ChapterOne
The Chatterton Ball
Mayfair, London 1830
Nicholas St Clair moved with panther-like grace, his steps sleek and purposeful, his attention focused on the beautiful woman with a cascade of auburn curls—his partner for the waltz. He brushed a hand through his ebony locks and smiled, a sinful curling of the lips that wrapped around Helen’s heart and squeezed tightly.
A wise woman would look away.
A wise woman would not endure such torture.
But she was a fool, a hopeless fool in love.
The sickness had taken hold of her during the summer of her sixteenth birthday, when she twisted her ankle on the long walk to Thornborough. Being the first to notice, Nicholas had sprinted to her side, quickly dropped to his knees on the damp grass, captured her foot and unlaced her boot.
“Tell me where it hurts.” Concern had marred his voice as his fingers slipped slowly back and forth over her white stocking. “Here?”
Her gasp had nothing to do with the pain or the scandalous way he stroked her ankle. No. It was the instant spark of excitement that left her fighting for breath.
But then her brother Sebastian arrived to replace his best friend, and the confounding ache in her chest proved more troublesome than her throbbing ankle.
It had been a constant blight ever since.
Helen mentally shook herself back to the present. She scanned the horde of couples swirling about the floor, but her eyes were trained to find him. Only him. The spectacular man she must admire from afar.
“You’re staring at Mr St Clair again,” Mina said, for she was the voice of reason whenever Helen struggled to hide her obsession.
Forcing her gaze from the dance floor, Helen faced her friend. “On the contrary, I was admiring Lady Hadlow’s silver gown. You’re right. It looks sheer in a certain light.”
Amusement danced in Mina’s brown eyes. “Lady Hadlow left the ballroom a few minutes ago. She came over all faint and had Captain Parker escort her out onto the terrace.”
Hell’s bells!
“She did?” Helen glanced over her shoulder, only to glimpse Nicholas smiling at the auburn-haired goddess. “Well, as we’re forced to hide behind the potted ferns”—the place where scandalous ladies conducted their public penance—“I cannot be expected to notice everything.”
Mina narrowed her gaze. “Yet I imagine you could tell me exactly how many inches separate a certain gentleman from his dancing partner.”
Despite knowing Nicholas stood a respectable six inches from the beauty, Helen played the ignorance card. “That all depends. To whom are you referring?” Nicholas never took liberties with a lady in public. She refused to think about what he did in private.
“I speak of the man destined to be nothing more than your friend.” Mina cupped Helen’s upper arm and offered a pitying smile. “He thinks of you as a younger sister, Helen. Is it not better to embrace him as a brother before this infatuation sees you completely ruined?”
Embrace him as a brother!
Impossible!
At night, in the dark confines of her bedchamber, she imagined his powerful hands caressing her thighs, his hot breath breezing over her bare skin. She longed to feel his weight pressing her down into the mattress. And she had heard enough tales from her friend Lillian to know what happened next. Indeed, the thought of taking Nicholas St Clair into her body almost had her reaching for a vinaigrette.
“You’re destined for spinsterhood,” Mina teased.
Helen laughed as she recalled their visit to the fortune-teller’s tent at the Bartholomew Fair. The woman had beckoned them inside with the curl of a crooked finger, spoken from behind a widow’s veil.
“According to the mystic, I’m to lose my virginity to a man covered in cow dung.” She experienced a deep pang of regret. Nicholas was never anything but immaculate. “If I’m to be a farmer’s wife, let me enjoy this little infatuation while it lasts.”
It was more than infatuation.
And it would last a lifetime.
Mina gave a half-smile, but then her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. “Quickly. Prepare yourself. Mr St Clair is heading this way.”