Chapter One

"Y ou are not dancing."

In the face of his younger sister's irrefutable accusation, Cornelius Vale turned from his idle perusal of the glittering ballroom and played his trump card. "I am not acquainted with any ladies here. Apart from you, Delilah, and Felicia, and who wants to dance with their brother?"

"Have no fear." Lucy rose to bestow her hand upon the eager young man who had invited her—with Delilah's gracious permission. "Felicia knows everyone and will introduce you to lots of ladies."

Since Felicia was, in fact, bearing down upon them with a purposeful expression, Cornelius hastily excused himself to Lucy and her swain and strode off in the direction of the card room, attempting to lose himself in the well-dressed and bejeweled crowd.

Cornelius had no desire to waste his time on the frivolity of a ball. Nor was he as convinced as his siblings that dancing was the best way to cure his brother Julius of whatever malaise had dulled his spirits. In fact, he was sure Julius would slope off at the first opportunity. He had already made one attempt, thwarted by means unknown to Cornelius, who had a certain amount of sympathy for his eldest brother's plight.

The ball was much better attended than he had expected of a small town assembly. But the local gentry, and even the aristocracy, appeared to be out in force, along with the many visitors to the town. He recognized several gentlemen he had met in the course of his role as Julius's steward of Black Hill. There was the squire, Winslow, shaking hands with the Earl of Braithwaite, who had recently returned from London to his ancestral castle on the cliff. Cornelius had met the earl only yesterday when he had ridden over to confer with the Braithwaite steward, and found him refreshingly knowledgeable as well as friendly.

However, he knew from experience with his former employers that he was as likely to be snubbed in public as greeted in private, so he veered aside and almost walked into her .

That Girl .

Fortunately, she was so deep in conversation with another young lady—no doubt pointing out all her flaws—that she did not glance in his direction. Cornelius congratulated himself on his luckiest escape of the evening. The last thing he needed was another lecture on poetry from a rich, ignorant girl.

What on earth had brought her to Blackhaven? The town had many visitors, of course. Its fresh spring water, pumped down from the hills, was supposed to cure every ailment known to man, and a few more besides. Which was one of the reasons he and his siblings had chosen to come home to Black Hill, to let Aubrey, who had been sickly from birth, discover if the waters could do more for him than the doctors. Judging by the swath Aubrey was cutting through the female population of Cumberland, it might have been working.

On the other hand, there was nothing remotely frail or delicate about that fashionably dressed, forceful, and horribly opinionated creature who had bent his ear and stretched his courtesy to breaking point in Gold's bookshop in London last month.

Passing the entrance to the ballroom, Cornelius swiped up a glass of wine from the table, took a sizeable gulp, and strolled on until he found a quiet corner where he could sit down alone and observe his sister Lucy and his brother Julius, as he had promised. Lucy was dancing quite decorously, though her whole being sparkled with vitality and enjoyment, which made Cornelius smile.

At the other end of the room, Julius was stepping out onto the balcony. Still here, then, Cornelius thought wryly, and took note that the balcony might well be another good place to hide from Felicia. His widowed sister had the best of intentions, of course, to help her siblings make friends and be happy. Cornelius was all in favor of that, but he himself was not a sociable man. He observed people, but he did not, as a rule, like them much. He had learned the hard way not to. And besides, he infinitely preferred work.

His mind drifted off to the morrow's tasks, prioritizing them according to urgency. The whole estate had been badly neglected, and to that was combined the constant rain of the summer so far to severely threaten the harvest and the prosperity of everyone at Black Hill. The rain also emphasized the poor state of repair of most of the tenants' cottages. How they had survived the winter, with wind and water howling through roofs and cracks in walls and windows, he had no idea. It made him angry.

In mid-glower at nothing in particular, he felt a prickle of awareness that he was being watched. Alarmed that it might be That Girl, he hastily refocused on the stretch of ballroom in front of him, and beheld, as though straight from his dreams, Cecily Armstrong. The only woman he had ever loved.

