Chapter Three

S affron leaned into the plush, velvet curtain that framed the window, tearing small pieces of paper from the leaves of her fan and letting them flutter to the floor like flakes of snow. A few feet away, Angelica smiled and laughed at something the Duke of Canterbury had said. The heavy-set man's cheeks were stained the same ruddy color as his coat, and his bushy, black mustache was covered in crumbs of yellow cake.

She couldn't stop thinking about the painting.

After Lord Briarwood had vanished like the devil Angelica had branded him, Saffron had dragged her aunt Rosemary over to the painting. She'd expected her aunt to gasp or cry, but Rosemary had met her excitement with cool indifference. It was nothing more than coincidence, she had argued. They didn't even know the name of the painter, only that the piece was titled Ravenmore , and it was new, impossibly new.

"Come away from there before you sprout roots," Rosemary said as she lounged on a red, leather divan against the wall. "I did not raise a wallflower."

The woman was as attractive as she had been fifteen years prior, when she had taken in Saffron and her siblings. Perhaps with a touch more silver at her temple, and new wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but with the same single-minded determination that had earned her reputation as a fearsome matchmaker.

Saffron stepped from the window and sunk into the plush cushions beside her aunt, prepared for another long night of watching her sister flit from one suitor to the next. Whereas Angelica thrived in social settings, Saffron was more withdrawn, preferring to spend her time with her family or alone.

"Your sister is shining tonight," Rosemary said. "My dearest wish is that you would shine as brightly."

Saffron tucked her mangled fan into her pocket before her aunt could comment on it. As much as she longed to wear the same beautiful fabrics and jewels that Angelica donned night after night, they did not have the funds. It took all of Saffron's careful planning to keep them from being cast out of their home. Her childhood dreams of finding a love match had been crushed under the weight of responsibility.

She glanced at the painting on the other side of the ballroom.

What if there was another option?

"It is a passing resemblance, nothing more," Rosemary said, as if reading her mind. "Now stop fidgeting. You are so distractible."

Saffron stared down at her clasped hands. "You're wrong." She remembered her brother's face as clearly as if she'd seen him that morning. "We only assumed the man that we buried was Basil."

The constables had not let them see his face, claiming it had been too gruesome.

"Your brother is dead." Rosemary shook her head. "Do you not remember how we suffered after he left? After he abandoned us? I cannot see what will come of this fantasy of yours, other than opening old wounds best left closed."

Her fingers ached from clenching them. She tore her hands apart. What mattered was the money. If Basil were still alive, and he returned, they could petition to reclaim the family's baronet title and the fortune that came with it. Angelica's dowry would be restored, giving her the freedom to choose a husband.

Rosemary hissed in a breath, and Saffron realized that a man had joined the circle of admirers surrounding her sister.

"Who is that?" she asked.

The new suitor towered above Angelica, but when he smiled, it held none of the arrogance of many of the titled men present.

"Mr. Simon Mayweather," Rosemary said. Her lips twisted in a moue of displeasure. "His father was a merchant."

"Ah," Saffron replied.

Translation, respectable enough to stay in Angelica's assembly, but with neither requirement of title nor fortune.

Mr. Mayweather made some comment, and a flush spread over her sister's cheeks.

"What is she doing?" Rosemary whispered.

The young man leaned in closer, one hand snaking around Angelica's back. Canterbury drew himself upright, scowling fiercely. Before the situation could escalate, Saffron bolted from her seat and reached through the gap between her sister and Mr. Mayweather, forcing the man to retreat.

"Sister, your glass," she said, plucking the empty champagne flute from her fingers. "I'll fetch you another."

As Saffron stepped away, Rosemary slid into her place, ensuring that Mr. Mayweather would not attempt to get nearer Angelica again.

She hurried off to the refreshment room, ducking under elbows and lifting her skirts to avoid a spilled glass of wine. Then a path opened in front of her, leading straight to Briarwood. Under the bright light of the chandeliers, his hair shone like liquid gold. He'd buttoned his waistcoat and tied his long hair back with a blue ribbon.

