Chapter 32

"—the ridiculousness of such an affair!"

Stacia was vaguely aware the countess had stopped speaking, but she wasn't quick enough to meet her employer's gaze. She opened her mouth, but the other woman was already glaring at her.

"Are your thoughts so important that you cannot listen to me, Martin?"

"I'm sorry, my lady. I just had a slight feeling of biliousness." It wasn't a complete lie.

The countess looked horrified and recoiled back against the fluffy cushions stacked behind her. "You assured Ackers you were over your putrid fever."

"I am, my lady. I'm just a bit…worn." Not a lie, either. "I am fine."

Lady Addiscombe lifted the cologne-soaked lace handkerchief to her nose and inhaled deeply, as if that would be enough to repel an influenza. "I wish to talk to you on the subject of Lord Bellamy and Needham's bastard."

Stacia flinched at the unkind word. "Yes, my lady?"

"You insist that Viscount Bellamy does not encourage the chit?"

"Nothing I've seen him do seems encouraging. Indeed," she lied boldly, "he barely pays her any attention and prefers to spend his time with his school friends."

Amazingly, Lady Addiscombe's lips curved into something that almost resembled a smile. "I am pleased with the connections my son has made. Jevington is the Duke of Linton's heir."

Stacia wasn't sure what to say about that. Luckily, the countess didn't require an answer.

Instead, she continued on her rant about Needham's servant ball, a function she had forbidden Stacia, Ackers, her footman Lionel, and coachman, George, from attending.

"I cannot believe Needham is requiring not only his wife, but my other daughters and their husbands, to wait on their own servants!"

Stacia entertained herself with the thought of Andrew waiting on Ackers or Lionel.

Or you.

Stacia smiled. Or me. Indeed, she would have greatly enjoyed—

"—will be retiring to my room and ringing for a tray. Martin? Martin! "

"I'm sorry, my lady." Stacia met her employer's gaze and took a wild guess. "I can bring your dinner, my lady. I'm sure all the other servants will be—"

"Of course you will bring my dinner! Did you not just hear what I said? I will not countenance my servants engaging in such idiocy."

"No, my lady."

And so it went.

An hour and a half later—after Stacia had unpicked a section of Lady Addiscombe's cross stitch that the countess had been especially displeased with and read the Society section of three newspapers paid for by Viscount Needham—" It is the least he can do to better himself"— and then wrapped the gifts Lady Addiscombe had bought for her six children, the countess sent her to the kitchen for yet another of the infernal possets that only Mrs. Nutter could make.

The scene in the kitchen was one of joyous chaos as servants hurried to finish chores before being dismissed from their labors to prepare for tonight's ball.

Even the staid butler, Davis, had let some of his reserve slip and was kissing Cook beneath a kissing bough somebody had hung directly over the entrance to the kitchen.

Dora, Lady Kathryn's accomplice, sidled up to Stacia. It was the first Stacia had seen the maid since the Duchess of Chatham had escorted her to her chambers two nights earlier.

"Are you comin' to the ball, Miss?" Dora asked, exhibiting no evidence of shame at having assisted Lady Kathryn.

"Unfortunately, not."

"Oh, Miss! Whyever not?" Before Stacia could contrive an answer Dora leaned close and whispered loudly, "Lady Kathryn will keep the countess occupied, Miss. You and Ackers deserve a bit o' fun. As for Lionel?" She made an appreciative growling sound. "Well, it would be a crime not to allow such a handsome man to dance."

Stacia couldn't help laughing. "I'm afraid you will have to do without the delectable Lionel."

"Surely you can all slip away for an hour?"

"I shall see," she said, knowing it would never happen. Even if Lady Kathryn managed to divert her employer's attention for long enough—doubtful, as the countess had told Ackers to deny her youngest daughter access to her chambers—Stacia's only ballgown, a grim gray thing suitable for a companion, was hardly the sort of drab garment she wanted to be seen in. It was fine for Bath functions, but she already knew she would look pitiful in any other company, even a ball for servants.

You danced well enough with his lordship in only a plain brown day dress…

Stacia wanted to slap the voice in her head, which had done nothing but chide and nag her since she'd left the priest hole. And before, too, now that she thought about it.

