Chapter Eight

Mr. Quinton Prendergast is the elusive, mysterious man from Hyde Park!

The earth moved beneath Augusta's feet, and she nearly collapsed with joy and relief. Clinging to Delphi for support, she never thought a miracle like this was possible. "I am glad that we have finally formally met, Mr. Prendergast."

"As am I, Miss Steere."

Saints be praised, I am saved.

"Aha!" Delphi clapped her gloved hands together with glee. "Now that we have been properly introduced, you may sign our dance cards. And as it so happens, my sister has an opening for the next waltz."

"As you can see, Mr. Prendergast." She fingered her dance card, thoughtfully. "My sister is correct. This set is empty. All that is required is for you to make your mark."

She studied Mr. Prendergast beneath hooded lashes, half-agony, half-hope. The heartrending tenderness she read in his eyes as they gazed at one another for the first time in over a fortnight, sent dizzying currents rushing through her. And yet, she could not help but notice there was something different about him, an untamed, maddening arrogance that hadn't been there before.

What had been said to alter his character? What had changed?At the park, he'd been natural and open, a welcome sight to jaded eyes.

Then it hit her. Mr. Prendergast was on her list. He was one of the nearly thirty would-be suitors provided to them. Impossible coincidence. What were the odds? Was he aware? He was the only gentleman on the list without a title, while she'd been the only person who'd interacted with him in the park.

Whose doing was this? How had Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon gotten his name? And did it truly matter now that he stood before her when she thought she would never see him again.

Pleased with her good fortune, she watched and waited nervously for him to sign her card. He was taller than she remembered, forcing her to tilt her head back to look at him. His shoulders were broad and strong, hinting that he was accustomed to labor, another thing that set him apart. Oh, how she admired him for it. Idleness was a faint-hearted employer.

Candlelight shone on his jet-black hair. There was inherent strength in his bronze features, his skin color suggesting he spent a lot of time outdoors. Was he a horseman? Now that would be providential.

Humor crinkled around his eyes as she suddenly realized he'd caught her staring.

She quickly glanced at her dance card, feeling strangely dejected as the minutes wore on.

To her astonishment, he reached for her card and signed his name in perfect script. "The music has begun. Shall we?"

"I would be delighted."

The moment she accepted his arm, several people nearby turned their heads. At this, a look of withdrawal transformed his face. His touch, unbearable as it was persuasive, had her fighting to understand what had come over him.

She decided to engage him in conversation to smooth over any slight he might have perceived from the snub. "Do you enjoy dancing, Mr. Prendergast?"

"Only as a means to an end."

"What end might that be, pray?" Appreciating his subtle wit, she gave as good as she got. "And does the end justify the means?"

Amusement returned to his eyes. "At the moment."

"Then I shall seek to prolong this moment as long as I am able. Ah," she said, smiling, "they are playing Haydn. His music is an electrifying indulgence and coveted at Vauxhall."

"I prefer Beethoven's stringed quartets," he said, spinning her around like a whirligig.

"Is there in particular a piece you are fond of?"

He led her across the ballroom floor, exercising exceptional skill, his size contrasting to his lightness of foot. "Number nine."

She closed her eyes, reveling being in his arms. His posture exuded power, his expression, patience. He performed the steps superbly for a man with a leg impediment, and she knew they made a striking couple. Any woman with half a brain should be fawning at Mr. Prendergast's feet, or at the very least devising a way to get him to sign their dance card. But she was glad they weren't.

The thought of signing dance cards brought her round to his hesitance to sign hers. Perhaps their interlude in Hyde Park left a fictional spark on her part. What if he found her wanting and was just being polite?

They spun in circles, the pressure on her lower back increasing as he pulled her toward him. She gazed about the room, alarmed something untrue might be mentioned about the intimacy, though she enjoyed every minute of their proximity to each other.

Wallflowers, too, paid attention now as she and Mr. Prendergast twirled together, melding and moving as one like weightless, swirling clouds in a summer sky. Skillfully, the sinking steps slowed in time to the music. A sense of giddiness and confusion washed over her, her thoughts racing and blood rushing to her temples. Dancing with a man she was attracted to was more challenging than she expected. And when her gaze locked with Mr. Prendergast's, her heart leapt the same way Bellerophon, a monster of a horse, galloped beneath her through meadows at their country estate.

