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steps of the dance separated them. They came together again. Eleanor hissed, ‘Precisely!’

      Then, after a brooding silence from Matthew, she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

      They parted. Came together again. His fingers curled around her gloved palm as he took her hand.

      ‘We cannot talk here. Meet me upstairs. I will tell you everything.’

      ‘No! How can you even ask...what if we were seen?’

      So far, her evening engagements had gone well, with only one or two barbed comments about her mother, which she had fended off with ease. She had even exchanged pleasantries with Maria Sefton and Emily Cowper, both patronesses of Almack’s, and although there had been no promises made, Eleanor harboured the hope that their approval of her membership would be forthcoming. Her confidence had begun to grow.

      ‘We can be careful—’

      ‘No! Do not ask again.’

      They finished the dance in tight-lipped silence and relief flooded Eleanor when it ended.

      * * *

      A succession of partners—and supper—came and went. Eleanor was in control of her emotions and her behaviour. Not one person could point an accusing finger at her and say ‘Like mother, like daughter’. It was not so bad—now she was over the initial shock of Matthew’s appearance in the ballroom and the fact he had lied to her, even though she could not quite suppress her conjectures over the scandal Aunt Lucy had mentioned. Surely the scandal couldn’t have been too dreadful, or Matthew’s brother would not openly acknowledge him like this.

      And then Arabella Beckford appeared. Or, as some kind soul informed her, Arabella, Lady Tame, as she now was—a wealthy widow. Of all the girls who had tormented Eleanor during her come-out, it was Miss Arabella Beckford who had stuck in her memory. The acknowledged beauty of the day, Arabella had been—and still was—petite and delicate, with golden curls, big blue eyes and pouting rosebud lips. In London for the first time, Eleanor had towered over Arabella, feeling utterly unfeminine—all clumsy angles and awkward silences—and she had suffered many unkind gibes from the other girl.

      No wonder, thought Eleanor sourly, as she watched Arabella pouting up at Matthew—gazing at him through fluttering eyelashes—she had hated her come-out. The old feelings of inadequacy washed over her.

       Why can I not be feminine, like Arabella? Why would any man prefer a huge lump like me?

      Eleanor turned abruptly from the sight of Arabella flirting with Matthew.

      ‘Excuse me, Aunt.’

      Aunt Lucy looked round from her engrossing conversation with Sir Horace Todmorden, a dapper gentleman with luxuriant side whiskers. ‘Yes, dear?’

      ‘I am just going upstairs to the ladies’ retiring room.’

      ‘Shall I come—?’

      ‘No. There is no need. I shall sit in the quiet for a few minutes, to catch my breath. I declare, I am quite out of practice and all this dancing has exhausted me.’

      ‘Very well, my pet.’

      Eleanor left the ballroom and climbed the stairs to the retiring room. Finding it blessedly empty, other than the maid on duty, she sat for a short while, relaxing back in a chair, settling her thoughts and emotions.

      Anyone but Arabella. Surely Matthew will see through her to the spiteful little cat she has always been? She stifled those thoughts. What did it matter to her who Matthew talked to? Or danced with? Or...?

      She stood up, suddenly furious with herself. She was hiding again. If she was not careful, it would become a habit. She would not allow anyone to drive her away this time.

      She stepped out of the door to return to the festivities, then froze, sensing a movement in the passageway behind her.

      ‘Eleanor.’

      The quietest of whispers, but she would know his voice anywhere. And his scent. His unique maleness, plus the tang of citrus. She spun round to face Matthew Damerel.

      ‘I must talk to you.’

      ‘And I must not talk to you.’

      He stood by the open door into the next room. He held out his hand, beckoning.

      The chatter of female voices impinged on Eleanor’s awareness. A quick glance over the gallery rail to the floor below revealed a cluster of young ladies mounting the stairs, presumably on their way to the retiring room.

      ‘Quick. Or we shall be seen.’

      Eleanor reached for the handle to the retiring-room door. She would be safe in there.

      ‘I will follow you if you go back inside,’ Matthew warned, reaching for her hand. ‘Come. Please.’

      The voices were louder. Even if she headed for the stairs, the young ladies would see Matthew and wonder... The gossip would spread from mouth to mouth...

       Wretch! Scoundrel!

      With no choice left, Eleanor swept past Matthew and through the open door.

       Chapter Nineteen

      ‘Despicable!’

      They were in a small sitting room, furnished in a feminine style. One candle, set into a candlestick on the mantelpiece, flickered, throwing shadows around the room.

      ‘You must allow me to explain.’

      ‘Must I indeed? You could have explained this morning. You could call on me tomorrow to make your excuses. You did not have to...to...blackmail me into coming in here with you.’

      ‘Blackmail? Don’t be absurd.’

      ‘Absurd? How dare you? You come into my life—I start to trust you, to rely upon you. You make me—’ Eleanor bit her lip, appalled by what she had almost said.

       You make me love you.

      She gulped, her throat burning with the effort of stifling the hot tears strangling her voice and blurring her vision.

       Stupid thing to even think. Just the heat of the moment.

      ‘I think I know you and then I find I do not even know your name. Then you threaten me with exposure if I do not do what you want...and you call me absurd for calling it blackmail? What would you call it, Mr Thomas, or Damerel, or whoever you are?’

      Her chest heaved. Her outburst had stolen the very breath from her lungs. She hauled in a desperate breath.

      ‘I don’t even know who you are.’ The cry burst from her, searing her throat.

      ‘Eleanor—’

      ‘And do not call me Eleanor. You have no right.’

      ‘No right? By God, what wouldn’t I give to have that right? You have no idea...’

      The grip on her shoulders tightened and she looked up through her tears into blazing eyes that churned with emotion. His face swam closer. He was going to kiss her. She felt his breath, harsh on her skin, as his lips sought hers.

      ‘No. I cannot. I must not.’

      Eleanor stumbled as Matthew tore his hands from her and strode to the window. She sank into a chair by the unlit hearth, dropping her face into her hands. What had just happened? He had been about to kiss her; she had wanted him to kiss her. It was he who had come to his senses and stopped before his lips touched hers. How could she be so weak-willed, so unprincipled? She gritted her teeth, determined to hide her bruised feelings. If Matthew should even begin to guess how she felt about him her pride would never survive—it was in tatters

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