His gaze met hers, and warmth flooded her stomach.

She staggered back, shaking her head. He raised an eyebrow. The crowd on either side was impassable. The muted sounds of conversation floated around her.

He prowled across the gleaming, marble floor and bowed before her. "Miss Summersby."

The words slithered across her skin, as intimate as a caress. He took her hand and breathed a kiss over her knuckles, squeezing her gloved fingers a tad too tightly.

The gall of the man for taking her hand unoffered.

"Lord Briarwood," Saffron said. "I thought you had left."

Another lie. She had not lost sight of him for a second since leaving his side. A crowd three times the size of the one currently occupying the ballroom would not be sufficient to dim the intensity of his presence. She wished she knew what it was that caused her to fixate on him, to seek out his shape amid countless others.

"Call me ‘Leo,'" he said.

"Certainly not. That would be highly improper."

He chuckled. "I would not dare offend your delicate sensibilities. My cousin encouraged me to stay and engage you. I suspect he wants more time to speak with your sister. Dance with me?"

Her already racing heart thudded painfully in her chest. How long had it been since anyone had asked her to dance? She had grown so used to every would-be suitor's gaze passing over her, drawn to the radiant beauty of her sister.

The screech of a violin announced the start of a new set. The crowd pressed together, forming more space in the center of the room for dancing. The candles above them sputtered as wind breathed into the room. The footman had thrown open more doors to the terrace.

"Is your dance card full?" Lord Briarwood asked. He lifted her sleeve with his other hand and tugged out the circle of paper tied to her wrist. She wrenched her hand back before he could leaf through it and discover that not a single name was written on the pages.

"I-I don't know the steps," she said. It was a terrible excuse, not believable in the least, but he only quirked an eyebrow.

"Then I shall have to show you."

The light of the viscount's attention gave her newfound courage. She took his hand, and they merged into the flow of dancers. Their first set was silent and awkward, but it didn't take long before the rhythm of the music unlocked the steps from her forgetful body. It was glorious, like she was flying free after years of watching in silence. She didn't even care that people were staring. Their leering eyes could not disrupt her excitement.

She stomped to the beat then hooked her arm through Briarwood's and spun in a tight circle until she was so dizzy, she thought she would faint. But then large hands clasped her waist and her head stopped spinning.

I could learn to enjoy this , she thought, her hopes rising. Perhaps it was not too late, after all. She did not have looks to attract a husband, but her mind was sharp, her instincts true. Briarwood was far too scandalous to be suitable, but if she could find a wealthy man to agree to marry her, then Angelica would be spared the injustice of a marriage of convenience.

Lord Briarwood's palm slid down her side and squeezed her hip. It happened so quickly that she didn't have time to gasp or pull away—not that she wanted to. The pressure of his fingers sent tingling sensations down her thigh.

If she pretended to trip, would he do it again?

He handed her off to a new partner and the distance brought her back to reality. She chastened herself for her foolishness. As tempting as Briarwood was, he was a rake, not a suitor.

When she returned to his arms, he immediately drew her closer than was proper, causing several other of the ladies dancing to throw them sidelong glances. She could not tell if they were scandalized or jealous.

"You're drawing attention to us," she said, squeezing his hand.

He shrugged. "Let them gawk. I am only doing what they all wish they could." They whirled past a line of stern-faced matrons along the wall, who tilted their heads together and muttered. The words strange and disgraceful were spoken loudly enough for her to hear and dug into her heart like daggers.

"You dance well," the viscount said. "Yet they reject you. Why?"

"I have no dowry," she said, concentrating on moving her feet in tune with the music. She could not embarrass her sister or aunt by falling on the dance floor. "That is reason enough."

"I am not interested in your dowry. And unless I am mistaken, your sister is also without dowry, yet she has several admirers."

