. If his fortune were truly so vast, why does he not dress the part? Why has he not been present at other assemblies or soirées?”
“He was invited tonight,” Jane shot back triumphantly.
“Only because you pressed your aunt and uncle to include him,” Regina said swiftly, unable to resist the retort.
Jane’s mouth pursed so tightly that all resemblance of sweetness fled her features. It saddened Regina to see it, for Jane could be quite pretty when she allowed herself to smile. Memories tugged at Regina as she stood there, recalling their youth. Before they had come out for their first Season, the neighborhood boys had flocked to her side instead of Jane’s. Her father’s lesser title had not seemed to matter when weighed against appearances. The lads had assured her she was prettier, and they had competed for her attention as though her favor were a prize to be won.
But Regina had long since realized the truth—that most men did not truly see her at all. They admired the curl of her dark lashes, the shape of her lips, the graceful bounce of her dark-brown ringlet hair, but not the heart beating within her chest. They sought a glittering ornament, not a companion.
For years, she had loathed the beauty she had inherited from her mother, a beauty that had brought suitors by the dozens but precious little sincerity. Only her mother had been fortunate and wooed by wealthy men, but she chose instead the quiet baron who had adored her. Regina prayed she might be as lucky oneday, though so far, every gentleman she encountered had proven hollow.