Shut up , she snapped viciously in her mind.

"Miss Martin?"

She looked at Dora. "Hmm?"

"If you don't have a gown there are ballgowns aplenty in the suite adjacent to Mrs. Ellen Kettering's rooms."

"Mrs. Kettering?" Stacia asked.

"Lord Needham's former mistress," Dora whispered.

"Ah, yes." Stacia had forgotten the woman's name, if not the shocking fact of her presence at Wych House. She frowned. "Why are there ballgowns?"

"Some are Mrs. Kettering's. She was a debutant in Edinburgh. Or mayhap Leeds." Dora shrugged, as if to say that all obscure northern cities were much of a muchness. "Wherever it was, she has dozens of fine gowns—a bit old-fashioned, but I found a lovely blue silk with a silver spangled over gown. And she says that we may keep them!" Dora did a quick dance step and flourish, as if imagining the dash she would cut.

"But that's not all," Dora went on. "Lady Needham found trunks in the attics—gowns from long ago—that we are all welcome to wear, although not keep as her ladyship says they are—er, I don't recall the words she used."

"Historical importance?"

Dora nodded. "Aye, something like that." She raised her hand to cover her mouth and shield her next words. "Oh, Miss! You should see the gown Cook found to wear!" Dora was too overcome with mirth to describe Mrs. Barton's dress.

"Perhaps I will go and look at the gowns later," she said again. Time was wasting and Lady Addiscombe would be displeased. "But right now I need to speak to Mrs. Nutter about a posset. Do you know where I might find her?"

Before Dora could answer her a footman—a towering man with sleepy blue eyes and shoulders so broad he could scarcely fit though the kitchen door—grabbed Dora by the waist and led her into a very boisterous facsimile of a waltz.

It took Stacia ten minutes to locate Mrs. Nutter and another fifteen before she was carrying the tightly corked jar of poultice and hurrying toward her mistress's chambers. She was imagining the raking she would get when an arm shot out from a recessed doorway and snagged her wrist.

She gave a squawk of surprise.

" Here you are," Andrew said, pulling her close. "I have been hunting for you for days and days!" he said, his tone accusatory.

"It has scarcely been two days," she couldn't help saying.

"It felt like weeks. Months."

Stacia couldn't help laughing. "The duchess thought it might be best if I spent the first day in my room—overcoming the last of my cold."

He grunted. "I fail to see the reason for that."

"I could scarcely go from death's door to playing spillikins in the drawing room."

He still did not look convinced, but dropped the matter, instead saying, "You were not at breakfast this morning."

"I always have a tray in my room."

He frowned. "Why?"

"Why does it matter?"

His frown deepened. She thought he might argue, but he seemed to think better of it. "I know you like early morning walks. Where were you this morning? Lord Bellamy, Lord So- and-So, and Sir Such-and-Such attacked me with snowballs on my morning ride."

She laughed. "I take it you mean Lords Hornsby and Jevington."

He gave a dismissive flick of the hand not still holding her. "Why have you stopped taking your morning walk, Stacia? Is it because of the weather? Or because of me?"

"It is because I have been working ," she retorted, only partly telling the truth, which was that she did not want to encounter him while walking.

" Hmmph. I wanted to make sure you saved all your waltzes for me tonight." He gave her a teasingly brooding look. "I am quite looking forward to being your slave, Stacia. I will endeavor to behave and please you as I already know you can be a cruel mistress."

Stacia's face heated at his unsubtle reminder of that night.

He leaned forward and hissed in her ear, "Will you have me flogged and put in the stocks for the slightest infraction?"

She pursed her lips at his foolishness. "This is not ancient Rome, or even medieval Briton. Your person is quite safe from whips and chains."

He made a pouting moue. "Pity."

She forced herself to quit smiling—to quit hoping. "You will have to find somebody else to serve as I won't be there."

His eyebrows descended. "What?"

"Lady Addiscombe does not approve."

His scowl deepened. "Why the devil not? Needham isn't the only one to revive the old traditions. In the north there is even a King of Misrule who is permitted to order his master to do the most shocking things. Surely your taskmistress is planning to go and do her part? This is her husband's ancestral home, for all that she is a guest in it now. It is all in good fun."

