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Less dangerous than her, though … than them. He’d worried earlier about falling, breaking every bone in his body.

Too late. He’d fallen, no horse required, and every bit of him bruised.

Nine

The candles in the chandelier shimmered, and the conversation beneath it, buoyed by wine and mirth, rose high and clear and happy. The dinner party could be considered nothing less than a success. Each course had been served at precisely the right time, and proved delicious, and the guests—the Cavendish ones and the Garrison ones—had merged like flour and sugar—separate entities that combined to make the perfect treat.

Yet Freddy had kept her distance. She tried not to cling to the walls of the parlor after the party had spilled into it after dinner, but it couldn’t be helped. As an already attached debutante and then wife, she’d never had a reason to be anything other than a wallflower. And the force of the other partygoers’ boisterous presence simply pushed her aside, like a leaf in a stream, forced by the more powerful current to the muddy bank.

She had no practice at shining, no matter what Mr. Webster said about her.

Grant. Her lover. She’d stayed away from his bed last night and this afternoon, worry tying her in knots, the tight kind that cut into the flesh. How had such a gorgeous afternoon produced such a shadowed conversation. It had rained soon after, too. As if their words had crafted storm clouds, slung them low over the city, then set them loose to spin electricity across the sky, to spit bullets at the streets, and make the people flee indoors.

How had they come to the subject of marriage? At least she knew where he stood—firmly against it, and with good reason, with reason that made her heart ping in the cage of her ribs. He kept himself solitary so he did not hurt those he would leave behind if he left this world too soon.

Admirable. Terribly, sorrowfully admirable. She should feel proud of his decision, but it made her feel squirmy instead. A tiny bit of her wanted to run wild through the streets, rap on his door until he let her in, then rap on his chest until he agreed it was a foolish way to live. Depriving himself of love just in case.

She pressed her eyes closed. Not foolish. Careful. Nothing wrong with that.

But she did not feel like being careful tonight. So she’d spend not another breath against this wall. She’d worn her best gown, after all, a new one she’d had made when she’d decided the time to take a lover had come. Gold, of all things, with thread black as midnight curling vines about the bodice and the hem. And what a daringly low bodice it was, too. Her more-than-ample bosom almost poured forth, and more than once she’d caught Grant’s eyes on her, on her bosom.

She stepped away from the wall, intent on finding his side, saying a word or two, perhaps luring him toward an empty room. Her room. Just two floors above, right next to the nursery.

Right next to the nursery.

She sighed. Impossible to make use of her room.

Where was he? Ah—standing next to Max, lounging more like. He offered a fine sight in a navy-blue evening jacket so dark it seemed black in the shadows. The gold buttons on the coat flickered in the candlelight, but not more than his hair, pulled back into a low queue. His tailor should be given a medal of honor of some sort. Knighted certainly, for how well Grant’s breeches fit. Only a man as finely muscled as he could look so well in clothes so tight. Her breath caught, and her pulse pounded a merry dance. She sighed and shifted direction.

He was … upset with her. Possibly. He’d kept his distance all evening. Perhaps for their benefit, so no one saw them speaking and thought, Well, they must be lovers.

Ha. As if anyone would think such a thing. Her? And him? No.

But she shifted direction anyway. He was wise to stay away. She would follow his lead. Careful, the both of them, tediously so.

Who then, to lead her into boldness? And what sort of boldness? Should she, perchance, take another lover? She cut a glance at Grant. That seemed less bold more … wrong.

A flirtation, then? With a handsome man she did not know, who stirred more desire than comfort. Grant’s blend of both moved her too much for caution, anyway.

Which did she desire, anyway? Caution or boldness? An impossible mix of the two? No flour and sugar. Oil and water and Freddy drowning in it.

A flirtation. She could handle that. No drowning necessary.

But with whom?

Certainly not with the newspaperman who had dragged his gaze across her bosom once or twice during the course of the evening. But the widower Max had introduced her to might work. He was an earl nearing sixty with strong shoulders and a straight back. Nice thick hair, too, though it was more white than brown. They’d had a lovely conversation over dinner about the joys of parenthood. A safe conversation, and he sat talking with Sarah, too. Quite safe indeed.

That made up her mind. She’d wasn’t living safely any longer, so that left no one but the boxer, Max’s longtime friend who’d not done much more upon introduction than grunt and grin.

She sought him out. Easy to find as an oak in a field of daisies. Indeed, no man other than Max stood taller than he, and he stood alone, staring out above the crowd, a stoic sentinel with cropped-close chestnut hair and kind eyes. What was his name?

No time to remember. She might lose her nerve. She strode right up to him, raised her voice so he’d be sure to hear her and said, “Good evening. I do apologize, but I’ve quite forgotten your name.”

He startled, looked down at her, blinking, and grinned. A giant’s grin and just as merry. He bowed. “Boyd Lachlan, my lady.”

“Mr. Lachlan.” She gave him a grin in return. “You have no one to speak to. May I serve that purpose? Or are you pleased to be kept quite alone? In that case, I’ll scurry off and—”

“Stay. It’s always a pleasure to have the attention of a beautiful woman.” His voice had a lovely lilt that hinted at places north of England.