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Her quickened breath highlighted the gentle rise of her breasts. She gave him an exuberant smile and a soft, alluring laugh before she lowered her head. “You are a wonderful dancer, too, my lord.”

“Then I shall hope you will not find yourself suddenly too faint to contemplate our next dance at some other fete.” His hand lingered against hers before he guided her back to her erstwhile aunt. Tom would want a full accounting of his first sally with the girl who’d crushed poor Hewitt, but Nicholas found himself looking forward to the next dance more than discussing Tom’s inevitable losses in the cardroom.

Chapter Three - Amy

(Greystone House, London. Nov 9, 1813)

Amy couldn’t breathe. Every time Father’s fiery eyes strayed in her direction, the air vanished from her lungs. If he really felt this was the season he needed to take a wife, why could he not work his shoddy charms in another room? Another county? Worse, her dance card was emptier than ever, as if every eligible bachelor in London scented her sire’s implacable, inevitable disapproval.

By some infernal grace, Baron Sunderland at last deigned to dance with someone—it didn’t matter who, Amy didn’t care—and she slipped away through the nearest convenient door into a corridor. The crowd thinned as she traipsed deeper into the house. She found the next turn in her half-remembered route and hurried to the room at the end, relieved to see the heavy Roman-style wood doors she’d been seeking.

The library seemed smaller than she remembered, but it was still a beautiful space. Immense bookshelves lined the walls, filled with countless books, boxes, and trinkets from across the globe. Red velvet chairs of an old-fashioned style and a Romanesque divan gathered around the small fireplace at the opposite end. A sizable desk suited for all manner of business stood nearby, bare of all use and gleaming with the candlelight. Enough candles burned in the wall sconces to keep the room dimly lit, but it wasn’t meant for reading, merely so wandering guests could appreciate the wealth of books on display. Luckily, Amy had no intention of browsing the Earl of Greystone’s manuscripts.

Closing her eyes and tilting her head back against the brocade wallpaper, she set her hand on her stomach and forced a breath into her tight chest, willing the emerald necklace at her throat to feel less like a noose, the pale green silk gown, and various layers beneath to feel like support and glamor rather than a cage and lodestones.

“Breathe,” she ordered herself in a whisper.

The heavy wood door crashed open before she could finish her thoughts. Amy wheeled around to face the oncoming storm. “Fa—oh! Lord Darby?” Relief rang in her speech. “Are you looking for your sister? I believe she was dancing with—”

“I’m looking for you.” Darby slammed shut her means of escape, and he lumbered toward her, his features a familiar mask of irritation. It usually occupied her father’s face, though he didn’t smell so much like a gin still. “I have a grievance with you, Miss Sunderland.”

Amy stepped back, rounding a small scholar’s chair to keep space between them. The movement was enough to root Darby in place. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to aggrieve you, my lord, but—”

“Don’t insult me, madame. You have hidden all night behind your father just as you hid the whole of last season after refusing my proposal.”

“Your...?” Amy bit her lip to keep from saying anything too reactionary. Damn it. “You know my brother died, Lord Darby. That is why I returned home. It was naught to do with you. Just as I had naught to do with the refusal.” She looked over his shoulder, wondering if she could run by him. He was a broad-shouldered man, but he seemed at least three cups too deep and his bulk was far less muscle than he imagined. If she gave him a wide berth, she might be able to make it...

“Then there is still reason to hope?”

She gripped the chair harder. She’d never given him reason to hope in the first place. Her father’s rejection was one of the few points on which they were united. But saying so out loud when Darby stood between her and safety would be foolish. “Let me pass, Lord Darby. I promise I’ll forget this happened.”

“That is not an answer.”

She met his eyes with a stern gaze. “Yes. It is.”

“No!” he spat. “I do not accept it.” He started toward her.

Amy pushed the chair forward, straight into his paunchy stomach. And ran. Her vision focused on the heavy door. Four paces. Three...

Darby’s meaty hand caught her arm. She yelped, and he dragged her back up against his gin-and-brandy sodden body. They teetered on the carpet, Amy’s slippers scrabbling for purchase to free herself. Darby’s hand splayed at her waist, creeping upward. “No, stop—”

“Darby, I don’t believe the lady’s in a dancing mood.” The laconic voice caught Darby up so sharply, he practically dropped her. Amy had a second to gasp much-needed air before the reality sank in. I’m ruined. Someone had just...

No. Not someone. Clarendel.

Where the devil did he come from?

Wherever it was, he now stood at the far side of the room. And he wasn’t alone. With a sinking horror, she recognized the Honorable Thomas Markham—younger son of the Earl of Greystone—standing beside him. Markham’s handsome features bore a wicked grin. Clarendel’s didn’t. He stalked across the floor like a panther. He certainly hadn’t been drinking...

Or maybe he had?

She didn’t remember his eyes being quite so dark...

Markham shadowed Clarendel but paused to set aside a glittering crystal decanter. Clarendel drew closer, and the ice in his gaze stilled Amy’s heartbeat.

“No one invited you, Clarendel,” Darby grunted, regaining his hold on Amy. She struggled weakly, but the trap had sprung around her. There are witnesses. Father will have to give in to him. He’ll make me wed this monstrosity. The tears burning the back of her eyes cut off her speech. Better to be dead than Lady Darby.

“Nor did they invite you,” Clarendel retorted. “Or if Miss Sunderland did, she’s certainly changed her mind.” He stopped just out of reach of her trembling arms. Not that she was reaching for him. “Miss Sunderland, are you inclined to accept Darby’s ridiculous suit, or would you like him gone?”