"Exactly what has given you the impression that Lady Addiscombe is interested in any fun, good or otherwise?"

"Good God. You are serious!"

"Very."

He set his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer. "You needn't keep working for her, Stacia. The woman is appalling—even her own children don't want to be around her. Hyacinth would be delighted to take you on as a companion."

"I know," Stacia said. "She mentioned it to me already."

"She looks intimidating but is actually quite kind. And if you don't want to work for her, I am sure she would help you find a position elsewhere. Unless you are willing to reconsider—"

"No." Stacia twitched her shoulders until he released her. She hated the injured look on his face, but she simply could not bear him touching her—or even standing near her—without wanting to fling herself into his arms and never let go. She forced a smile. "I appreciate your concern, but—"

"But you want me to mind my own affairs."

"Please."

He heaved a sigh and then stepped closer, closing the gap between them once again, regarding her with a warm look that made it hard to breathe. "Fine. You will not be there tonight. But surely she will allow you to go to the ball on Christmas Day? Surely that one will not offend the countess's sensibilities?"

She took a determined step away. "That is up to Lady Addiscombe." He looked so chagrined that she felt compelled to add, "I am not being purposely obtuse, my lord. If I ask her about it, it will only set her hackles up."

" My lord ?" he said, and then shook his head sadly.

His expression of rejection was simply unbearable. "I have already kept her waiting too long," Stacia said sharply, her voice growing colder as her misery deepened. "I must go. "

He merely stared.

Stacia hurried away before she did something they would both regret.

Ackers was just leaving the countess's chambers when Stacia approached her ladyship's door. "Ah, there you are."

"Oh, dear. She sent you to look for me?" Stacia guessed.

"Yes. Lady Kathryn is with her." She paused before opening the door and pulled a face. "She's…in a mood."

When was she not?

Stacia nodded and they entered the apartment.

"Where have you been ?" the countess shrieked.

"I'm sorry, my lady. I had difficulty locating Mrs. Nutter."

"No doubt she was behaving like a fool just like all the others." Lady Addiscombe gestured to the small, corked jug Stacia held. "Well, go ahead!"

Stacia removed the stopper, decanted a small amount, and re-corked the jug.

Lady Addiscombe scowled and took the water glass from Stacia, raising it to her lips.

Stacia's gaze slid to Lady Kathryn as the countess drank the posset.

The younger woman gave her a guilty smile.

Kathryn had come to Stacia's room the day after she'd been released from the priest hole and had apologized profusely while her older sister, the duchess, had looked on.

It had not been difficult to forgive the younger woman for the best two days of Stacia's life.

"Oh, do stop looming , Martin," the countess snapped.

"I'm sorry, my lady." Stacia went to sit in the chair beside Lady Kathryn.

"No, not there. Just—just go ," Lady Addiscombe said. "My daughter has insisted she will remain with me. Despite my desires." She pressed her lips tightly together and glared at Lady Kathryn, who returned her look with a cool, almost challenging, one of her own.

The countess made a feral snarling sound and then, looking as if she would prefer to chew out her own tongue, turned to Stacia and spat, "I do not require the two of you cluttering up my bedchamber. Send Ackers away, too. I cannot bear her accusatory stare at being denied her night of fun . Tell her she may attend this idiot function until eleven o'clock." Her jaws worked hard, as if she were chewing gravel. "All of you may attend for a few hours."

Stacia heart leapt. "Thank you, my la—"

"Do not thank me ." She fixed her daughter with a look of loathing. "Thank my interfering son-in-law. He has insisted that every servant—not only his own—be allowed to take part in his asinine function."

"Er, Lord Needham?"

"Who else?" the countess snapped. "Now get out , Martin!"

Stacia curtsied. "Yes, my lady."

"One more thing, Martin."

Stacia stopped, her hand on the door, and turned. "Yes, my lady?"

"I may have been forced to comply with Needham's demands, but you will be back here no later than midnight. If you are not, then you can find yourself another position. You may pass that along to the others."

"Yes, my lady."

Stacia shut the door and then looked left and right to make sure nobody was watching and did a little dance.

She would get to waltz with him! And order him around like a servant!