He leapt to his feet, appalled and yet delirious.

As though relieved—he had probably been staring directly at her without seeing her for some time—she moved toward him with the incomparable grace he remembered only too well. Shining gold ringlets framed her extraordinarily pretty face with its short nose, rosebud mouth, and flawless white skin.

She halted two feet away from him and curtseyed. "Mr. Vale," she said huskily.

"How do you do?" He bowed, unable to say her name, no longer Miss Armstrong, but Lady Morgan. "An unexpected pleasure to find you here."

"I accompanied Lady Morgan, my mother-in-law," she blurted. "She wished to try the waters."

"And Sir John?" he replied, asking after his former employer.

"He will join us later." Her eyes seemed to devour him. He wondered if she regretted choosing Morgan over him, and doubted it.

"Another pleasure to look forward to," he said, with little effort at sincerity. He set his glass down on the nearest table, and, as though to stop him leaving her so quickly, she stepped closer.

"How are you, Cornelius?" she asked quickly, and flushed. "I mean, Mr. Vale."

"Well, as you see," he said, desperate to escape. "And as I trust I find your ladyship?"

She tried to smile. "So formal, Mr. Vale."

"So formal," he agreed bleakly. "You will excuse me? I have my sisters to attend." He bowed and walked away from her, almost laughing because suddenly Felicia and her alarming introductions to prospective dancing partners were more welcome than the only woman he had ever loved.

It was some time before he realized someone else was staring at him.

Damnation . That Girl, who had so set his back up in Gold's, was gazing directly at him. Oh no …

She walked quickly, directly from the dance floor, to intercept him, and there was no way out. Why had he not stayed with the wretched Cecily? She could not be more annoying than this…

He walked on, sure that such blatant rudeness would discourage her.

It didn't.

Her hated voice, light and amused, drawled at his elbow. "Bolting, Mr. Sacheverill?"

*

Lady Alice Conway, second-youngest sister of the Earl of Braithwaite, could hardly believe her eyes. The great poet Simon Sacheverill was here already at the Blackhaven assembly room ball! She had been granted a second chance.

She did not miss his appalled expression as he kept walking away from her. It mortified her, but she had to apologize to him, whether or not he ever spoke to her again. Hurrying toward him, weaving among the couples leaving the dance floor, the memory of their previous encounter made her cringe.

She had been in Gold's bookshop near St. Paul's, having managed to escape the vigilance of all chaperones, including her mother, her sister-in-law, her younger sister Helen, and their old governess. Overwhelmed by her first London Season and astonished by her unexpected "success," she had needed the peace and the reminder of life beyond parties and gowns and trivial conversation.

The shop had been quiet, just as Alice liked it, and she sat on a stool among the shelves, inhaling the delightful smells of paper and leather and browsing in various biographies, travel books, and works of fiction and poetry. In fact, she had been there so long that Mr. Gold had probably forgotten about her.

At first the other customer's voice had not registered with her, until the name "Sacheverill" attracted her attention. The work of poet Simon Sacheverill was her discovery of the year, all that had made the beginning of the Season bearable. In her head, sometimes, she set his beautiful verses to music and listened to that rather than the inane chatter among her fellow debutantes.

And now Mr. Gold seemed to be persuading Mr. Sacheverill himself to sign copies of his leather-bound volume of poetry. Alice already owned one.

"It may make no difference," the bookseller said, "but what have we to lose if the books then fly off the shelves? It makes my shop stand out, and your book, too. You could always sign them personally for each customer, if you could spare even a day to be here—"

"I cannot," Sacheverill interrupted. "I am leaving town today, but if you wish it, I will sign a few books now. Let me know if it affects your sales."

Considering the beauty of the words that touched Alice's heart, the poet's voice was surprisingly blunt and down to earth, though he spoke with the accent of a gentleman. Curiosity brought her to her feet, heart thumping, before she meant to move. Seizing two books from her pile at random, she shoved the others back on shelves anyhow and emerged from hiding.

