Page 6

She broke the contact of their eyes and straightened to full height. She was tall for a woman, a fact he hadn’t noticed as she’d whisked by in the ballroom. She fumbled for something with her foot, and then he realized she was stepping into her shoes. She winced.

Rafe tracked her movements across the room; she was little more than swishing skirts and shadow until she came to stand before him, brandy bottle in hand. “It’s better than what they’re serving out there, at least.” She finished refilling her own glass before looking at him.

Golden had been the wrong descriptor for her eyes. There was a darker color anchoring them, a hint of black to match her glistening, upswept hair. Thick lashes and thin, angular brows assessed him—beautiful, yet shrewd. She had the sort of face to drive a portrait artist to madness: perfectly intriguing, worthy of study, and yet too perfect for any decent recreation.

Her lips pinched. “Very well, don’t speak. But don’t scorn me for an eavesdropper, either. I assure you I would have much preferred my solitude.”

She had deposited the bottle in his hands and turned her back before the full gravity of the situation struck him—like a rock to the back of the head.

This stranger was the cause of the open brandy bottle. She had been sitting here, alone in the quiet, listening to the full duration of his and Vice Admiral Crofton’s conversation. An exchange that could be considered damning, if she put enough thought into it. And to make matters worse, he had been staring dumbly at her ever since discovering her.

“I don’t,” he said quickly, and set aside the bottle and his half full glass. “Scorn you, that’s to say. I suppose if I needed privacy that terribly I should’ve done a better job assuring I had it.”

“That’s a curious way of looking at it.”

Rafe had been staring at the carpet, hoping to rein in the grim trajectory of his thoughts, but his eyes found hers again. She was tugging on her gloves, her head bent over the task. Only her eyes lifted to him as she sheathed her arm in white silk.

“You needn’t go.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was about. “I’ll leave.”

Her expression was impossible to read. “That isn’t necessary.”

“I doubt this lot would think it advisable for me to remain. With you.”

Miss St. Quinton’s head straightened, revealing a hefty ruby necklace about her throat and a quizzical expression. “‘This lot?’ Do you not count yourself among our number?”

“Even simple arithmetic would assure you I’m not meant to be here.”

“In this room?” She smiled and made a slow turn, staring at the walls of bookshelves and the carved-wood ceiling. “I doubt any of us are supposed to be exactly here, even if we do prefer it.”

She could fit in anywhere, immortalized behind a frame or seated among the finery. It had never been clearer it was Rafe who was the blatant imposter. The way he had felt under Crofton’s amused gaze still burned on his skin.

“No,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “What I mean to say is I’m not meant to be here. This ball, this house—not even Mayfair should have me.”

She stopped mid-turn to stare at him. There was a question forming behind her eyes, he could feel it. He moved to stand before the window again. The boundary of shrubs seemed nearer than ever. The view from this grand study would be one of confinement, even in daylight.

“You say simple arithmetic would prove it, but mathematics is one of my few weaknesses,” she said. “A simple explanation would prove easier.”

She didn’t know who he was—good. He wouldn’t assist any dark intentions she might have by announcing it, and he most certainly wouldn’t indulge the coil of nerves in his chest and plead for her discretion. He was a useless and unimportant stranger; keep it that way, and whatever she gleaned from his and Crofton’s conversation might be forgotten by dawn.

“I shouldn’t like to waste any more of your time.” He spoke to the window, hands flexing at his sides. “Enjoy your solitude, Miss St. Quinton.”

He bowed without meeting her eye and left the room.

three

Who, for heaven’s sake, was that? And how had he known her name? Sophie was sure she hadn’t seen him before, certain she would remember if she had. Her return to the ballroom proved she was not wrong to place such faith in her skills of observation. When she rejoined Lady Penney’s side, the countess was watching her daughter dance the minuet with rapt attention. Dance with him. The aggressively combed auburn locks made him easy to spot.

“Who is that gentleman she’s partnered with?” Sophie asked.

Lady Penney started. “Why are you not out there, Miss St. Quinton?” She made a choked sound when her eyes reached Sophie’s lower half. “What’s happened? My, you’re hardly fit for company!”

Heat prickled in Sophie’s cheeks. She turned to face inside the room, discreetly shaking out her skirts. “There was a mishap in the refreshment room, ma’am. I did not think the soiling quite so severe.”

Lady Penney did not answer. Her jaw had gone slightly slack, and Sophie followed her gaze to where the mystery gentleman guided Miss Penney into a turn.

The moonlight (he had nearly wrenched that poor curtain off the wall, hadn’t he?) had given her knowledge of his face. Not the details of it, but the basic structure: A defined jaw and square chin. A pleasing mouth, which claimed just the right amount of prominence over his lower face. His nose swooped down in a smooth, uninterrupted line—surely a nose other men privately envied—and his eyes …

She didn’t feel qualified to say she’d seen them. They were hooded, set deep, deep into his skull in dark invitation. If eyes were meant to be the most telling part of a person’s face, then this man’s were keeping secrets for him.