Just wait until she told Ackers.

The woman herself emerged from the stairwell as Stacia hurried toward it. "Ah, I was looking for you."

The maid rolled her eyes. "Lord. What does she want now ?"

"She sent me to tell you that she does not want any of us until midnight. She is spending the day and evening with Lady Kathryn."

Ackers shook her head. "I can't make heads or tails of those two. You should have heard them going at it hammer and tongs earlier." A sly smile slid across the older woman's face. "And then Lord Needham popped in for no more than a minute." Ackers cackled. "Wasn't my lady fit to be tied after that ?"

"There is more," Stacia said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "We may go to the ball—but must be back by midnight."

Ackers's joyous shriek made Stacia jump. "This is all his lordship's doing! I just know it!"

"She admitted as much."

"Miss Martin!"

Stacia turned to find Dora hurrying toward her. "I was just going to look for you, Dora. Miss Ackers and I will need gowns." She grinned. "We are going to the ball. Could you tell me again where Mrs. Kettering's chambers are?"

"In the south wing, Miss. But I just put a gown on your bed."

"What?"

"Aye, Lady Needham sent it for you."

Stacia blinked. "She…did?"

The maid nodded excitedly. "She had her own maid alter it for you using the dress you gave to me."

Dora meant the gown from the day Stacia had found Terrence. Dora had removed all but a shadow of the stain, but it was still nothing Stacia could wear in Lady Addiscombe's presence. She had given it to the girl, who could probably use the fabric for something.

"Don't you want to see it?" Dora asked.

Stacia turned to Ackers, who waved her away. "You go along, Miss Martin. I need to hurry along to the south wing and see if there is anything left for me to wear!"

Dora grinned and took Stacia's hand, all but dragging her to her chambers. The gown that waited on her bed was like something out of a dream. It was a deep, vibrant pink that immediately made her think of lilies, the sort of color Stacia had never been allowed to wear during her Season, when she'd had to wear white, a color that made her look insipid.

"Isn't it beautiful, Miss?" Dora asked when Stacia wordlessly stroked the lustrous silk. "Lady Phoebe—er, that's Lady Needham—is dark haired just like you and she favors deeper colors. I'm sure it will look a treat on you."

"I wonder that she parted with such a beautiful gown."

"The master spoils her something fierce. She has a hundred gowns or more."

It was the most gorgeous dress Stacia had ever seen.

"I will come back in a few hours to help you dress, Miss," Dora said.

"But what about you?" Stacia protested. "You will need to get ready, as well."

"Several of us maids are going to get ready together, but you've nobody to help you."

"Well…if you do not mind?"

"Of course not!" She stared at something over Stacia's head.

"What is it?" Stacia asked, patting her hair, which was covered with a lace cap, as Lady Addiscombe required.

"Short hair is all the crack, Miss, and yours would have some lovely natural curls if there was not so much weight.

Stacia had often lamented the time it took to wash and dry such a mass of hair—especially when it was not an especially beautiful color. But…short?

She met Dora's hopeful gaze. "How short?"

"Short."

Stacia swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight bearing down on her neck. "You are sure?"

"Aye, I'm sure of it, Miss. You're such a tiny, dainty lady that all that hair is too much. Er, beggin' your pardon."

Stacia smiled. "Don't apologize. I appreciate your honest opinion."

"I cut everyone's hair. I will do a good job. I promise."

Stacia hesitated.

"I can do it right now if you like."

"Now?" Stacia repeated. She reached up and felt her hair again, as if to check that it was still there.

Dora nodded.

"Very well," she said after a moment. "Do it."

Thirty minutes later Stacia could not stop staring at her reflection. "Why, you've made me pretty, Dora!"

Dora laughed as she swept up the long tresses that littered the floor. "You were pretty all along, Miss Martin."

She kept stroking the brown curls, which looked glossier and far healthier. She felt at least a stone lighter, although of course that wasn't possible.

Dora's hand landed lightly on her shoulder and Stacia met her gaze in the mirror. "Did I cut it too short?"

