Fascinated

help in the process.

How fortunate she had eavesdropped on him!

Otherwise she wouldn't have known, wouldn't have gotten wind of this crack-brained scheme of her father's to have Jeremy distract her. It was enough to make any woman insensible with rage. It was ludicrous; it was insulting, as if she weren't old enough to know what she was doing.

That was the whole of it: her father still thought her untouched and unsophisticated-still ten years old in his mind no doubt.

Blast the fates.

No wonder he had called upon Jeremy to try to contain her.

He certainly couldn't. She had trained her father well, in the absence of a mother's constraining influence. He knew that she would do the exact opposite of what he wanted. So why should he risk confirming his worst suspicions by asking her if her sights were set on Marcus Raulton. He probably wouldn't have believed her anyway, and for him, it was easier to try to restrain her than to dissuade her.

And so his appeal to Jeremy, who had his own ax to grind after his disastrous liaison with that nasty Marguerite deVigny.

She felt herself boiling up again. Jeremy. Tall, dark, elegant, reserved, indulgent Jeremy. Her neighbor her whole life. The boy who had been like a son to her own father. Who had taught her to ride, who had endured her clumsy flirting, who had been the object of her affections when she was twelve. Who had destroyed all her romantic illusions when he had taken up with the Lady Marguerite three years before.

Grown-up, wounded Jeremy, who was perfectly willing to pretend to-what had he said?- lust after her to keep her away from Marcus Raulton.

She ground her teeth. There had to be some heavenly retribution for men like that. Men who would letch and leave and count the experience as no more than a roll of the dice.

Ah, forget about heaven when there was a fury right here on earth. It would serve them right if she exacted vengeance on them. Both of them. Her father and Jeremy.

Jeremy… She couldn't even picture him. But that was only natural: she hadn't seen Jeremy in over three years. He had spent those years abroad licking his wounds over the fair Marguerite, and now he was back home to see to overdue business concerns and, by the sound of it, meddle in hers.

Well, he ought to mind his own business, she thought testily. But no-he had no compunction at all about pitching himself right in the middle of her business without even trying to see her.

She might be a pudge-pot, for all he knew. She might be totally at her last prayers. The rumormongers were saying so anyway. Out two years, going on three, and no offers. Surely there was something amiss with the beautiful Lady Regina Olney, they whispered, that no man wanted her. Oh yes, she was well aware of the gossip. And the sly little snipes in the society columns of Tatler:

What Beauty of the previous two seasons, not yet caught in the parson's noose, still fully expects to rope in the Eligibles this season, just to prove she is still attractive enough to do it?

And so Jeremy too had assumed that she had the sensibility of a turnip, and that she would just gratefully fall into his arms when he came to rescue her from Marcus Raulton.

Because, of course, she had no discrimination whatsoever.

About anything.

Their faith in her was positively overwhelming. Oh, revenge would be so sweet: she had her pride, after all. It was only a matter of deciding what-and how.

Maybe-a thought occurred to her-just maybe this ridiculous scheme of her father's would quiet the gossips. Maybe they would think she had been waiting all this time for Jeremy to come to point.

Wouldn't that be perfect, to turn the tables on Jeremy and use him to distract her father all the while she pretended to pursue Marcus Raulton?

She contemplated that lovely idea for a long moment. Exactly the thing. Overlay the forbidden with a healthy helping of respectability. Make everyone think it had been Jeremy for whom she had been waiting.

And… and… oh, this was most excellent: somehow put him in the untenable position of aiding her pursuit of Raulton.

How delicious was this?

But she had to think it through and plan it thoroughly and completely.

Wasn't she her father's daughter?

Poor Jeremy. He hadn't dealt with her in years. He had no idea what he was in for.

Oh, God she was as bad as her father.

And the Season had only just begun.

London, Spring 1812

The next big event this early in the Season was the Skef-finghams' ball.

This was the one it was most likely that Raulton and Jeremy might both attend, and so Regina had carefully dressed in her favorite pearl-encrusted jonquil yellow crepe, the matching pearl necklace and earrings that had belonged to her mother, and a lustrous strand entwined in her raven black hair.

But this was too soon, she thought edgily, plucking at a curl. They had been back in Town a mere two days, and they had already been to dinner at the Tatums' the night before, and now this. It was too much, especially on the heels of the tiring trip to and from Hertfordshire and the fact she hadn't yet wholly formulated A Plan.

'You look all the thing, my dear,' her father told her, wrapping her shoulders in a matching gauze shawl. 'Are you ready for this?'

She was ready for nothing, let alone a crush of dozens and dozens of conveyances crawling up to the Skeffingham house at the far end of the elite enclave, Bromley Close. Its gates were thrown wide now, and an openly curious crowd gawked as carriage after carriage drew up and discharged passengers dressed in the height of fashion who vanished inside the front door of the stately three-story brick residence as if the footman had waved a magic wand.

They crowded into the reception hall and wound their way down the long hallway lined with gilt-framed portraits of generations of Skeffingham ancestors and into the two-story ballroom.

It didn't seem possible, but the room appeared full to overflowing already, the stuffiness thankfully mitigated by long french windows at either end of the room that were wide open to the cool fresh air.

Candlelight glimmered everywhere, reflected in dozens of mirrors, the light softening every detail and giving the room an intimacy and a most flattering glow. Chairs lined the walls on two sides, and already the matrons who would not be dancing had gathered with their bosom-bows for an evening of exquisite gossip.

Servants hovered, accommodating every request, and on a balcony ten feet above, a string quartet played under the discreet hum of conversation. And ten feet above that, angels hovered, flitting in and out of puffy clouds on the beautiful painted ceiling.

But no angels here on earth, Regina thought irritably, as she and her father paused at the threshold of the ballroom to be announced, just Jeremy and her father, devils both of them. Since there was nothing yet she could do, she moved through the crowd on her father's arm, greeting friends and acquaintances she had seen a mere five days before.

She was grateful, finally, to see Ancilla Hoxley-Marshall, her dearest friend, who was obviously on the lookout for her. Ancilla was the best person, as sweet and self-effacing as a nun, and yet she was always a repository of the most current on dit, especially in a gathering this size.

Regina grasped Ancilla's hands which were cold as al-abaster. 'Ancilla! What a crowd. Have you seen Marcus Raulton?' Time to go forward. She had thought of a strategy, it couldn't even be called a plan, but it involved feeding her father's worst fears by making sure she was seen with or near Mr. Raulton as often as possible. It wasn't a perfect scheme, but it was something, and it just might serve for this evening until she thought of something better.

'So many people,' Ancilla murmured. 'But I say that every year, do I not? No, I have not been aware of Mr. Raulton's presence. Good evening, by the way, Regina. Oh, look! There's a new face. Could that be-could it-? Jeremy Gavage? After all this time…?'

Blast it. Regina whirled, and her breath caught. Blast! Her