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“Lord Manion and I were at Eton together. I was presented to his bride last Season.” Yarmouth’s eyes warmed with mischief. “If you wish it, I might introduce you to Lady Manion — who would then, I do not doubt, present you to her sister.”

Brookmire’s hand came down on Julian’s shoulder. “That is precisely what is wanted. Yes — let us all go across. I confess I should like to know this Miss Trent myself.” His eyes narrowed by a degree. “I should very much like to know what bound her to our cousin.”

Julian brushed his brother’s hand away. “I will take the introduction. But, Brookmire — we ask her nothing. Not tonight.”

His brother grimaced. “Very well.”

With a nod to Yarmouth, Julian followed him across the floor, his stomach lurching as Miss Trent’s gaze found him once more and her brows lifted in wary recognition.

“Lady Manion!” Yarmouth boomed, in his usual cheerful way. “How delightful to meet you again. I had hoped your husband might be with you — I should be glad to see him.”

Lady Manion’s smile was warm and immediate. “Good evening, Lord Yarmouth. Alas, my husband has remained in the country. But I am here with my younger sister, Miss Viola Trent.” She gestured to the young lady at her side, who stood now with her head a little bowed, bracing herself, it seemed, for whatever the introduction would bring. “Viola, may I present the Earl of Yarmouth.”

She sank into a curtsy. “Lord Yarmouth.”

“A pleasure indeed.” Yarmouth turned, the knowing smile not quite hidden. “And permit me to present the Marquess of Carrington, and his brother, the Viscount Brookmire.”

So that was the moment she learned his name. Julian saw it land. Her eyes came up to his face, and he watched the recognition sharpen and settle — the cold gentleman from the solicitor’s office, the stranger from the street who had known her name without being given it. Her chin lifted by the smallest degree.

He bowed. She curtsied, and clasped her hands again at once before her.

“I hope the Season has used you kindly thus far, Miss Trent,” he said. “It can be a fatiguing business, when one is newly come to it.”

“Indeed it can,” Brookmire put in, leaving her no room to answer. “Though you must find it harder still, given your present circumstances.”

A faint color brushed Miss Trent’s cheeks. “The circumstances I find myself in are surprising,” she said slowly. “As I am sure you are all very well aware.” Her gaze came to Julian, steady now. “You were at the reading of the will, my lord. That is how you knew my name yesterday, outside the dressmaker’s.”

Heat touched his own face; he had given himself away there, plainly enough, when he had spoken her name in the street. “Yes,” he admitted. “That is so.” He hesitated. He had told Brookmire there were to be no questions, and yet he found himself unable to keep from it. “I must ask you something, Miss Trent. Will you tell me how you were connected to her? For I cannot recall that she ever once spoke your name.”

She looked to her sister, whose lips had thinned. “I am not connected to Lady Warrington in any way,” she said. “She was acquainted with my father, rather than with me. There was a kindness in her that I do not think I shall ever forget — but a kindness is not a connection. I understand it no better than you do, my lord.”

Julian rubbed a hand along his jaw. She spoke without embellishment, without the smallest attempt to charm or to soften him, and that frankness reached him where flattery never would have. She was as lost in this as he was. He felt suddenly, uncomfortably sure of it.

“And now you have a second kindness at her death,” he murmured, watching the color rise higher in her face. “The house is a great boon.”

“And was always to have gone to my brother.” Brookmire’s voice cut in, and Julian rounded on him with a scowl as Miss Trent’s eyes flared. “We have asked ourselves a hundred times what could have moved our cousin to alter her intentions. You would not happen to know, Miss Trent?”

“Miss Trent, is it not?”

A gentleman shouldered into the circle, beaming at her and ignoring the rest of them entirely. Julian’s scowl found a new object, and then Miss Trent’s sudden pallor, the quickening of her breath, caught and held all his attention. Guilt flared hot beneath his ribs. He had forbidden his brother the very questions he himself had just pressed, and there was the cost of it, written white across her face.

“Lord Flanders, if you please.” The man bowed as if that served for an introduction. “Now, you must stand up with me, Miss Trent. I will not be denied the pleasure of your company this evening.” His eyes lit with a warmth, and something beneath it that Julian did not care for in the least.

Something kicked hard against his ribs. He put out a hand, half a barrier between the fellow and the lady. “Now, Lord Flanders, a gentleman must wait his turn. And I fear you cannot trouble Miss Trent for her card just now — for she has this moment agreed to stand up with me.” He held her gaze and willed her to understand, to take the rope he was throwing, however roughly. “Shall we, Miss Trent?”

A glance to her sister. A press of her lips. And then, to his quiet relief, she laid her hand upon his sleeve, though she did not trouble to smile as she did it.

“You are aware, Lord Carrington,” she said, low, as he led her out, “that our dancing together will be remarked upon, and spoken of for days hereafter?”

“I care very little for gossip, Miss Trent.” He settled her before him as the sets formed. “Come. Let us take the floor.”

She said nothing more, not even as they bowed and curtsied and waited for the music to find them. Then the first notes rose, and he stepped in and took her — one gloved hand coming to rest in his, his other hand settling lightly at the curve of her waist. His breath caught, and he was slow to let it go.

It was the smallest contact. A hand, a waist, two layers of glove between them. It ought to have meant nothing at all. Yet he was aware of her in a way he had not bargained for — of the warmth of her through the silk, the quick unsteady draw of her breathing, the way she held herself a careful half-inch farther from him than the dance required. He turned her, and drew her back, and made himself attend to the steps.

“You will have a great deal of attention upon you now, I am afraid,” he said, to fill the silence and to draw her eyes back from their darting about the room. “It is the unhappy price of a fortune and a grand house from Lady Warrington.”

She glanced up, then away. “Indeed. And evidently you have a great many questions about both.”