Only then did Stacia realize that her eyes were glassy with tears. She shook her head vigorously, sending the curls dancing. "No, you did a wonderful, wonderful job." Stacia reached for her reticule, which was on the dressing table. "Here, let me—"

Dora set a hand over hers and Stacia looked up to find the normally smiling girl serious. "No. Let me do this for you. After what I helped Lady Kat do to you and his lordship…Well, I'm sorry, Miss. You're not angry?"

"No, I am not angry. But I really would like to pay you."

"The haircut is a gift. And now I must run! I will be back half-an-hour before the ball." She turned and was gone before Stacia could argue about the money.

She turned back to the mirror and smiled at her reflection. She looked…pretty.

She couldn't wait until Andrew saw her.

***

Several hours later Stacia found herself gazing at her reflection for the second time in one day. Her attention this time fixed on her bodice. "Are you sure this isn't too low?"

Dora laughed. "It's perfect, Miss. You look perfect."

Stacia wasn't so sure, but she had fussed enough. She turned to the other woman and made a shooing gesture. "You must hurry and dress, Dora. You've wasted all your time on me."

"I'll not be late. At least no later than I want to be. Thomas Gresham has been flirting with Lady Shaftsbury's maid." She scowled. "Tonight I will show him what he lost." And with that, she sailed from the room, chin high.

Stacia almost pitied the unsuspecting footman.

Lady Needham had also sent along a matching pink reticule and pink and cream burnt velvet shawl. She slipped the latter over her shoulders and then picked up her fan.

A flick of the wrist revealed her favorite lines from Shakespeare's Sonnet 29:

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate.

Stacia was rarely satisfied with her work, but this fan had been one of those times.

It truly filled her with hope to read the words and look upon the overlarge H in the word haply , glinting with gold gilt and exploding with spring flowers and, yes, a lark joyfully soaring.

She slipped the fan into the pretty beaded bag along with a card of pins and a handkerchief, stole a last glance at her marvelous new hair, and turned toward the door just as somebody knocked.

Dora must have forgotten something.

But when she opened it, it was Lady Needham in the corridor, looking magnificent in a teal blue silk gown with a gold lace overdress.

"Oh!" the other woman exclaimed, her gaze wide and admiring as it swept over Stacia's gown. "It is perfect on you! I knew it would be. And your hair looks delightful."

Stacia brushed her hands over the skirt. "Thank you for this. Thank you for all the many kindnesses you've shown me since my arrival. You are generosity itself."

"This gown always belonged to you," Lady Needham said. "I only returned it to its owner—so don't think of sending it back to me."

"Oh, I couldn't! It is too much—too—"

"Hush. It is a Christmas gift. Please," she added. "It would make me happy."

Stacia blinked back the tears that seemed so eager to fall today. "Thank you."

"It is my pleasure. Were you headed to the ballroom?"

"I was, even though it is early."

Lady Needham offered Stacia her arm. "We will be unfashionably early together," she said as Stacia closed the door and took her arm. "Needham says I am not allowed to carry trays or deliver drinks or do anything strenuous. Chatham and Shaftsbury insist that Hy and Selina are also barred from exertion."

Stacia knew all three women were increasing and could understand their husbands' concerns.

"What are you permitted to do?" she asked.

The viscountess laughed. "Nothing other than dance and flirt." She gestured toward her prominent midriff. "Although why he thinks a dance with me is a treat for his servants is anyone's guess."

Stacia thought the men would be lining up to dance with the viscountess, who was not only lovely but radiated happiness.

"Will you sit with me and my sisters and join us in running our husbands off their feet fetching lemonade and wraps and smelling salts—or whatever else we might contrive to keep them busy?"

Stacia laughed. "That sounds lovely."

When they reached the ballroom Lady Needham stopped abruptly and burst out laughing when she saw the evening's butler and two footmen hovering near the entrance.

Lord Needham announced the names of his guests in a ringing voice as they arrived while the Earl of Crewe and Duke of Chatham both collected a wider assortment of wraps than were ever seen at a ton function and transported them with pomp and ceremony to the cloak room.

Lady Needham looked from Crewe to Chatham, grinned, and said, "I have always wanted a matched pair of footmen."

The two handsome aristocrats—both with scarred faces—looked at each other and laughed. The duke grinned down at the tiny viscountess. "I seem to have forgotten my eye patch."