"I have more pressing concerns," she said, thinking of the pile of gowns sitting in her room, waiting to be modified so that the Ton would not notice that they were last year's fashions. That was assuming they could find the funds to make the payment on their townhouse. She woke up most nights in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of burly, faceless men carting trunk after trunk out of their house while Angelica sobbed in Rosemary's arms.

"What could be more important than marriage?" Briarwood asked mockingly. "I believe my mother once said those exact words to me some years ago. A ridiculous notion." He caught her as she stumbled on a puddle of spilled wine, lifted her off the ground, and returned her to her feet in a smooth motion.

"You disagree?" she asked, breathless from her momentary flight. The large hand splayed along her back provided a pleasant distraction.

"I'll share a secret with you. Several of the works on these walls were painted by unmarried women." He spun her about and nodded to a large oil canvas behind the chaise of disagreeable matrons. It depicted several women in flowing gowns sitting on prancing horses. The frothing, light-colored garments distracted from the wicked eyes of the horses, who looked about to buck their riders.

"It's lovely," she said. "Who painted it?"

He flashed a grin. "A darling cousin of mine. She has no head for household matters but is a master with a brush. Finding and supporting artists is a personal project of mine. I don't think I need to tell you how challenging it is for a woman artist to sell her work under her own name." He scowled. "There are limited opportunities for women, even in the Royal Society of Arts." Saffron remembered Lord Briarwood's reaction to the painting. "Is the Ravenmore one of those paintings?"

He stumbled but caught himself before they careened out of position. Then he drew her a touch closer. "Ravenmore is the name of the painter, not the painting. You haven't heard of him?"

Before she could respond to that, he handed her off to a different partner. She smiled up at Mr. Pennyworth and responded demurely to his idle conversation, while at the same time trying to rein in her spiraling thoughts.

Ravenmore is the name of the painter. What did that mean? She'd never heard that title before, and she had Debrett's Peerage memorized, to better guide Angelica in her choice of suitor.

When she finally returned to the viscount's arms, she was bursting with questions. Unfortunately, every time she tried to bring it up, he stopped her with a pointed question about the weather, her sister, or the refreshments. Then it was too late, and he handed her off to the next man in the set.

She had only a moment to school her features before realizing whose arms she was in.

The Duke of Canterbury.

Beady, brown eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she was afraid he would step away, leaving her floundering. But then he sniffed and roughly grasped her hand.

"So, girl," he said after they had completed half a rotation. "What manner of gift might sway your sister's affection?"

She swallowed the instinctual, crass response that flew to her tongue and instead smiled prettily. It was tempting to lead the man astray and suggest he buy a bouquet of violets, but that would only punish Angelica when she broke out into hives.

"Red roses, my lord," she said instead. "The color suits her golden hair."

"Roses? Yes, a splendid idea," the duke said. He lifted his hand from her for a moment to scratch his thick neck with his black-gloved hand. "Perhaps you are not so useless, after all. If you can keep this up, you might yet find a husband." He lowered his voice to a whisper and narrowed his eyes. "Unless you've already spread your legs for the viscount?"

Her cheeks burned, and she could not find the words to form a response. She'd met a fair number of uncouth individuals, but no one had ever spoken to her so crudely. As the music faded, Lord Briarwood came to her side like an angel of grace, taking her hand and placing it on his arm.

"Lord Canterbury? If I may?" he asked the uncivilized man.

"Of course." The duke had the audacity to raise a brow at Saffron and chuckle, as if the viscount's arrival proved his point.

Saffron refused to meet his gaze. She feared if she did, she might not be able to hold her tongue. Thankfully, Briarwood did nothing more than offer the duke a stiff smile before he whisked her out of the crowd.

"What did he say to you?" he asked. "You looked like you were going to faint, or scream."

She shook her head. "I could not possibly repeat it."

"I apologize for leaving you," he said, his words tight.

The buzzing inside her intensified, and she had to concentrate on taking each step without stumbling.

"You cannot remain by my side the entire night, my lord," she said, with only a slight waver.

"I wish I could. Your company is far more pleasurable than that of anyone else here."