Mr. Gold, standing by the counter with a tall man, raised his eyebrows in surprise to see her, but came at once to take the books from her.

"Thank you, miss. May I have these delivered for you?"

"No, I shall take them with me, thank you."

While Mr. Gold bustled behind the counter, wrapping her books—whatever they were—into a parcel, Alice glanced sideways at Simon Sacheverill. Her heart almost stopped. Windswept dark brown hair with a mere hint of chestnut shining in a blink of sunshine, a surprisingly young if weather-beaten face—so handsome, with its high, broad bones, tapering chin, and sensitive, expressive mouth, that her knees began to melt. As for his eyes, when he raised them suddenly to hers, they were deep blue and distant, as if he looked constantly to the horizon for something he never found.

Attraction hit her all over, almost like a blow. It did not hurt, precisely, but her whole body tingled and trembled.

Worse, the shock seemed to turn her brain to mush. Instead of greeting him like the intelligent young woman she was, she stammered, "M-Mr. S-Sacheverill, f-forgive the interruption of a stranger, but I-I have to tell you, I have read all your poems." She blushed at her own foolishness. "Th-that is, all that are published. I'm sure you have others, better—" She broke off, appalled by her clumsiness and the insult he might read into it. "I mean—I don't mean… After all, how could they be better?"

To her relief, a twinge of humor gleamed in his eyes. Crow's-feet crinkled at the corners, only adding to his devastating attraction.

"How indeed," he said, "when composed by such a dolt?"

Was he offended or teasing? She suspected the latter, but fearing the former, she immediately tried to show her genuine appreciation of his work by seizing one of the volumes he had just signed and turning immediately to her favorite poem.

"This—this," she gibbered. "Exquisite language. I only wish it were longer."

"You do?"

"Oh yes, it is much too short," she said fervently, and proceeded to explain why, only the words came out wrong, and when she tried to explain again, it sounded as though she were justifying a poor opinion she didn't even hold in the first place.

And suddenly she had not been able to stop talking herself into the ever-widening pit, kindly explaining to him the forms and purpose of poetry, and in trying to show how he had so brilliantly thrown off convention, her muddled words seemed to criticize him for it.

When he tried to argue, she ploughed on through him, desperate to rectify her mistakes before he annihilated her, and succeeded only in making them worse. Appalled, she heard herself hector and lecture and could not seem to make herself stop.

Eventually, when she paused for breath, he had turned immediately to the open-mouthed bookseller.

"My thanks, Mr. Gold. Good afternoon." He had then flicked one short, contemptuous glance at Alice, merely snapping, "Ma'am," as though getting the short, cold word in quickly before she resumed haranguing him.

He had then walked out of the shop leaving her vilely embarrassed, humiliated, and ashamed.

Even now, several weeks later, catching up with him at the assembly ball to apologize, she had no idea what had happened to her on that awful afternoon. And so she tried to make this encounter light, even witty, to prove she was not normally so direly inarticulate and gauche.

"Bolting, Mr. Sacheverill?"

He glanced down his nose at her, and her false confidence wilted. His eyes did not lighten, though a breath of sudden laughter did issue from between those expressive lips.

"Yes. I seem to have been doing little else all evening."

He was still heart-thumpingly handsome, even more imposing in austere black evening dress and pure white neckcloth. He offered no greeting, no help, and she could not blame him.

She took a deep breath. "Mr. Sach—"

" Will you stop hurling that name around?" he hissed, and quite suddenly caught her gloved hand and dragged it into the crook of his arm so that they could walk more closely together. "Since you are here, we had better talk."

Fortunately, her normally quick brain popped up from the sea of awe and shame trying to drown it. "Ah, you are incognito."

Another quick, rueful glance. "Sort of. Where can we go? Unless you are allowed to waltz?"

"Of course," she said in surprise. Even in London, she had been granted immediate permission to waltz by the patronesses of Almack's, right at the beginning of her Season.

