Chapter Four

Lillian was not a virgin.

She had been, until the age of eighteen, when she fell deliriously in love with Arman, a trick-rider from a traveling circus. They’d spent two lust-filled weeks together and then she’d woken to a rose on her pillow and a letter filled with token remarks of remorse.

He’d spelled her name wrong.

After that, Lillian had guarded her heart–and her body–more carefully. She’d indulged in flirtations (she was a stage performer, after all) but had made a rule that she would not fall for a performer ever again. Being one herself, she knew how fickle they could be. How quick they were to fall in–and out–of love.

Which was why, when she turned twenty, she had an affair with a doctor. The handsome, albeit pompous Dr. Theodore Cartwright came calling after he saw her performance as Grace Harkaway in London Assurance . They’d enjoyed strolls through Hyde Park, dinners at the Albion in Covent Garden, and a memorable seven-day excursion to Bath. But Dr. Cartwright had wanted marriage, and while she found him pleasant enough (more so out of bed than in it, where he’d been rather stiff), there weren’t any of the sparks she’d had with the trick-rider.

Since he’d stormed off in a fit of bruised ego–and subsequently married a debutante six months later–Lillian had made it a point to focus solely on the theater. She didn’t need a man, and aside from a few casual kisses here and there that hadn’t led to anything else, she’d gotten along just fine without one.

Until she walked out onto a terrace…and was kissed senseless by the Duke of Dorchester.

On the stage, first impressions were everything. You had seconds to capture the audience’s attention and then an hour to hold it. What they saw they had to believe, even though they knew they were watching a fictional production. Voice, tone, body language…it all had to come together to tell a story.

The duke’s story had started as a stodgy gentleman that had vaguely reminded her of Dr. Cartwright. But when he’d yanked her into his arms and then shoved her against the balcony…that had been Arman and then some. With his passionate embrace, Abel Taylor Roberts, Duke of Dorchester, had succeeded in capturing her attention. She wanted the show to continue. But she also needed to remember why she was here in the first place.

A glance over her shoulder at the French doors revealed that the front hall had largely emptied of guests, indicating that the dancing had commenced. If she was going to find a benefactor, it would be in there, amidst the sheen and the shine of old wealth and new. Unless…

“You wouldn’t happen to be seeking to fund a failing theater house, thus ensuring the survival of its acting troupe and stage crew, would you?” she asked pleasantly.

Abel blinked slowly at her from beneath a heavy lock of ebony hair dotted with ivory snowflakes. “Are you…asking for money?”

“Buckets of it. Trunks, really.”

His eyes–a truly mesmerizing shade of green, he would have dazzled the ladies on stage–narrowed slightly. “Is that why you came out here and kissed me?”

“ You kissed me ,” she reminded him.

A moment of silence, and then…

“You should really return inside now, Miss Snow. The weather has taken a turn and I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”

Her laughter tinkled like sleigh bells. “I can assure you that I’ve never felt warmer. But if you’re cold, here is your jacket.” She shook it off before she returned it to him, and when their fingers brushed she heard his hiss of breath as if he’d touched a kettle in the fire. “See?” she said softly, watching his countenance for any revealing flicker of expression that would tell her what he was thinking behind his stern facade. “Warm.”

“Here,” he said stiffly, turning his head away. “I’ll get the door.”

Lillian pressed her lips together as she preceded him into the front hall. She heard the door click closed behind her and then he was gone, striding past with such speed that a train would have likely had trouble keeping pace.

“How do you like that?” she asked her reflection when she stopped in front of a gilt-framed mirror to check her appearance before continuing on into the ballroom. Her hair was damp and the curls slightly flattened from the snow, but it wasn’t anything a quick tease with a comb procured from a pocket sewn into her skirts–an old theater trick for storing hidden property–couldn’t fix. A bit of light pinching to bring a rosy glow to her cheeks and she was ready for her Yuletide Ball debut.

“Name and invitation, if you please.” A dour-faced butler held out his hand expectantly at the base of the grand staircase leading up to the ballroom on the second story. The mahogany bannister was wrapped in garland and strings of festive red holly berries. From the top of the stairs came the sound of music and the tromp, tromp of feet in a synchronized dance.

“Miss Lillian Snow. And here you are.”

“Your invitation is…wet,” said the butler, his bulbous nose wrinkling as he accepted the wet, crumpled parchment she’d shoved carelessly into her bodice and subsequently forgotten about before going out onto the terrace. Some of the black ink had run, staining the inside of her dress. Thankfully, the red hid it well.

“I was outside,” she explained, nibbling the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll have to return in the summer, when our gardens are more suitable for viewing.”

“That sounds lovely, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to, Mr…”

The butler squared his shoulders. “Mr. Clause, miss.”

“Mr. Clause. You see, I’ve a confession.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not really supposed to be here. I won this invitation in a game. I haven’t a chaperone or a title or any money. This gown is a costume.” She touched her throat. “These jewels are glass. I’m an actress pretending to be an heiress who was just kissed by a duke. And it’s all so fantastical that I have to tell someone . I’m sorry, Mr. Clause, that you happen to be that someone.”

The butler cleared his throat. “Miss Snow.”

