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3

Lucien had always scorned the London marriage mart, the annual parade of well-bred chits trotted out like fillies at auction by their fond mamas and ambitious papas in hopes of attracting a buyer.

But now he himself was on the block.

As the Basing house party assembled in the drawing room before dinner, he was aware of his supposed bloodlines being dissected, his grooming inspected, his likely performance assessed.

He made his bows, his collar chafing. His evening jacket squeezed his shoulders in a too-tight embrace. Miss Basing clung to his arm, hanging upon his every word.

Julia Basing was everything Lucien should want—pretty, young, rich, and compliant. A month ago, when he was still hot with fury over Amherst’s interference, he had pursued her with single-minded skill and determination.

His blood had cooled before two weeks had passed. But his circumstances had not changed. His time was running out.

So here he was, committed to Lady Basing’s house party for the holidays. Not simply as her guest but as a prospective son-in-law.

A chill traced down his spine like the brush of a feather. Almost, he wished he had not come.

Julia took his arm with a proprietary air to present him to the local squire and his two unmarried sisters.

The squire, Tom Whitmore, was a young man with thick dark whiskers that did nothing to disguise his very square jaw or his frown.

Possibly he disapproved of bastards, however well connected. Or perhaps he would look askance on any rival for Miss Basing’s affections.

He stuck out his jaw belligerently. “What brings you to Moulton, Hartfell?”

He needed to marry money. Soon. Or crawl back to Amherst at Fair Hill. The rent on the Maiden Lane house was only paid through the end of the month.

“I am here at Lady Basing’s invitation,” Lucien said.

The squire’s square jaw became even squarer. “You have no family who require your attendance over the holiday?”

It was a challenge, by thunder. A reference to his bastard status.

Whitmore’s sisters looked anxious. Julia Basing caught her breath.

“I am fortunate to be free to follow my personal inclinations,” Lucien said.

Whitmore glared. “And those are?”

Lucien smiled thinly. “Personal.”

The sticky silence was broken by a rush at the door as a late arrival caught herself on the threshold. Lucien had an impression of bouncing dark curls and a wide, heart-shaped face before the woman lowered her head, slipping quietly into the room. Her unobtrusive demeanor was so at odds with her animated expression that his attention was caught. He narrowed his eyes, taking in her lace-trimmed cap and shapeless, faded gown. There were no rings on her fingers, no jewels around her neck.

Not a guest, then. Nor quite a servant. Most likely a poor relation, one of the army of drab, dependent, unmarried females clinging to shabby gentility in the corners of England’s drawing rooms, indispensable and invisible to their wealthier relatives.

Normally he would not even have noticed her. But the energy of her entrance lingered a moment, charging the stale air like a blowing storm.

Lady Basing reclaimed his attention, leading the way into the dining room.

Despite his lack of title, he found himself paired with Miss Basing at dinner. Amherst’s lineage, of course, was impeccable. And Lucien was connected, however irregularly, with Amherst. If Leyburn were truly his, if he were the man of property he pretended to be, he would be considered an acceptable match for a baronet’s daughter.

He wondered how much time he had before Sir Walter demanded an accounting of his prospects.

He forced himself to listen to Miss Basing chatter about the Season just past—her first—about whom she had met and what she had worn and which gentlemen she had danced with. He sipped his wine, bored almost out of his mind. Fortunately, as long as he inserted compliments at appropriate intervals, Miss Basing did not appear to find his attention lacking.

Across the table, her brother, Howard Basing, made sly observations to the Misses Whitmore on either side. Lucien knew Julia’s brother only by sight, brown-haired, handsome, with sharp white collar points and teeth.

A few places farther down, the poor relation divided her conversation between a country gentleman old enough to be her grandfather and a spotty boy barely out of the schoolroom. Lucien was not close enough to overhear a word of their conversation. But something about her compelled his notice.

Beneath her cap, she had strongly arched brows and thick black lashes, a wide, curved mouth and a charmingly blunted chin. She tilted her head—the better to hear her elderly dinner partner?—when suddenly, for no reason at all, she raised her gaze across the table.

Eyes as blue as the October sky stared into his.

The charge this time sizzled clear to his toes. Like the shock of recognition, a bolt of lightning, a jolt of longing.

She was almost familiar to him. Not Nephilim, despite her angel’s face. She was . . . He didn’t know what she was. His hand curled around his wineglass.

She did not immediately drop her gaze as any well-bred lady ought, as any meek companion must. She stared back at him, her lips parted, her eyes wide and dark. He watched her take one swift, deep breath, giving shape to her shapeless dress, and his own breathing stopped.

Her lashes swept down. With a visible effort, she collected herself, turning to address a remark to the spotty youth at her side. The boy flushed and launched into speech.

Lucien released his grip on the glass. His hand shook slightly.