She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Did he really mean it? The man was an enigma, with the reputation of a rake but words that melted her heart. She remembered the beautiful woman who had kissed his cheek.

It is none of my concern whom he associates with.

She clung to the thought, refusing to acknowledge the trickle of jealousy that welled up and soured the back of her throat.

They were halfway across the room when a young woman in a fawn-colored gown crossed their path. She gave a sly smile and fluttered her fan. "Lord Briarwood, there you are. You owe me a dance."

"As much as I would love to, Miss Tilson," Briarwood replied, "it is stiflingly hot in here."

The woman giggled. "Lady Jarvis is not known for her planning. But I enjoy the other pleasures she provides. Perhaps you would accompany me for a walk in the gardens. I hear there is a lovely pergola at the center of the maze. Very private." She peered around the viscount. "But first, you simply must dispose of that creature that clings to your coattails."

The words peeled off the scabs of old wounds in Saffron's heart, and the room spun. Beneath her gloves, her fingers were gritty where the sweat had dried, rubbing against her skin like rough stone.

"Excuse me." She pushed away before hearing Briarwood's response. "I need some air."

She hurried out of the ballroom and onto the terrace. Once she was outside, she rushed down the ornate, curving staircase and around the side of the house, her heels first clicking against the smooth stone and then stamping on the stone walkway. Bulbous lanterns hung from the low branches of the trees, casting circles of sickly-yellow light on the ground.

She searched for a dark alcove where she could hide from the prying eyes of the guests and found it near the rear entrance to the house, beside a gurgling cherub fountain. Water bubbled out of the angelic figure's pupil-less eyes and ran down its cheeks like tears.

She fled to the darkest part of the alcove, taking great, gasping breaths as the world spun out of control. Her head fell back against the wall as she pushed away the darkness that creeped in from the sides of her vision. The lilting sounds of the orchestra, combined with the occasional shriek of laughter, carried to her.

"There you are."

Saffron spun to find Lord Briarwood leaning against the stairs. His coat was unbuttoned, his cravat missing. The triangle of skin showing beneath his chin was enough to make her knees wobble anew.

She scuttled back until her hands splayed against the brick exterior of the house. "What do you want?"

"Only to help." He held his palms spread out at his sides. "But I will leave if you prefer to be alone."

"Why would you want to help the ‘creature that clings to your coattails'?"

The pain of the words struck her anew.

The viscount's jaw ticked. "Don't listen to them. There is nothing wrong with you. My sister used to panic around crowds as well. She hated parading around in front of them." He paused, then held out a hand. "Let me help you?"

Heavens, he was temptation personified. Her instincts blared, demanding that she run before anyone caught them together and assumed the worst.

Saffron stared over his shoulder. Although her heart still raced, her legs no longer felt like rubber and her hands had stopped prickling. As dangerous as it was to be alone with a man, she liked the idea of being by herself even less. With nothing to anchor her, the chains of panic would draw her into a sobbing mess.

"You can stay."

He approached her with small, measured steps, stopping when he was a foot away.

"Focus on my voice. I'm right here with you. I'm not going anywhere." He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her, sheltering her with his body. The sound of the ballroom faded into the background until all she could hear was her own breathing, harsh and uneven.

"I'm here," he said, leaning closer. "Nothing else matters but this moment, right here, right now."

The soothing words filled her with fizzing bubbles like she'd drunk an entire bottle of champagne. Warmth surrounded her, pushing out the cold. The sweet smell of cigar smoke clung to his shirt, and there was an echo of brandy on the breath that caressed her cheek. She longed to reach out and tangle her hands in his shirt, draw him close. She glanced up through her eyelashes, and the heat in his eyes made her stomach flutter.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice husky. The tendons in his neck tightened, and his nostrils flared. He pushed away from the wall, took several staggering steps back, and fled.

What was that?

For a fraction of a second, she'd thought he might kiss her. But that was ridiculous, of course. She never would have allowed it, not the least because she looked terrible, drenched in sweat, with her hair flying around her face.

Still, her heart thundered at the idea.