“Yes?” she sighed, certain that she was about to find herself escorted out. And maybe that would be for the best. She’d already managed to chase off one duke before the ball had even started. What were her chances of winning another to her cause? Forget champagne in fancy crystal flutes. She would probably be better off going to find Marjorie at the Blue Pig and drowning her troubles in a tin mug of ale.

“The heiresses I have met would never apologize with such frequency.” The faintest twinkle shone in Mr. Clause’s gaze. “Straight up the stairs and through the doors to the right. Enjoy your evening, Miss Snow. Should you like to come back to Foxhaven House in the future, I shall make sure that you have a real invitation. No need to rely on a fortunate roll in hazard.”

It wasn’t until Lillian had entered the ballroom that she realized she hadn’t told the butler how she’d won her invitation. A lucky guess, she reasoned as she picked her way through dozens of dancing couples to stand beside a life sized ice sculpture of a…

“Are you a unicorn or an elephant?” she asked aloud.

“I believe it’s supposed to be a stag.” This from a sandy-haired gentleman wearing a brocade waistcoat and a charming grin. “That’s an antler, not a horn.”

Lillian’s head canted. “I rather thought it was a trunk.”

The man gave a hearty chuckle. “Now that I look at it again, you may very well be right. Have you ever seen one in person?”

“A unicorn?” she said, the corners of her lips twitching.

“No, an elephant.”

“I have not. You?”

He nodded. “During my Grand Tour, we followed a herd of them in Sierra Leon. It’s an experience I will not soon forget.”

“Nor should you. Where else did you travel during your tour?”

“The usual places. Rome, Naples, and Florence for my first. West Africa by way of Egypt for my second.”

“Two tours,” she said, suitably impressed.

His charming grin widened, revealing a dimple high on his left cheek. “What can I say? I’ve always had a penchant for exploration and adventure.”

Yes, traveling for months at a time through dangerous and foreign lands would certainly require a deep sense of adventure.

It would also require deep pockets.

“Do you have other interests?” she asked, borrowing the sweet smile she’d worn for most of King Lear when she’d played his youngest daughter, Cordelia, to not one, not two, but three standing ovations. “Such as, oh, I don’t know…the theater?”

“I hold great appreciation for the arts.”

“That is refreshing to hear.” Inexplicably, Abel’s glowering countenance flashed in front of her mind. She swatted it aside with an inward huff of annoyance. “My name is Lillian. Lillian Snow. And I’ve a theater–the Lisbon Theater–that is in great need of a benefactor such as yourself to help fund repairs and help us market ourselves to a broader audience.”

The man’s grin slipped ever-so-slightly, then quickly righted itself as he bent forward into an exaggerated bow. “Miss Snow. What a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Lord Byron White, Earl of Clearfield. And I should very much love to hear more about your theater…after a dance.”

“A dance,” she said blankly.

Lord Clearfield straightened and held out his arm. “A dance,” he said with a wink that she found to be a tad over the top, but who was she to complain when he was the first potential benefactor not to immediately slam the proverbial door in her face?

“Of course,” she said, allowing him to escort her toward the middle of the floor where white chalk had been used to draw large, elaborate snowflakes across the polished oak hardwood and assumed the following position with her weight on her left foot and her right turned slightly to the side. Truthfully, she was far more accustomed to moving across a stage than a ballroom, but she managed the fast, complicated steps of the popular Viennese Waltz with only a few small mistakes. When it ended to a loud eruption of applause, Lord Clearfield bowed again, this time taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth.

“Miss Snow,” he murmured, his breath fanning across her knuckles. “Should you like to discuss your theater further, might I recommend a…quieter venue? There is a tea house that keeps late hours not far from here.”

“I don’t have a carriage. I took a hackney here. I’m not sure how long it would take to get another.” She stared at the hand that Lord Clearfield still held, willing a tingle to move up her arm, if only to show it wasn’t the Duke of Dour Glances that had made her pulse race and heart pound. That she would have a similar reaction to any handsome, virile man. Especially one that was showing an interest in the Lisbon.

Tingle, she ordered her limb.

Tingle, tingle.

Tingle , damn you!

But it wouldn’t.

Her traitorous hand refused.

Somehow, it must have known that the Earl of Clearfield was not the Duke of Dorchester.

“That is of no consequence.” He kissed her hand again–still no tingle–before releasing her. “I have a carriage.”

Lillian’s brow creased. As an actress and business owner, she was already stretching the lines of what was considered socially acceptable behavior for a female. Truly improper acts, such as leaving a ball in the solitary company of a gentleman, would be…discussed. And the last thing she needed was malicious gossip following her around. Not when the theater was already on such tenuous footing.

“I’m not sure–”

“Not to worry.” The charming grin reappeared. “We’ll be very discreet.”

She looked around the ballroom. The majority of the guests had already moved on to another waltz. No one was paying her any attention. No one even knew–or cared–that she was there. The giant splash she’d imagined she would make had dried up into a puddle. She didn’t even see Abel’s dark head amidst the crowd. Her gaze returned to the Earl of Clearfield who was watching her expectantly.

“A tea house?” she said.

“You’ll love it,” he promised. “I conduct all of my meetings there. They have the best Battenberg cakes that you’ve ever tasted.”

“I do like a good Battenberg cake,” she admitted. “Lead the way, Lord Clearfield.”