Was the speed with which her senses spun the reason Thenie kissed Kilverstone at Vauxhall? Had her sister felt topsy-turvy, teased and tempted into abandoning good sense? His thigh brushed her hip and his hand pressed warmly into the hollow of her back. The connection growing between herself and Mr. Prendergast was pulse pounding, a seductive source of buoyancy that sent her spirits soaring, especially now that they'd been introduced and could walk within the same circles.

But could they? Though he was wealthy, his social status had not changed. He was still untitled, and she just as desperate to marry.

"Have you ever been kissed, Mr. Prendergast?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"That is not a question I expected to hear from a woman I just met."

"But we have not just met, have we?"

"No." A faint glint of humor flickered in his eyes. "Very well. Does my mother count?"

"She does not." Quick-witted scoundrel. "Mothers love without question."

"True." The music crescendoed as they twirled around, face-to-face, the room flashing speedily by. "So, mothers do not count?"

"Definitely not." Tremors swept through her. According to Mama, her future husband would school her on the intricacies of kissing. Was Mr. Prendergast that man? "Surely, you have—"

"Only vulgar men share their encounters."

Aha!She had him. "So, you have kissed a woman before?"

"Your question is most improper, Miss Steere." He dipped her, the firmness of his forearm below her back demonstrating his strength and agility. He whispered against her ear, his hot breath making her quiver. "If I kissed you, would you appreciate me sharing the details with another woman?"

"No." A shudder passed through her at the thought of his mouth searing a path of pleasure on her lips, down her neck, and—"I seek to discover what kind of man you are."

"I am a gentleman."

A man with principles.Another thing to check off her list.

"My turn." His eyes smoldered as he dipped her again, then gently sparred, "Have you ever been kissed?"

Ensnared by her own game, she stared at his smartly fashioned cravat, then gazed into his unreadable eyes. "A lady should not answer such a question."

"Nor should she ask it," he whispered. "But you did, and now you owe me the truth. Have you ever been kissed?"

All too quickly, she could no longer hide the truth. "No."

"Never?" His voice sounded deeper than ever, hypnotic and husky, dreamy and intimate, enticing her to fall madly and deeply in love with him. "Not once?"

"Never," she whispered on a sigh.

As they danced, his bewitching spell grew harder and harder to fight. "I could teach you the method, if you are eager to learn."

She stared, dumbfounded, her tongue hurriedly working to reply. "One kiss will get me into trouble."

A wave of apprehension swept through her as they danced past Lord Boothe, a hint of annoyance visible on his face. The gall! She had no idea what influence he thought he could have on her, but he wasn't going to get it. Giving him the cut direct, and delighting in the powerful satisfaction that one act provided, she allowed herself to be drawn more and more to Mr. Prendergast's enthusiastic smile.

"Would a kiss earn your regard?" he asked, lowering his gaze to her mouth. "Will it influence your opinion of me?"

Augusta bit her lip until it throbbed like her pulse. Did he know about Mrs. Dove-Lyon's list?

A flicker of apprehension swept through her. "I am not easily influenced."

"That is good to know."

Indeed, she ought to walk away from Mr. Prendergast. Put their meeting in the park and his exploration of the hollow of her back out of her mind. But she couldn't, not after being preoccupied with finding him for weeks. Not after she discovered who he was. Not after his touch, firm and persuasive, made her hunger for more. No. Walking away wasn't the answer. It would be the height of rudeness to leave a dance partner on the ballroom floor. And, all because she was afraid of what Boothe would say, of losing the game she was playing. That kind of slight would only open Mr. Prendergast to unwelcome scrutiny.

What did it matter? She'd started this. A kiss. Marriage. Coupling. Mama had conveyed the method. She'd also explained ‘love makes the act more enjoyable.' And while the deed and the pleasure made little sense to Augusta, she finally understood the dilemma Thenie had faced because the thought of being kissed by Mr. Prendergast wasn't repugnant at all. When he looked at her mouth, a heady sensation she'd never felt before stole her breath. Nevertheless, she must maintain control—for Delphi's sake.

"Don't hunt the squirrel," he said whirling her around. He led them without pause or flurry, the naughty game and her participation in it a reminder that she had no intentions of fleeing his pursuit only so that he would follow. "I am not dicked in the nob, but I admit that I was foolish to encourage you."

"The fault is mine." Even if it meant forcing a man to the sticking point, propriety must prevail. "Allow me to explain about... my inquiries. I am merely curious because my elder sister participated in a game of truth or dare."

"Is that what is going on between us? A game?"

"No," she rushed to say. "This tête-à-tête is integral to the Season, and I am... I am trying to avoid a scandal."

