Chapter 1

April 1813

Benedict had literally backed himself into a corner.

He felt the ballroom wall bump solidly against his shoulder and discovered he was more than a little relieved. At least no one could ambush him from behind.

No one was approaching from the front, though, either. Here he was with hundreds of people at the first great entertainment of the Season, and even the chaperones and spinsters wanted little to do with him.

Not that he blamed them. Most of the ton had heard the details of Whitby's Christmas house party by now. They'd know how tongue-tied and awkward Benedict had been, even with the maids when he'd had occasion to speak to one. They'd know how his face had gone distinctly red whenever his turn came at charades, and how he'd inadvertently insulted Whitby's neighbor with what turned out to be a very politically charged remark. Everyone who cared to listen to the gossip would know that he'd given up after that, and spent the remainder of the party in the library, hiding away where he could neither inflict nor receive further harm.

Not that his cowardice had put Lady Whitby off. She'd been upset, of course. But here in her own ballroom with the crème of the beau monde swirling all around her, Lady Whitby was in her element. In fact, she was more determined than ever to find him a suitable wife, making lists of eligible young widows and new debutantes, practically following him around Town as he attempted to go about his business.

And she'd just spotted him.

He watched with a sort of detached fascination as she homed in on him from across the room like a hound after a stag. Even amid the bustle and noise of the crowd, the music of the orchestra, and the myriad of people stopping to speak with her, she remained focused on Benedict. Perhaps if he stayed completely still—

"Oh!" a female voice cried. A weight came down on his foot as the rustle of fabric swept against his legs. His arms reached out instinctively and caught hold of a soft form in a white gown dotted with silver embroidery.

"Thank you, sir," the voice said, a little breathless as its owner attempted to right herself. One pale hand braced itself against the lapel of his black evening coat while the other found his shoulder. A curl of dark hair brushed against his cheek. "My dance partner seems rather too vigorous this evening."

"Honoria?"

Long-lashed lids lifted to reveal a pair of eyes as dark as her hair, and her mouth curved into a surprised smile. "Benedict! I didn't know you'd be here tonight."

Aware that heads were turning their way, he removed his arms from her waist and clasped her hands in his, extracting them from his body with as much subtlety as he could manage.

"Isn't everybody here?"

Her gloved hands slipped from his and he felt a pang of regret. Once upon a time a reunion between the two of them would have included a warm—and deliberate—embrace. They were in public, though, and whatever their relationship had previously been, he reminded himself that it would hardly be the same after his years spent abroad.

Her gaze dropped to his waistcoat—silver silk with little leaves embroidered on it, made especially for this ball—and she smoothed her hands over her skirt, making the silver threads catch the light from the chandeliers above. "No one would miss the marchioness's Black and White Ball, of course. But you were never one for society affairs." Her eyes shifted back to his. "Is that why you're over here in the corner? Do you think to hide from the revelry rather than participate in it?"

Well, at least her directness hadn't changed. "As it happened, you're lucky I was here in this particular corner. If I had been out among the revelers, you would have fallen."

Honoria glanced around and Benedict followed suit, noting that people had turned back to their previous activities—except for Lady Whitby. She had resumed her course and was headed directly for him.

"Then for once I appreciate your wallflower ways." She grinned up at him. "You have saved me from what surely would have been the on dit of the week."

"Judging by what I saw on the terrace earlier, you would not have even been the on dit of the evening. But you could repay an act of gallantry with one of your own."

"What would you have me do?"

He took her hand and laid it on his sleeve. "Walk with me and pretend you enjoy my company."

~*~

Lady Honoria Maitland strolled through the ballroom beside her old friend, hoping this was the turning point she'd been waiting for all evening. She'd run into one aggravation after another since the moment she arrived. The shawl she'd worn against the chilly spring night had caught on the door latch of the carriage and torn. Her stepmother had introduced her to two gentlemen whose acquaintance she had previously made but desperately wished she hadn't. She'd accepted a third gentleman's request for a dance hoping to escape the first two, and nearly ended up face down on the floor.

But then Benedict Grey had caught her, and the evening began to show some promise. It had been months and months since they'd even seen each other, and so much longer since they'd had a real conversation. Perhaps that could be remedied tonight.