A throat cleared loudly somewhere behind Stacia.

"Duty calls," the duke said, hurrying to where Cook—clad in a seventeenth century confection of celestial blue, complete with a jeweled stomacher, huge headdress, and black patch beside her lips—stood tapping her foot in mock impatience.

"I think some of your servants require more training, Needham," the viscountess rebuked, smirking up at her towering spouse.

"May I take your wrap, Miss Martin?" Lord Crewe asked, looking very piratical in his evening blacks and matching eyepatch.

Stacia glanced down at the scrap of velvet, which at least marginally hid some of her rather shocking décolletage. "I believe I will retain it, er, Crewe," she said in a lofty tone, getting into the spirit of things.

The earl laughed and said in a confiding voice, "Why I never thought to have such a ball, I do not know. I think I shall have to have one next year. Not at Christmas, but perhaps during our annual harvest fete. Ah, back to work!" He turned toward a new arrival, one of the real footmen and his sweetheart.

Lady Needham had been joined by Lady Crewe and the two sisters had their heads together, so Stacia slipped into the ballroom unnoticed.

She gazed around at the magical scene. Holly and evergreen in profusion, with the addition of huge potted plants and masses of flowers from Lord Needham's hothouses, somehow combined to create a winter wonderland that also held a promise of spring.

"It is beautiful, is it not?"

Stacia turned and found Lady Shaftsbury beside her. As always when she was confronted with the stunning woman, she felt a bit tongue tied. "It is magical."

"Yes, that is exactly the word." Lady Shaftsbury took in Stacia's hair and gown. "I must say that you look magical, Miss Martin. I am delighted to see you so recovered. And your hair suits you marvelously."

Stacia looked for some sign that the other woman knew where she had really been, but the marchioness's beautiful face held nothing but genuine good will.

"Thank you, my lady." She self-consciously fingered her curls. "It feels lovely, but…conspicuous."

"I can imagine. Your hair must have reached past your waist."

"It did."

Lady Shaftsbury lightly touched her own elegant upswept hair, which was probably as long as Stacia's had been. "I would like to rid myself of some of this bothersome length, but Shaftsbury is enamored with it."

Her words reminded Stacia of Lord Shelton's erotic threat involving her hair and the bedposts and felt a pang of remorse that whatever he had meant would no longer be possible. Would he be disappointed?

Lady Shaftsbury leaned closer, pulling Stacia from her thoughts. "Incidentally, I am currently in search of a companion—more of a secretary, really—to assist me both in London and when we return to the country. I would be delighted if you considered the position."

Stacia gazed into the other woman's magnificent blue eyes—the only pair she'd seen to rival Shelton's—and experienced an almost overwhelming surge of gratitude.

"That is very kind. And—and I will certainly consider it if I leave her ladyship's employment."

The marchioness smiled, touched Stacia lightly on the arm, and then drifted across the room in her elegant sky-blue gown, looking so much like an angel it was hard to pull her gaze away.

Even though the ball had scarcely begun the small orchestra cued a country dance and the dance floor filled with an enthusiasm rarely witnessed in a London ballroom. No sophisticated ennui at this particular function.

Stacia was subtly scanning the room for Shelton, when a voice behind her said, "Are you free for this dance, Miss Martin?"

She turned to find Mr. Dennehy, Lord Needham's tall, dark, and mysterious secretary standing behind her. He looked dangerously handsome in his evening clothes, the exquisitely tailored garments making his whipcord lean form appear even taller.

"I would love to, Mr. Dennehy."

She had danced with him at the village fete, so she knew he was an exquisite, if not exactly comfortable, dance partner. His dark blue eyes regarded her almost somberly, the lush black eyelashes that fringed them the only soft thing about the man, who was all sharp angles, his thin shapely lips and high cheekbones giving him an almost starved look, although his body was far too substantial to explain her odd assessment.

"Are you enjoying your stay at Wych House, Miss Martin?" he asked, when the steps brought them close enough to talk.

"Very much so. Lord and Lady Needham have made me feel very welcome." She tilted her head. "I detect a slight accent, Mr. Dennehy."

