Esmie opened her mouth, only to have her mother interject before she could speak. “Not about that horrid book you’re reading.” Esmie’s mouth snapped shut, and she flushed a deep, unflattering red, fixing a stony stare to the right of Rupert’s head.
“I quite like books,” Rupert attempted helpfully, only to be cut off by Mrs. Bradley.
“You wouldn’t like this one, your Lordship; it’s about some horrible man who changes from good to evil in the blink of an eye. Not that my Esmie is some bluestocking, mind,” she hastily added, apparently fearful of giving Rupert the wrong impression. Esmie closed her eyes briefly in what appeared to be abject humiliation.
Stay. A forceful thought, that. Surprising. He turned it over in his mind a few times.
Fine, he would stay. Let himself be seen.
Smiling gently at Esmie, who still looked pained, Rupert softly stated, “Mrs. Bradley, this marvelous band has just begun a waltz, and my evening simply would not be complete if I were denied the opportunity to dance with lovely Esmerelda. May I?”
Esmie shyly took his hand, and Rupert led her toward the dance floor. Daniel idly followed their progress before shifting his focus back to the reporter.
What would she do if she saw him? Would she scream? Faint? Alert the authorities?
“O-of course,” Mrs. Bradley stuttered after the couple, who were already on their way. Her chest puffed slightly in triumph as she watched the Earl of Umberland turn her spindly, pale daughter around the room. Looking around in glee, she spied a group of her cronies nearby and swept toward them without a word to Daniel.
He would deny everything, of course. A case of mistaken identity. While he hated to capitalize on the notion of womanly hysteria—the women he’d grown up with were tough as nails; by Daniel’s reckoning they were by far the stronger sex—the popular belief could prove useful.
If she became hysterical.
The reporter’s companions turned their attention to the dance floor. Daniel followed their gaze and was dubiously rewarded by the always terrifically odd sight of Rupert Milton and Esmerelda Bradley dancing. Someone had not dressed Esmie kindly. Her thin frame was nearly drowning in a voluminous gown adorned with an alarming amount of puffs, bows, and ribbons, and the gown’s bright-pink color was extremely unflattering to Esmie’s already pinkish complexion. In marked contrast, Rupert looked elegant and refined in his expertly tailored black evening clothes, his dark-blond hair swept back. He gracefully swooped Esmie around the dance floor, expertly navigating her frequent missteps and near falls.
Daniel’s chest tightened slightly. It was a painful sight. His friend desperately needed a wife, a very rich one. Esmie’s family craved a title and the respectability they believed it would bring. Rupert had already confided to Daniel that he would likely hold his nose and go through with the match.
But, Daniel mused, what of affection, attraction, or—hell, what of love? A quick, unwelcome vision flashed in Daniel’s head: his mother sitting on his father’s lap, throwing her pretty head back and laughing at some jest he’d made. God, they had been so very poor, destitute really, but he’d never seen two people love each other with such fierce devotion.
Daniel forced the memory of his happy parents, now long dead, out of his mind. Putting his glass on a nearby table, he turned away from the spectacle of Rupert and Esmie, his gaze immediately returning to the spot where the mysterious woman from the alley had been standing.
She was not watching the dancing but gazing toward a pair of French doors leading to a balcony, open in case any guests cared to brave the chilly temperatures for a breath of fresh air. At some point she’d relinquished her glass, and her gloved fingers twisted idly in front of her waist.
Daniel’s thoughts, as they had so often over the past twenty-four hours, returned to their encounter in Bottle Alley. The girl did have backbone. Even if it had been remarkably poor judgment, he knew of no other woman—and very few men, for that matter—who would have been brave enough to enter that alley in pursuit of a story. Nor did he know of too many women with such a powerful left hook.
What if she didn’t become hysterical?
Almost as if she’d read his thoughts, the blonde sharply turned her attention from the open doors and in his direction. Her gaze swept past the refreshment table, past the dancers, and past him, then snapped back, fixing on his face with shocked, unmistakable recognition.
Here we go, then.
Genevieve had never fainted in her life, but as the edges of her vision blurred and the constant, abrasive chatter of the ballroom became muffled and distant, as if she were hearing the sounds of the party from deep beneath the calm waters of a still lake, she realized she was on the verge of experiencing the phenomenon.
The world wavered as her knees began to buckle, and she instinctively grabbed on to the nearest solid object to steady herself, which luckily was Callie’s shoulder.
“Genevieve! Are you quite all right?” Eliza had a sudden strong arm around her waist.
As quickly as it had come, the sensation vanished. Colors snapped back to vivid sharpness, and the sounds of high laughter, raised voices, and music reassaulted her hearing. She nodded in the direction of Eliza’s concerned face, but her focus was centered across the room on the tall, dark-haired man with the profile that could have been sculpted from stone.
Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat was here. Here.
And he was staring straight at her.
“This is my fault,” Callie fussed, waving her green fan at Genevieve’s face. “I absolutely hounded you to come, though I knew it would be the worst sort of crush.”
“Callie, stop that,” Eliza commanded,