"Of course I will walk with you. Perhaps we can evade my dance partner—I have no desire to return to his ministrations. And I always enjoy your company."

They strolled away from his corner refuge with all the dignity of visiting royalty. Or at least Honoria did—spine straight, shoulders back, chin up. Benedict's eyes darted around the room as if he was plotting his escape.

Perhaps he was.

But his voice was calm when he spoke again. "Where shall we walk?"

"Let's take a turn about the room for a start." She grinned. "Because if the activities you witnessed on the terrace are still in progress, we'll want to avoid going there."

Benedict merely nodded, so she wracked her brain for another option and decided that a little forwardness would not go amiss with this man. At least, it never had before. "Dancing is also a good way to occupy one's time at a ball."

He cringed visibly. "You want to dance?"

"I love to dance, you know that." Her mouth and feet both paused while she looked more closely at her friend. His shoulders were slightly hunched as he halted beside her, and she could just make out a red tint creeping into his cheeks from beneath his snow white cravat. "Or, you used to know that. Have you forgotten all those afternoons we practiced together when we were young?"

"The afternoons I remember well." He took a half step closer to her and bent his head toward hers. "It's the steps I've forgotten."

"Truly?"

Benedict's eyes trailed down toward his shoes. "Yes, well, there isn't much call for a reel or a quadrille in the middle of an ancient ruin, is there?"

"I suppose not. "Honoria's mouth curved into a slow smile as an idea popped into her head. "But if you're in Town to stay, you'll need to re-acquire that skill."

She must have looked more mischievous than she realized because he straightened abruptly. "You sound like Lady Whitby."

"Is she the one you were hiding from?"

"I was not hiding."

The couple nearest them turned for a moment, and Honoria offered what she hoped was an apologetic look before tugging Benedict into motion. "Very well, you weren't hiding. But is the lady in question acting...rather too zealously for your taste?"

"That would be the most polite way to describe her efforts, yes." They walked along without speaking for a few paces before Benedict inched closer again. "What do you know about it?"

Honoria patted his sleeve. "I know only what news your mother has passed along to my stepmother, and that mainly consisted of your continued health and bachelorhood."

His gaze snapped to hers as if he'd been startled by her words. When he coughed and forced a smile, she knew she'd caught him out.

"Ah, so that's what Lady Whitby is after. She wants to see you wed."

"‘To a woman of good breeding, with a pretty face and a head for details'," he quoted in an unnaturally high voice. He cleared his throat and resumed his own tenor. "The succession must be secured, of course."

Honoria grimaced, her gaze drifting toward the people in front of them. "A familiar tale in my home as well. ‘You're eight-and-twenty, Honoria. If you weren't a duke's daughter no gentleman would even give you the time of day'."

"Is eight-and-twenty really so old?"

She glanced up at the rather plaintive note in his voice, recalling too late that he was the same age. "It is for a woman. It's ancient for an unmarried woman."

"Then why haven't you married?"

An impertinent question if there ever was one. And one that she was not prepared to discuss in the middle of a grand ball.

"We were talking about you." She spied a set of open French windows ahead and inclined her head toward them. "Why don't we go out onto the terrace after all...that is, if there are no longer indecent acts being performed out there. I may have an idea that will help you, and we'll want a little privacy to talk."

He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded once and led her out into the night. The darkness was tempered by torches lit at regular intervals along the balustrade and a gibbous moon rising over the horizon.

Beside her Benedict breathed deeply in, exhaling with a gentle "Ah."

The cool air felt wonderful on Honoria's heated skin. But rather than say so she took the opportunity to tease him a little. "Too much for you in there?"

"I'd forgotten what a ballroom full of people smelled like. So many bodies crowded together, and every single one of them wearing some sort of fragrance. It's...oppressive. It pushes down upon one until the body can bear it no more."

They found a stone bench to one side and Honoria sat, arranging her skirts about her. "You miss Greece, don't you?"

He settled down next to her, his posture relaxing. "I do. But I didn't mean to be so vulgar about it. Please accept my apologies."

"There is no need to apologize to me for speaking frankly. You've said worse than that in my hearing, and I'm quite sure I have in yours. Or have you forgotten the time we ‘liberated' that bottle of wine when we were fifteen?"

"I remember it well. You drank half of it before I could get through a glassful—"

"I did no such thing!"