His lips curved so slightly it would be a stretch to call it a smile. "I am originally from Dublin, but I have lived in England since I was a lad."

Stacia did not think he could be much older than she was, although his deportment and air of seriousness made him seem older.

"I understand that your coworker Mr. Dixon will soon be leaving," she said, when he appeared content to let her lead the conversation.

"Yes. The day after Boxing Day will be his last day."

"Will you be alone for long, or will Lord Needham engage another secretary?"

"It will just be me." After a moment, he added, "I've worked for his lordship for several years, but only during the summers, when I was not at university. Now I will work for him all the time."

"Where did you study?"

"Cambridge."

"So did my father! What college?"

"Trinity."

"That was his, too. He was a medieval scholar."

His lips twitched, closer to a smile, but still leagues away. "I studied mechanical arts. Which is often called the vulgar arts."

She laughed. "Because it is practical, and therefor vulgar?"

"Just so," he murmured, still unsmiling, although she thought she saw a glint of humor in his hooded eyes.

No sooner did Mr. Dennehy deposit her at the table where the Bellamy sisters had gathered than Mr. Dixon claimed her.

After that, she danced a set with the distinguished Mr. Davis.

Two hours later…

Stacia had danced every single dance, a first for her.

She was waltzing with Thomas—the strikingly handsome young footman Dora had accused of switching his affections—and laughing so hard at his description of his catastrophic first dance at a local assembly, that it was difficult to keep her feet as he led her smoothly and skillfully around the dance floor.

"It is easy to laugh now," he said when they'd both stopped chuckling, "but the poor lass whose frock I almost tore off still gives me the cut direct when I pass her on the street in Little Sissingdon."

"You dance divinely now. I would never have guessed that you were once such a menace on the dance floor," she assured him. "Who taught you to waltz?"

Thomas swirled her around in a flamboyant show of skill. "Thank you, Miss Martin. My mother taught me and my brothers. She was a governess before leaving service to marry my father. She taught a goodly number of the people here. Everyone wanted to learn when Lord Needham told us about this ball." He glanced around them at the crowded floor of dancers, most of whom had clearly newly discovered the waltz, and lowered his voice, "I know Dora helped you dress for the ball, Miss. Did she happen to, er, mention me?"

Stacia considered her answer a moment before admitting, "She said something about Lady Shaftsbury's maid."

Thomas grimaced. "I've only been on two walks with her—and one dance at the village Christmas fete—and all three times I could hardly say no to her without being rude. She's pretty but laughed at everything I said, even things I'd not meant to be funny."

"She is probably nervous around you."

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Aye, maybe, but it's caused no end of trouble for me with Dora ever since." He lowered his voice so much that Stacia had to dance on her toes to hear him. "I drew Dora's name in the secret gift giving but I don't want to keep it a secret. I'm worried she might think my gift is from Charles." His worried blue gaze slid to where Dora was, quite shamelessly, flirting with another footman, also tall, blond, and handsome.

"I don't think there is any rule against letting her know it is from you," Stacia said.

"It's a claddagh ring," Thomas said.

"Pardon?"

"My mother is from Ireland and the ring belonged to her mother."

"What did you call it?"

"A claddagh ring. It has hands and a crowned heart on it."

"Oh, that sounds like a fede ring. It's a sort of promise ring," she explained at his questioning look.

"Aye, this is a ring a man gives to his girl. The way she wears it tells others if somebody has her heart." His cheeks flushed a dark red.

"I think you must certainly tell her it is from you," Stacia said. After a moment she added, "You might also tell Dora what you told me about Lady Shaftsbury's maid."

Thomas looked thoughtful at that advice and his gaze slid across the room yet again to the woman who obviously had his heart.

Stacia took the opportunity to look yet again for the man who held hers.

The ballroom was filled with aristocratic men and women mingling with servants—even Lord Bellamy's young friends were here dancing and waiting on giggling maids—but there was no sign of the man who had promised to be her slavishly devoted servant for an evening. Why had he waylaid her in the corridor if he was not going to be at the ball?

Stacia stayed at the ball beyond sense, beyond hope. She remained until ten minutes before midnight—which meant she had to all but run to return to her employer in time—and Lord Shelton never appeared.