A Reckless Encounter

She turned her gaze to look fully at the man before her. Her breath caught.

Eyes of a startling blue gazed down at her from beneath black lashes, and Celia recognized him at once as the man she had seen aboard the Liberty. Confused, it took a moment to find her voice.

“Sir John is most flattering if he has indeed expressed admiration for me, my lord,” she finally said.

“I would say he has been truthful, for a refreshing change of pace. Flattery imparts insincerity, but in this case he’s quite correct. You are indeed lovely.”

His sensual voice had a husky, mocking quality that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles. Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response.

Panic swelled, coupled with an overpowering need to escape this room that had suddenly grown far too stifling; the music and laughter and smell of perfume threatened to suffocate her.

But it was his touch that unnerved her most, burning into her skin even through the gloves. She snatched her hand away

, saw the leap of surprise in his eyes, heard Carolyn’s soft gasp.

Faintly, she managed to say, “How kind of you. If you will excuse me, I must attend some personal business.”

Aware of Jacqueline’s disconcerted stare and Carolyn’s gaping expression, Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long. But who was he? A brother? Cousin? Or perhaps he was a son…Whoever he was, he wasn’t the man she had come to ruin.

There had to be two Lord Northingtons.

And she had to collect her wits before she said or did something else foolish. Already, she had risked offending her cousin as well as Northington. Her direct cut would not go unnoticed, nor would her ill-bred behavior. It was nearly unforgivable, and she must seek a way to make amends or she may ruin everything.

Celia sought a quiet corner away from the crowd and din of revelry, and sank down upon a cushioned bench in an alcove across the hall. Her lovely gown was not made for sitting at all but for dancing and standing, yet at the moment she didn’t care. Her head throbbed and nausea churned so that she felt as if she would truly be sick at any moment. She should leave, but how could she? To go upstairs now would be an insult to Jacqueline after all she’d done, all the preparations she’d made and her hopes for her beloved Léonie’s daughter to make a decent match.

A burble of hysterical laughter caught in her throat. How can I tell her that’s the farthest thing from my mind? No. I must remain. Ah, I’m such a coward to flee.…

She drew in a deep breath to calm herself. After all this time, if she was undone by so trivial a setback as the wrong Lord Northington, then she might as well have remained in America and let Maman’s death go unavenged.

Rising to her feet, she put a hand against the wall to brace herself as she smoothed her skirts and collected her wits. It was fashionable for females to swoon. Perhaps she would use that excuse, though she detested those who yielded to such feeble behavior.

“Are you ill, Miss St. Clair?”

Celia’s head jerked up. Northington stood before her, his dark visage a mask of polite concern. She considered briefly, then stifled the impulse to flee, and nodded.

“I fear I felt a bit overwhelmed by all the noise. I’m accustomed to a more quiet life.”

“So I understand. Lady Leverton informs me that you’re from Georgetown in the American capital.”

“Yes. Yes, I lived there with my parents until their deaths.” She said it calmly, but inside, a volley of angry, baffling emotions seethed.

How distressing to be reminded—and how dare he stand there staring down at her with that cool, confident smile on his handsome face, as if he knew how attractive he was, how intimidated he made her feel…how his voice seemed to reach down into her with the potent heat of fine brandy…

“My father once lived in Georgetown,” he was saying, “but it was over ten years ago. He rarely speaks of his travels, but my mother tells me it’s a lovely region.”

His father…his father…God, it’s his father who raped and murdered…

“Yes,” she said when the silence stretched too long, aware of his narrowed stare, the cock of his black brow and his faintly sardonic smile. “Parts of it are certainly lovely, though much of it is giving way to new buildings and construction…If you will pardon me, my lord, I do feel a bit unsteady yet.”

I have to escape him, she thought distractedly. Oh, why won’t he go away?

But Northington moved swiftly to cup her elbow, his hand easily supporting her as she eased back to the bench cushions. His hand lingered, fingers strong and demanding upon her arm.

“You didn’t seem the type to swoon, Miss St. Clair,” he said with a tilt of his dark brow.

Perhaps swooning would have to remain the convenient excuse for her peculiar behavior, she thought with angry distraction. She took several deep breaths to clear her head, aware of him so close to her, his hand upon her arm, the heat from his body a raw force that threatened to suffocate her. He was unnerving. And he was the wrong man.

Yet he was Lord Northington’s son…Perhaps not all was lost. Through the son, she might yet reach the father.