Without further invitation, Mr. Sacheverill whisked her onto the dance floor among the waiting couples, bowed perfunctorily, and took her in his arms. Alice's knees threatened to give way again. Overcome by his closeness, she struggled to recall how she had got here. And why.

"Incognito," she murmured, frowning. "Why?"

"I have another life that is nothing to do with poetry," he muttered. "I have responsibilities, family, people who depend upon me."

She gazed up at him in wonder. To her surprise, his eyes slid away. Was he embarrassed by this other life? He certainly looked well enough on it, though it was true he wore no jewels, no fobs or frills. Even the pin in his cravat was plain.

"I have to beg the favor, the kindness of your discretion," he said awkwardly. "With regard to the name and the profession—"

She caught her breath. "No one else knows you are—?"

"No," he interrupted her. "And I ask you to keep it that way."

"But why?"

"Because it does not fit with my real profession," he said, glowering.

"Which is what?" she asked, intrigued.

"I am a land steward."

She blinked. "I thought you were going to say undertaker, or strict Calvinist minister, where there might be conflict with entertainment or beauty! Where is the shame in being a land steward?"

"There is none," he snapped.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again as the revelation hit her. "You are ashamed of the po…" Under his warning glare, she bit back the word and swallowed. "But that is ridiculous!"

"It does not fit with the rest of my life," he said quickly. "I am not ashamed."

"Good, because you have no reason to be."

An ironic gleam entered his eyes. "I am astonished to hear you say so."

Heat burned up into her cheeks. "Everything came out wrongly at the bookshop, and I could not stop talking."

"I noticed."

She swallowed, wishing some kind floor or monster looming out of the nearby sea would swallow her . "I came to apologize to you. I daren't try to explain in case my stupid tongue twists everything around again, but it was never my intention to criticize, hector, or harangue. In fact, without your p— work , I would have found the last few months unbearable. Thank you."

His brow twitched. Those beautiful, distant eyes focused more intensely on hers as though reading her soul. She should have been terrified.

"That," he said slowly, "must be the handsomest apology I have ever received. And in the circumstances, it is not even necessary. After too many gushing reviews and compliments, our encounter was a timely reminder to me that opinions must vary."

"Is that why you are incognito?" she asked guiltily.

"In a roundabout way, perhaps. But I have always been incognito. Do I have your word that you will keep my secret?"

"Of course, if it is worth it for the next few days. Though since we are dancing, you had better tell me your other name."

"Vale," he said. "Cornelius Vale."

"I am Al—Wait." She blinked. "Vale is the name of the family who have just come home to Black Hill. Are you one of those Vales?"

"I am. Sir Julius is my brother. I act as steward for his land."

Alice frowned. "Then Vale is your real name! Does your brother not like you to be distracted by…your other work?"

"He doesn't know anything about it."

Her foot faltered, and she hopped to catch up. "Even your family does not know?"

"No one knows but my publisher. And you."

She shook her head. "That is silly. You cannot hide such a great thing from your family."

"I can and I do."

"But why? It is bound to come out, especially—" Only when his eyes hardened again did she realize they had softened somehow during their conversation.

"That is not your concern," he interrupted her.

"No, but it is yours," she retorted. "It is so much a part of your life. Your family should know."

"As you tell your family everything? Such as spending hours unchaperoned in the city?"

"That is different," she said impatiently. "A trivial moment of freedom, not something that consumes my whole life as music does for me, and poetry for you."

"You make a false equivalence between our situations."

"Why do you think so? Because your work is great and I merely tinkle at the pianoforte to impress potential suitors with my accomplishment?"

"Yes," he said baldly. "My work is serious."

"And you are so full of your own importance you make me sick. If you do not wish to appear ridiculous when I abandon you mid-dance, kindly escort me from the floor."

Only when his arms fell away did she miss their strength and warmth. She laid only the very tips of her fingers on his sleeve as they slipped between waltzing couples. She was far too angry even to look at him.

As soon as they were free of the dancers, she dropped a minute curtsey and stalked off in the middle of his bow.