"Yours or someone else's?" He whirled her to stare at her.

"My own."

"Miss Steere, a kiss does not have to be scandalous." A devilish gleam flickered in his eyes. "It can be quite enjoyable."

She came to a dead stop, her curiosity, as well as her vanity, aroused. Was he seeking upper orders by trying to attach himself to the aristocracy through marriage? He would not be the first, nor the last.

He leaned closer, his breath fanning her cheek and his nearness making her heart beat faster. "I am no sap scull, Miss Steere. I will not dupe myself into thinking a kiss has the power to win your heart. But I would gladly sacrifice my lips to prove that I am not a frog."

His nod to Grimm's Fairy Tales intrigued her. Had he read Der Froschk?nig oder der eiserne Heinrich? It had only been in circulation since 1812, which meant he had got the book, read it, and knew what it contained. She fought the shudder thudding through her amid a sea of bobbing feathers and headdresses.

"Do I shock you?"

A shiver of want pulsed through her.

"You, sir, are a paradox." Far different from the nabobs, shopkeepers, shipping magnets, and opportunists that Papa dealt with, which made Mr. Prendergast no less human, by any means. And yet... beneath the facade, he appeared to be so much more. "A puzzle I am trying to solve."

"You'd best hurry." He whispered into her hair. "We're not dancing and everyone has noticed."

She glanced around, discovering that as much as she'd tried to avoid attention, they'd become the object of unavoidable interest. Lord Boothe and several other noblemen on Mrs. Dove-Lyon's list looked on. Papa and Mama stood next to their host, Lady Claremont, aghast. The lady herself frowning with disapproval.

Mr. Prendergast took her by the hand and her led off the dance floor, her feet seeming to drift on a cloud as they made their way to the refreshment table. Everything else ceased to matter as long as he was near. The curious stares. Finger pointing. Flickering fans and mollycoddling mamas.

"I wish you could see yourself as I see you now," he said. "You are more elegant and enchanting than that day in the park."

"Do not tease." She shook her head, refuting his claim. "I am neither of those things." But I want to be. I desire to be... in your eyes.

"Yes," he reassured her. "You are."

"Folderol."

He searched her upturned face. "You are the nonsensical one."

No. She was a woman facing the harsh realities of the marriage mart, and failing miserably if her interaction with Mr. Prendergast was any indication. "I am not, nor have I ever been, ridiculous."

"Miss Steere, that is not what I meant," he said apologetically. "May I be honest?"

She snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray to bolster her nerves. "Of course."

"I am a simple man looking for a wife." She struggled to swallow, careful not to appear shocked. "And I've come to the one place I can find a woman who possesses extraordinary beauty and a good heart—the marriage mart." Her pulse beat at the base of her throat, the intimacy of the dance, and his proximity thrilling her to her slippered feet. "Does that make me a villain?" he asked.

"I dare say, it does not." Her composure was as fragile as the depths of his honesty. In hers and Delphi's case, a hasty marriage was the only way to avoid ruin. "Delphi."

She nearly choked, a frightening premonition taking hold, as she suddenly remembered she hadn't seen her sister since they'd danced the last set. She set down her glass and grabbed Mr. Prendergast's forearm, blood leaching from her face.

"Miss Steere?" He placed a restraining hand on her arm, brows furrowing. "Is something wrong? Have I—"

"No." She closed her hand over his as the crowded ballroom tapered inward, practically suffocating her in every way. "My sister." An uncanny hunch that Delphi was in trouble tugged at her belly. "I must find her."

Mr. Prendergast mercifully took control, his height a great advantage. "Where did you last see her?"

"There!" She promptly disengaged her hands and pointed excitedly at a potted palm. "I see her. Something is wrong, however. I feel it. Please, we must help her before... before... But do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself, I beg. No one must know."

"I will do all that I can," he said before making his way through the crowded room.

She followed discretely, certain her sister's pasty complexion and unnatural appearance threatened all they held dear. If anyone found out Delphi was ill, who would offer for her hand?

Another waltz struck up, Gow's Band enlivening the party-goers in the ballroom. The lively scene contrasted with the vivid, stark fear churning inside her. She smiled at passersby, longing to run, more tense than she ever thought physically possible.

Meanwhile, she watched Delphi borrow the wall for support, seemingly unsteady on her feet. Swallowing back the scream threatening to rip from her throat, time moved excruciatingly slow as she drew closer. But she was not close enough. Not fast enough.

Delphi, her beautiful, affectionate sister, had collapsed.