Beguiled by Her Betrayer

Cleo swallowed back the protests. She had to buy time and he had to believe she was obeying him. Her grandfather tugged the bell pull again and waited until the butler appeared. ‘Ask Lady Madeleine to join us if it is convenient to her, Cranton. Now, Cleo, we begin.’

* * *

Two weeks and I could swear there is not the smallest space in my brain for one more fact about the peerage, one more rule about table settings, one more dance step. There is certainly not an inch of my body unpricked by dressmaker’s pins.

Cleo climbed another step and then stopped, her nose almost between the shoulder blades of the matron in front of her.

‘This will be a complete crush if the queue for the receiving line is anything to go by,’ her Aunt Madeleine said in a self-congratulatory tone. ‘I knew I could trust Almeira Hazelcroft to host something suitable for your first appearance.’

She glanced sharply at Cleo, who sent up a silent prayer that her face showed nothing but polite enjoyment, that her deportment was perfect, that she was holding her fan correctly. It had been made quite plain to her that her continued residence in London depended entirely on the effort she made to learn everything that was required of her and that she never let her upbringing show for an instant.

‘I will not be fooled by passive resistance, Cleo,’ her grandfather had warned. ‘You have shown a rebellious, outrageous temperament that must be utterly eradicated. Do you understand me?’

Yes, she understood him. And she found she feared him as she had feared nothing else in her life because she sensed he had the power to completely crush her true self out of existence. There were even long, sleepless hours when she feared he could force her into a marriage she did not want through sheer strength of will.

It had taken a fortnight of intensive lessons and fittings before she was deemed ready for this trial. If she failed to demonstrate that she could behave in every way as befitted a duke’s granddaughter then this was over before it had begun, for it would soon be June and the ton would be planning its summer escape from the heat and dust of London. If she could not cope with a ball, Lady Madeleine had pronounced, she certainly would not stand up to the constant scrutiny of a house party.

The crowd moved up several steps and shuffled to create a little more space, turning to look about them and wave to friends. Cleo, flanked by her grandfather on her right and her aunt on her left, achieved two more steps and found she had a clear view of the top of the stairs.

Quin.

Chapter Nineteen

Quin was talking to a man in scarlet dress uniform, his own corbeau-blue tailcoat and crisp white linen in startling contrast to the military magnificence. How foolish to be taken by surprise. Of course she should expect him to attend a function of this sort: he was intending to court a bride and where better to encounter her?

Anger, longing, misery mixed uncomfortably with her existing nerves. Cleo put up her chin, dropped her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height. She was not going to be sick, she was certainly not going to burst into tears. When Quin turned his head and looked directly at her, bowing his head in unsmiling greeting, she inclined hers a trifle and then looked away.

At least she could be certain he would not approach her here, not after the way they had parted. Her long jade ear-bobs swayed and she focused on the unaccustomed sensations she was experiencing. The pull of the earrings on her lobes, the weight of her hair, skilfully coiled and pinned with tiny jade-headed clips, were slight discomforts that helped her recall her posture. The warm air on her shoulders and the exposed swell of her bosom reminded her to handle the silken folds of her sea-green gown with grace.

Her aunt had decided that she was so tall that there was no point in attempting to disguise the fact and, as she was a widow and not an unmarried girl, pastels need not be adhered to. Neither fish nor fowl, she thought now. Neither a virgin nor a matron. Quin’s teasing from one day in Egypt came back to her. Queen of the Nile. If she could concentrate on being Cleopatra, then her fear of disgracing herself would not show.

They arrived at the landing, turned left and reached the receiving line. Cleo shook hands with her hosts and was swept into the crush of the ballroom.

Sheer will-power carried her along in the wake of the duke until he stopped in an alcove with a number of gilt chairs framed by ferns. ‘Will this do, Madeleine?’

‘Admirably, thank you, Papa.’ He strolled off and her aunt sat down. ‘Stand slightly behind me with your hand on the back of the chair, allow yourself to be seen,’ she commanded. Ladies approached, were introduced. Some sat and beckoned to daughters or nieces to join them. Cleo dipped curtsies, bowed, tried to remember names. And smiled.