And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

“I’m not telling.”

Mary straightened. Folding her arms, she stared at Henrietta’s reflection. Eyes narrowing, Mary tapped a finger to her lips . . . then stopped. “James Glossup. That’s who it is—he’s your hero, isn’t he?”

Finally meeting Mary’s eyes, taking in her little sister’s triumphant expression, Henrietta narrowed her eyes direfully. “Under no circumstances will you dare say a word—not to anyone!”

Mary positively beamed.

Henrietta dragged in a breath, and remembered the one thing she held that would compel Mary’s silence. “If you want to get your hands on the necklace in the right way, as soon as maybe, then you will make absolutely certain not one word of your unconfirmed speculation passes your lips.”

Mary’s smile widened, but she held up a hand and promptly said, “I do so promise—word of a Cynster.”

“Humph!” Henrietta wanted to turn around to better study Mary, but Hannah was still working on her hair.

Mary, meanwhile, was still dancing—literally—with delight. She swirled in a complete circle, then headed for the door. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me, Henrietta dear. And you may rest easy—I won’t blab a word, and will do nothing at all to get in your way. Well—of course, I won’t. I want that necklace in my hands—in the right way—as soon as may be.”

Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, Mary glanced back, and, eyes alight, added, “I just can’t wait.”

Ignoring Hannah’s efforts, Henrietta swung around, but Mary had already whisked out of the door. As it shut behind her, Henrietta sighed. “Do you have any idea,” she said, speaking to Hannah, “what—or rather who—that was all about? Who she’s got her eye on that she’s so eager to have this necklace?”

“No, miss. Not a clue.” Hannah paused, then asked, “

But is it true? That Mr. Glossup is the one for you?”

Henrietta swiveled back and, in the mirror, caught Hannah’s wide-eyed gaze. “It might be. But you, too, will breathe not a word.”

“Not even half a word, miss.” Her face showing almost as much excitement as Mary’s, Hannah waved the curling iron. “Now do sit still, miss, and let me get this done.”

The exchange with Mary had brought home to Henrietta that she had, indeed, started to believe. Started to hope.

Hope, she was discovering, was a very awkward feeling.

Descending the steps into Lady Hollingworth’s ballroom, she saw James slipping through the crowd, making his way to the foot of the stairs to meet her—and she told her unruly heart to behave. Yes, he looked his usual polished, debonair self, every inch the wolf of the ton he so often claimed to be, and while he might be that . . . this afternoon, he’d been something else.

He’d been the gentleman who’d kissed her with such reverent delicacy that she still felt giddy whenever she recalled the moment.

They’d spent the drive back from Osterley Park discussing the various people they’d met there, but that had merely been a convenient smoke screen, one both of them had readily supported as a way to avoid having to deal immediately with what that deliciously simple kiss had revealed.

Had meant.

Truth be told, she still wasn’t sure what it had meant, only that it had meant something. That the moment had marked a change, a shift in their interaction.

Exactly to what she wasn’t sure, but as she looked down into James’s face, upturned, his gaze locked on her as she descended the last steps, she knew very well what her heart was hoping.

“Good evening.” With passable aplomb, she offered her hand.

He grasped it and bowed, then, straightening, brazenly raised her hand to his lips; meeting her eyes, he touched his lips to her knuckles.

Even though she was wearing gloves, she still had to suppress a shiver. The pressure of his lips on the back of her hand evoked the phantom sensation of those same lips pressed to hers. . . .

He’d been studying her eyes; now he smiled and drew her nearer. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he steered her into the crowd. “Not quite as big a crush as last night, thank heaven.”

“No.” She glanced about.

Unsure of just what tack they would be taking, she was about to point out another young lady he might wish to meet and consider—if he was still considering other young ladies—when he said, “I believe the musicians are about to start a waltz. Ah, yes, there they are.” Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he met her eyes and smiled—in an unshielded way she was beginning to realize he reserved just for her—then he drew her on. “Come along, my dear Matchbreaker. I want to waltz with you.”

Finding herself stupidly smiling in reply, she opened her lips to make a token protest.

He saw, and twirled her—onto the floor and into his arms. “And no—don’t start. I have no intention of wasting my time waltzing with other young ladies tonight.” His gaze trapped hers, and he lowered his voice. “So you may as well save your breath.” Then he whirled her into the dance.