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earl? Is he married?’

      Peals of laughter were the only answer. ‘Oh, dear me, no. A man like that is hardly going to be tied down to one female, is he, though word has it he did come close.’

      ‘Close?’

      ‘To Mrs Henrietta Clements. Some dreadful accident took her life a few months back, but the whole thing was hushed up quickly because she had left her wedded husband for Wesley. A scandal it was and the main topic of conversation for weeks after.’

      Normally Adelaide stayed clear of such gossip, but fourteen days of society living had broken down her scruples somewhat and Lucy Carrigan for all her small talk was proving most informative.

      ‘And so the earl was heartbroken?’

      ‘Ahhh, quite the opposite. For a while nobody saw him at all, but then he began to spend far more time in the vicinity of fast women with questionable morals.’

      ‘You speak of London’s brothels?’ Adelaide could not quite work out what she meant.

      The other reddened considerably and dropped her voice. ‘No lady of any repute should ever admit to knowing about such things, Miss Ashfield, even amongst friends.’ Lucy Carrigan’s eyes again perused the figure of the one they spoke about and Adelaide regarded him, too.

      The Earl of Wesley was tall and broad with it, the foppish clothes out of character with his build. But the arrogance was not to be mistaken and nor was the intricately tied cravat that stood up under his chin and echoed the style of the day. The Mathematical, she had heard it called, with its three demanding and precise creases, one horizontal and two diagonal.

      He stood with his back to the wall. Even as others came to join the group he was within, he still made certain that he faced any newcomer. And he watched. Everyone. Even her. She looked quickly away as bleached golden eyes fell by chance upon her face.

      Lady Harcourt beside her was fussing about the heat in the room and the noise of the band. Tired of listening to her constant stream of complaints, Adelaide signalled to her chaperon that she wished to use the ladies’ retiring room and quietly moved away, glad when Imelda did not insist on accompanying her.

      A moment later a small bench to one side of the salon caught her attention, a row of flowering plants placed before it allowing a temporary shelter. Glancing around to see that no one observed her, she pushed the greenery aside and slipped through, sitting down to stretch her legs. A row of windows before her overlooked a garden.

      She had escaped, if momentarily, from the inane and preposterous world of being presented to society and she planned to enjoy every fleeting second of it.

      ‘Ten more weeks,’ she enunciated with feeling. ‘Ten more damned weeks.’

      A slight noise to one side had her turning and with shock she registered a man standing there. Not just any man, either, but the foppish and conceited Earl of Wesley.

      Without being surrounded by admirers and sycophants he looked more menacing and dangerous. Almost a different person from the one she had been watching a few moments earlier if she were honest. The pale gold of his eyes was startling as he looked towards her.

      ‘Ten more damned weeks, until...what?’

      A dimple in his right cheek caught the light of a small flickering lamp a few feet away, sending shadows across the face of an angel. A hardened angel, she amended, for there was something in his expression that spoke of distance and darkness.

      ‘Until I can return home, my lord. Until this dreadful society Season of mine is at last over.’ The honesty of her response surprised her. She usually found strangers hard to talk to. Especially men who held all of the ton in thrall as this one did.

      ‘You do not enjoy the glamour and intrigue of high courtly living, Miss...?’

      ‘Miss Adelaide Ashfield from Northbridge Manor.’ When question crossed into his eyes she continued. ‘It is in Sherborne, my lord, in Dorset. I am the niece of the Viscount of Penbury.’

      ‘Ahhh.’ The one dimple deepened. ‘You are rich, then, and well connected?’

      ‘Excuse me?’ She could not believe he would mention such a thing. Was that not just the very height of rudeness?

      ‘My guess is that you are a great heiress who has come to the city on the lookout for a husband?’

      ‘No.’ The word came harshly and with little hidden.

      He turned. Up close he was even more beautiful than he was from afar. If she could have conjured up a man from imagination personifying masculine grace and strength, it would have been him. The thought made her smile.

      ‘You find society and its pursuit for sterling marriages amusing?’ A bleak humour seemed to materialise on his face.

      ‘I do not, sir. I find it degrading and most humiliating. The only true virtue in my list of attributes is wealth, you see, and as such I am...an easy target for those with dubious financial backgrounds.’

      The returned laughter did not seem false. ‘Such a description of desperation might include half the lords of the ton then, Miss Ashfield. Myself included.’

      ‘You are...penniless?’ She could not believe he would be so candid.’

      ‘Not quite, but heading that way.’

      ‘Then I am sorry for it.’

      The mirth disappeared completely. ‘Do not be so. There is a freedom in such a state that is beguiling.’

      Again Adelaide was perplexed. His words were not those of a vacuous and dandified lord. Indeed, this was the very first conversation that she had actually enjoyed since leaving Dorset.

      He glanced around. ‘Where is your chaperon, Miss Ashfield? I could hardly think she would be pleased to see you alone in my company.’

      ‘Oh, Lady Harcourt is back amongst the crowd, complaining of the crush and the noise. I am supposed to be in the retiring room, you see, but I slipped off here instead.’

      ‘A decision you might regret.’

      ‘In what way, my lord?’

      Now only ice filled the gold of his eyes. ‘A reputation is easily lost amongst the doyens of the ton, no matter how little you do to deserve it.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      He smiled. ‘Stay close to your chaperon, Miss Ashfield, or one day you surely will.’

      With that he was gone, a slight bow and then gone, only the vague scent of sandalwood remaining.

      Adelaide breathed out deeply and pushed back the shrubbery, aware that others were now moving in her direction. Suddenly the room seemed larger and more forbidding than it had done before, an undercurrent of something she could not fathom, a quiet whisper of warning.

      She had seen these weeks in the ton as both a game and a trial, but perhaps it was not quite either. To be roped into marriage on a mistake would be disastrous and life changing. Without pause she hurried back to Lady Harcourt.

      * * *

      She should not have been alone, Gabriel thought, watching as the unusual Miss Adelaide Ashfield rushed past him and back towards safety. She was so far from the usual run of those new to society he had barely believed she was one. Older for a start and much more...beguiling. Yes, that was the word. She did not seem to harbour the cunning and duplicity of almost every other débutante he had met. She was tall, too, her head rising to his chin, and at six foot four that was something that seldom happened. She was not blonde, either, her hair a mix of sable and dark chestnut and her eyes the colour of a winter stream running over limestone. Deep clear blue with shadows of hurt. He doubted the spectacles she wore were for any reason other than a way of making her appear more studious, less attractive. He could not remember seeing another woman ever wear spectacles to a ball. A further oddness that was intriguing.

      Men

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