Mayfair, London, 1818.
Katrina Vandenberg had come to the conclusion that the ballrooms of London were rather dangerous places.
As she stood under a glittering chandelier in the Russian Ambassador’s ornate drawing room she rotated her sore foot beneath her gown. It didn’t help. Anticipating its tenderness, she held her breath and gingerly lowered her slipper to the red and gold rug.
‘Why does Lord Boreham continue to ask me to dance?’ she groaned as her foot began to throb. ‘Each time we do he stumbles through the steps and blames it on me being American and not knowing the movements. This time he stepped on my foot so many times I stopped counting.’
‘Perhaps he is enamoured with you,’ replied Sarah Forrester, the daughter of the American Minister to the Court of St. James.
‘Perhaps he’s waiting for me to issue a war cry in the middle of the dance floor and wishes to have an excellent view.’
The friends laughed and a number of the finely dressed gentlemen and ladies looked their way. One of them was their hostess, the Russian Ambassador’s wife, Madame de Lieven.
‘I suppose you could wear boots under your gown to protect your feet from clumsy partners,’ Sarah whispered, hiding her amusement behind her fan. ‘Although it would not be very fashionable.’
‘I do not believe even that would help. But perhaps I could pretend the orchestra is too loud and I cannot hear them speak. Then maybe I could avoid listening to them boast about how important they are or prattle on about some ancient relative’s great accomplishment.’ Katrina nodded towards a group of gentlemen. ‘One day I wager one of them will show me his teeth in an attempt to impress me. London would be lovely if it weren’t for the men.’
When they laughed again Madame de Lieven narrowed her eyes and gave them a chastising shake of her head.
Katrina took a deep breath and shifted her gaze. ‘I do believe our hostess is attempting to inform us that ladies in London do not laugh out loud during entertainments such as this.’
How she wished there was somewhere she could go to avoid the constant scrutiny. And that smell! Had someone forgot to bathe?
She rubbed her forehead and a drop of wax hit the embroidered forget-me-nots on her white silk glove.
Evenings like this were always so tedious.
* * *
This evening could not become any more tedious.
Julian Carlisle, the Duke of Lyonsdale, didn’t know how Lady Morley and her daughter Lady Mary had cornered him. And that bloody chandelier! He was certain his valet would have an apoplexy when he saw how much wax was falling onto his new black tailcoat.
Tonight’s crush was so great it had become difficult to raise his glass of the Russian Ambassador’s fine champagne to his lips. If he tried he might inadvertently brush his hand over the front of Lady Mary’s dress. It would be interesting to see her mother’s reaction to that. Most likely Julian would find himself embroiled in the scandal of the evening, with a wife he did not want.
He would stay thirsty.
‘And so I told her,’ continued Lady Morley, ‘that if Madame Devy moved back to Paris we simply would not know what to do. She is the best in London. She makes all of Mary’s dresses. Not that she needs any help to show as well as she does. Has the bearing of a duchess, I always hear.’
Thirty-three. Thirty-four. The peacock feather in Lady Morley’s turban bobbed with every nod of her head. Julian continued counting. The unique sound of soft feminine laughter floated from behind him and he wished he were part of that conversation instead of this one. He made a conscious effort not to sigh.
Before he could school his features into his usual bored expression he wrinkled his nose. What was that smell? It reminded him of his gardeners in the heat of summer. A man’s sweat should not be mixed with an abundance of flowers and sold in a bottle.
Julian managed to down the remainder of his champagne in one gulp. The bubbles tickling his throat were a welcome distraction. ‘I understand cards are being played across the hall. Is that where your husband is this evening?’ he asked, with no real interest.
Lady Morley blinked at his sudden interruption. ‘Oh—oh, yes, I believe it is.’
‘I’ll be off, then.’
Both ladies curtsied to Julian, and he began to attempt a shallow bow. He bumped into something soft. As he turned to excuse himself high, soft breasts met his hard male chest.
A startled woman with pleasant features and a pair of deep blue eyes looked up at him. Then her gaze travelled slowly down to his waistcoat and back up to his face. When her white teeth tugged at her lower lip, he had a strong urge to lick and soothe that lip. Mentally shaking himself, he tried to gain control of this unexpected yearning.
Her eyes widened, and a faint blush swept across her cheeks. ‘Please forgive me, my lord,’ she murmured.
Nine years had passed since anyone had addressed him simply as ‘my lord’. Everyone knew he was the Duke of Lyonsdale and should be addressed as ‘Your Grace’—even if he didn’t care to know them. ‘I assure you no apology is necessary. I believe the fault is mine.’
She bobbed a shallow curtsey and turned away from him. As he watched her make her way through the crowd something inside him shifted. Suddenly he was striding across the room, not even aware of the parting of finely dressed people before him.
* * *
Stepping onto the terrace, Katrina closed her eyes and filled her lungs with fresh night air. For a brief time, at least, she would not have to be conscious of her every action.
The amber glow of candlelight, shining through the tall windows and doors of the large brick house, streaked this outdoor haven. In the far corner was an unoccupied area that called to her. It would be an ideal place to escape inquisitive stares and pointed whispers.
The stone of the marble balustrade felt cool against her gloved hands and was a welcome contrast to the warm crush inside. Peering out into the dimly lit garden, she gradually began to relax, enjoying her first bit of solitude all evening. It was wonderful to finally be alone.
‘We are fortunate the evening air is so pleasant and there’s no rain,’ rumbled a deep voice to her right.
Resisting the urge to push the intruder over the railing, Katrina held back a sigh. ‘Yes, we are quite fortunate,’ she said, in what she was certain was a bored tone. She kept her eyes fixed on the landscape below, hoping it would discourage further conversation.
‘The quality of the Ambassador’s garden is well noted. Have you walked through it yet?’
‘No, I have not. Fortunately for us there are lanterns placed along the pathways so we can enjoy the beauty from up here.’ He would soon learn she was not a woman who dallied in the shrubbery. Perhaps he would move on.
When Katrina glanced over at him, she was surprised to discover the handsome gentleman she had clumsily bumped into a few minutes before. He was standing tall, facing the garden, in formal black evening clothes, with the moonlight shining on the waves of his neatly trimmed dark hair. She studied his profile with its chiselled features and square jaw. He must have noticed, because he turned his head towards her and their eyes met.
It happened again. The ground seemed to shift, and this time their bodies hadn’t even touched. Deciding it was best to focus on the flowering shrubs and manicured lawn, she diverted her attention away from the man at her side.
* * *
Julian closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Was he actually reduced to discussing the