Chapter One
“Darling Frances, it is time for our dance,” drawled a man’s voice, familiar, irritating and arrogant in its entitlement. “How well that cream silk gown becomes you.”
Lady Frances Harcourt looked towards the speaker with careful control of her finely sculpted features. While deeply annoyed by this manner of address, she was also conscious of the many observant eyes in the crowded ballroom, including those of her own mother, the Countess of Scovell.
Tall and willowy with light brown hair pinned neatly tonight with pearls, Frances possessed an air of quiet reserve and calm dignity that she did not wish to ruin by speaking her mind as loudly and frankly as she was presently tempted.
“I was not aware that we had agreed to dance, Lord Mulford,” she said lightly. “You must be mistaken. In any case, I am tired, and the next dance is a reel.”
“Lord Mulford?” the tall, blond-haired nobleman repeated with a chuckle of amusement. “Surely, having known one another since infancy, it is too late for such formality. I do prefer it when you call me Oswald.”
“We are not children now, Lord Mulford,” Frances reminded him in low tones, her grey-blue gaze firm and serious. “We are also in public, where decorum requires appropriate address.”
“Then in private, can I still expect you to call me Oswald?” he asked in a wheedling tone and with one raised eyebrow. “We could take a walk in the gardens now if you prefer, as we used to do so long ago.”
These words, and the smirk on his smoothly handsome and arrogant face, turned Frances’ stomach. She longed to turn her back on him and walk away but that would certainly create a minor stir. She had also promised her mother that she would remain in the ballroom tonight and dance at least a few dances, if anyone asked her.
After five London seasons, Frances had hoped that this year, her family might finally accept that she was destined for spinsterhood. Her mother, however, still had other thoughts. Helen, Countess Scovell, was not ready to give up yet. Frances had planned to simply drift and dream tonight, avoiding the eye of any potential dancing partners, but Oswald was spoiling things.
“As I told you, Lord Mulford, I am very tired,” Frances repeated. “You would do better to find another partner who will do your dancing skills justice in the reel.”
“You cannot possibly be tired,” he asserted, undeterred. “You have not danced a single dance tonight. Yes, I have been watching you, Frances. You cannot deny it. I am certain that you can summon the energy for one dance with an old family friend.”
The family of Oswald Keeton had indeed been lifelong neighbors to Frances’ family, possessing the neighboring estate to Scovell Manor, the Earl of Scovell’s grand home outside London. It was also true that Frances and Oswald had played together.
Not all of these childhood memories were positive, however, and Frances’ experience of Oswald as a man was strikingly negative, especially since he became Earl of Mulford three years ago, on his father’s death.
The idea that he had been watching her tonight made Frances’ skin crawl. Why could Oswald Keeton never leave her alone? She did not seek his attention, nor that of any other man. There were dozens of lovely young ladies at this ball who might have welcomed Lord Mulford's invitation to dance. He knew very well that Frances did not, and yet pursued her nonetheless.
Preparing for one final, definite refusal and then speedy withdrawal to the ladies retiring room, Frances drew herself up to her full height to make herself even plainer. But it was too late.
“Look, your mother wishes us to dance,” crowed Oswald, bowing his head in the direction of the Countess of Scovell, who was making an encouraging gesture towards her unenthusiastic daughter. “You cannot refuse now. How disappointed she would be.”
Frances met her mother’s eyes and saw their eagerness. Even if it was only with a family acquaintance of such longstanding as Oswald Keeton, she was desperate for her daughter to dance with someone. Beside the Countess of Scovell stood several other supervising mothers, all following this little pantomime.
With a weary sigh, she nodded and took Lord Mulford’s gloved hand. She would not embarrass her mother unnecessarily before the other society matrons, whose daughters had probably been dancing all night with men they might one day marry. This much she could give.
“One dance,” Frances said firmly and set her jaw to endure the coming minutes.
“It is a shame that we should not have the waltz,” observed Oswald softly, his deceptively soft brown eyes glinting as they took their places for the reel. “I am denied the pleasure of holding you in my arms.”
Again, Frances had to repress a shudder. Even touching this man’s hand or arm through cloth made her feel slightly ill.
“How is Mulford Manor, Lord Mulford?” she said conversationally. “The gardens must be blooming in the present weather.”
“Oh yes, the gardens are blooming,” he answered. “As are you, Lady Frances Harcourt. When are you finally going to let your icy manner melt and…”
Thankfully, the reel began in earnest before Oswald could complete his sentence and they were dancing up the line with the other couples. Despite her earlier pleas of tiredness, Francis now hoped for a fast-moving measure to prevent too much talking and end all the quicker.
“The ballroom is well-lit tonight. Lady Morgan does not stint on candles,” Frances observed with cool civility at a pause where Oswald looked likely to speak again.
“But none of the chandeliers burns brighter than you, Frances, however hard you try to hide your charming light from me.”
Oswald now squeezed her hand and the dance meant that she could not pull back her fingers for several long seconds.
“You must not talk like that, Lord Mulford,” she warned him under her breath.
“Why not? Does it make you uncomfortable to know how much I wish to…”
