How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

Persephone could count on one hand the number of times she had danced since her scandal and all but one had been with the duke, intent on showing his support. The other had been Conall when Priya insisted. But never the waltz. She had little experience, but he held her firmly, supporting her in the turns, leading effortlessly. She barely had the chance to worry about stepping on his toes. The candlelight and the jewels and bright dresses went by in a blur of glowing colours. They danced between Rome and Egypt until Persephone was breathless. It was magical. And far more primal than she would have thought. Perhaps it was because she could feel the heat of him against her, the play of his muscles. And she knew exactly how those muscles felt under her hands, how he looked when he crowded her against the wall in a different sort of dance.

By the time the music stopped Persephone was grateful she hadn’t embarrassed herself by licking his lower lip.

Clearly all of the stress was getting to her.

He offered his arm and they walked slowly toward the supper room, as though he were proud to have her by his side, as though she might one day truly be his marchioness. They ate roasted quail, potatoes in butter and herbs, and tiny marzipan flowers. Conall’s gaze never stopped tracking the others around them and yet he still smiled and acted the gallant. No one would have realized he was on the hunt, not if they didn’t truly know him.

“Have you spotted him?” she asked quietly, over the rim of a glass of ratafia she did not want to drink. It offered her something useful to do with her hands that did not involve touching him.

He shook his head. “I put it out that I’d found a forgery in the assembly hall. I expect to be cornered by tomorrow.”

“Is that safe?”

“Safer than waiting.” He rose. “Let’s dance, shall we? We must not give him the chance to feel suspicious. I want the trap to shut tight before he even realizes it.”

It was fouro’clock in the morning before the last of the guests found their carriages or their beds and the house settled into soft silence. Dawn waited on the horizon. Persephone stayed back from the procession to private chambers, lingering in the empty ballroom. The servants would clear away the glasses and the lost hair pins and detritus of the celebration in the morning. For now, it lay scattered about, the air heavy with the scents of melted beeswax, perfume, and wine. The flowers were wilting, but still lovely.

She had wanted a moment with the artifacts. Everything was about to change. The trap was baited, it was only a matter of time now. The artifacts were old friends, offering her assurance that some things lasted. Some things did not fade, like the lilies in the vases and the candles dripping away. And despite the worry, it had been a beautiful night. One she would remember until she was an old woman tottering about her hermitage. She was smiling as she padded quietly up the staircase.

Her smile died when she stumbled over John sprawled on the landing.

There was blood in his hair, and he was slumped in an awkward position. She knelt beside him. “John? John, can you hear me?”

He did not answer. His eyelids did not even flicker. She fumbled for his pulse. His arm was too loose. “John?” She finally felt his pulse, strong under her fingertip. “Oh, thank God.”

The blood dripping down his face was her next concern. She was still dressed in her ballgown and tearing off the tulle flounces would do him no good at all. She undid his neckcloth, which luckily consisted of more material for the formality of the evening. She pressed it hard to his wound and he groaned. “Yes, do wake up, John. I’m a terrible nursemaid.”

He struggled to open his eyes. “Lady Persephone?” He mumbled but was still coherent. Relief flooded through her.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For getting hit in the head? Hardly your fault. Can you sit up?” She helped to prop him up. He was pale but steady. He winced when she pressed harder with the cloth and reached up to take over her ministrations. “Is it too much to hope you had a fall down the stairs?”

“Someone coshed me from behind,” he muttered darkly.

“My grandmother!” Persephone leapt to her feet.

“I left a man at her door,” John said, trying to stand up. She slipped an arm under his shoulders when he listed to the side. “I was hit while coming down to find you.” He blinked at her. “You’re very strong.”

She smiled slightly. “I have an unladylike habit of digging in the fields. You should stay here and rest your head. I’ll fetch Lord Northwyck.”

“I’m not about to loll about on the main staircase,” he said, affronted. “I should have used the servant stair in the first place. But I was worried you were alone.”

“Well, I am glad you used common sense instead of protocol. And I shall say so to anyone who dares harangue you over it.”

“No need, my lady,” he said gruffly, holding tightly to the wall with his free hand.

“You’re going to be stubborn about this aren’t you?” She paused, noting the grim, slightly green, determination on his face. “Of course, you are. Come on, then. Let’s take you to Conall,” she added. “I admit I’m not sure what else to do for a head wound. We’ll have to call for a doctor.”

“Don’t need a doctor.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you,” she returned tartly. “I found you, you’re my patient now.” She chattered at him as they moved up the rest of the steps, slow as treacle running uphill. When he paused, disoriented, she asked him about his family, and whether or not he had enjoyed the festival so far. Anything to keep him tethered when he started to drift. It seemed to help. At her question about the festival, he snorted. She sent him a side glance. Blood had dripped down to stain his collar. “I see your point,” she added.

She was sweating by the time they made it to her bedroom door. The footman at her grandmother’s door leapt forward. “Nay,” John barked. “Don’t leave your post. Any troubles?”

“No, sir. Lady Blackwell called for tea for her room and yours, Lady Persephone, not a quarter of an hour ago. Her dog tried to chew on my boot.”