"—and the next day you proceeded to describe to me in great detail just how very vile you felt."

He was laughing now, not a polite chuckle but a sound of genuine amusement. Honoria felt herself laughing along with him. "And you did the same. If memory serves, you even told me how many times you cast up your accounts."

His eyes rolled skyward. "Promise me you won't tell Lady Whitby that story. I would never hear the end of her etiquette lessons."

Honoria turned toward him, searching his face in the low light. "Has she been that meddlesome, then?"

Benedict shook his head, meeting her gaze as his mouth drew down into a more sober expression. "No. Well yes, she has, but I am trying not to mind—she simply has a vested interested in my future nuptials and wants to ensure they take place."

"Will you tell me about it?"

Honoria held her breath for a moment and waited. They used to tell each other everything, but when Benedict had put actual distance between them by sailing away to the Continent, an emotional distance had been created as well. It was one thing to share a fond memory, but what of the present?

His brows crowded together, the way they had when he'd thought intensely about something as a younger man. "She is the wife of a peer, and has given him no son to inherit. Nor likely will she."

"And so she's turned to matchmaking for you."

Her voice was soft and, when Benedict didn't respond, she thought perhaps he hadn't heard her. But then he nodded, bowing his head slightly. "She has."

"For her good, if not yours." Honoria grasped the stone bench with both her hands. "Well, I did say that I had an idea for you."

He straightened, his hair catching the torchlight—it had lightened considerably during his years away to a soft sandy brown. "I'm listening."

"You need to find a wife."

"Yes."

"But you can't dance."

His large hands clapped down over his knees. "What does one thing have to do with the other?"

Honoria put on the air of patient authority she used when conversing with her eight-year-old half-brother. "You must dance with a lady in order to court her. How else will you determine if you can even stand her company?"

"Can I not talk to her?"

Honoria shook her head, setting the ringlets on either side of her face to swaying. "Talking is not enough. One only discovers a person's true character when one speaks with that person alone. But when does a gentleman have the opportunity to speak alone with a lady?"

"We're alone now."

She looked for the twitching of his lips or crinkling of his eyes to suggest he was being facetious, but his serious expression remained fixed.

"We are. But how much longer will that last, do you think? How long before my stepmother begins to look for me?" Her fingers clenched the bench seat with more force. "And what would happen to my reputation if we were found together out here?"

"I see your point."

"Dancing accomplishes so much more. There is time for talking, of course, but there is also a chance to flirt, and to touch. One can study a partner's appearance without being rude or vulgar, and discover if said partner is graceful or clumsy or featherbrained or bookish."

Benedict sighed. "It's a necessity, then."

"Yes. And I will teach you."

"You?"

She tilted her head slightly to the side. "Me. Or you'll have to hire a dancing master."

She watched his fingers tense on his knees as he digested that bit of information. But he didn't reply.

A light breeze rustled the flowers in the garden nearby. The torch flames flickered, casting peculiar shadows across the terrace. Then all was still once more—including Benedict. She waited for several more minutes but he remained silent.

"Think it over, why don't you?" Honoria rose from the bench and smoothed the fine cambric of her gown. "Take me driving tomorrow, and we can discuss it further if you like."

Benedict stood and offered her his arm. "I'll call for you at four."

He fell quiet again escorting her back into the house, and she wondered if she'd offended him. No one liked to dwell on his own deficiencies, certainly. But the Benedict she knew six years ago would have teased her in return about a shortcoming of her own.

Clearly, he was no longer the man he'd once been.

"Honoria?"

She blinked herself out of her musings. "Yes?"

"I would marry you, you know."

She froze. "What?"

"If we were caught together. If I compromised you." His eyes met hers in the half-light. "And not just because I'm looking for a wife now. I would have then, too."

He didn't have to explain when then was. She knew he was thinking of the day her mother died. He never did tell her how he'd gained entry into the house or how he found her bedchamber without disturbing anyone, but he'd managed to do both late that night. He'd sat with her and held her hand as she had talked of her mother, then cradled her against him when she'd wept. Only when she had calmed did either of them realize the potential for an immense scandal his presence caused. And even then he'd stayed with her until she fell asleep.

Her fingers tightened on his sleeve in response. Perhaps some of the old Benedict still existed after all.