“Amy does not often join us for dinner when we have company,” Miss Basing confided beside him. “I am so pleased Mama invited her to make up the numbers after Freddy threw the table off. But he is home from school so seldom, poor boy, it would have been a shame to exclude him.”

Lucien dragged his memory. Freddy would be young Keasdon, the son of local gentry. And . . .

“Amy?” he repeated.

“Cousin Amy. Weren’t you looking at her just now? Oh.” Miss Basing bit her lip. “But you were not presented, were you?”

“I have not had that pleasure,” he said curtly. “She was not in the drawing room before dinner.”

“I expect she was still in the nursery settling my sister’s children—my sister Susan, Mrs. Netherby,” Miss Basing explained. “They were overexcited after the long carriage ride here.”

“She is their governess?”

Miss Basing looked surprised. “Oh, no. My sister let the governess go to her family for the holiday. Why should Mr. Netherby be put to the expense of paying the creature a Christmas bonus when Amy is willing to watch the children?”

Lucien hid his distaste. “Very obliging of her.”

“Amy is always obliging. Of course, she must be conscious of what she owes Mama. We took her in, you know, after her parents were killed. In the Terror. It was a great tragedy,” Julia said comfortably.

She was French, then. An émigré. A refugee.

Perhaps that explained his jolt of recognition, his feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps he had seen her, even rescued her on one of his forays across the Channel.

He frowned at the ruby reflection of his wine on the snow white tablecloth. He and Gerard and Tripp had snatched hundreds from the shadow of the guillotine, men, women, and children. He could not remember them all.

“How long ago?” he asked tightly.

“Oh, ages. I was just a child when she came to live with us. Ten? Eleven. Amy was older, of course.”

Before his time on earth, he thought. Before he’d found Amherst.

His mouth dried. Holy God.

He remembered very little from before his Fall. The Nephilim were not born as human infants. That distinction was reserved for the Most High. They Fell as children or adolescents, losing their knowledge of Heaven along with their angelic powers, thrust into human existence in the land and year of their offense.

But the circumstances of that night were seared into his brain, the filthy prison, the dying mother, the defiant child in her nest of straw.

You are killing me, she had cried passionately.

He stared unseeing at the table, recalling her wide blue eyes, her rounded, jutting jaw. He had violated her free will, tearing her from both the life she knew and the death she had chosen.

And so he had been condemned to lose his own life, his very identity as a child of air.

His stomach knotted. Was it possible . . . ?

He reached for his glass, risking another glance down the table at Julia Basing’s French cousin.

Amy. Aimée.

She was not very old. Early twenties, at a guess. The cap aged her. She could be . . . Ah, he hoped she was not. He hated to think he had saved her from one prison only to thrust her into another. Both of them sentenced by his choice to live out their lives in the shadows, condemned to a life of servitude. Her bright light, dimmed.

He set down his wine untasted.

It made no difference, he told himself. His course was set. Even if she were the same woman, she was not his responsibility now.

He glanced again down the table. But he had to know.

He was staring at her. Mr. Hartfell. He had beautiful eyes, bright and green as emeralds, gleaming in the light of the candles.

Aimée’s heart beat faster. For a moment, when she first looked up and caught him staring, she had been drawn. Dazzled. Like a moth to a flame, like Icarus flying into the heat of the sun, completely insensitive to danger.

She clasped her hands together in her lap, focusing with determined concentration on sixteen-year-old Freddy Keasdon, who had launched into a description of his last cricket match at school.

“. . . off the wicket on the on side,” he said, his Adam’s apple working earnestly. “So I went out at it on my left leg—no, wait, it was my right—and . . .”

She had no idea what he was talking about. But as long as their conversation revolved around him, he was quite willing to give her his full attention. Like any other man, she supposed.

Living in her cousin’s house, she had learned to be wary of masculine attention. But Freddy—“caught it square a couple feet from the ground,” he told her—was charming in his enthusiasm. And quite harmless.

She felt very sure the same could not be said of Lucien Hartfell.

Really, he had no business staring at her at all. He was here to court Julia.

Her cousin was sitting right there beside him, looking as fresh and lovely as spring in a gown the soft pink of apple blossoms. The deep neckline and short, puffed sleeves revealed a great deal of her rounded bosom and arms.

Aimée had taken care that her own dress revealed nothing at all. Its original sour green color still showed faintly at the seams where she had picked them apart, letting out the bodice until her shape resembled nothing so much as a sack of flour tied with ribbon. She would not be accused of luring Cousin Howard’s attention again.

At least Mr. Hartfell had been staring at her face and not her breasts.

It was a relief when Lady Basing signaled that dinner was over. The ladies withdrew, leaving the men to their port.

In the drawing room, the other young ladies engaged in polite competition to entertain the company. Aimée began to calculate how soon she could excuse herself. But then Julia required her sheet music and Lady Basing demanded her shawl. Aimée had just finished passing the cakes from the tea tray when the gentlemen trooped in.

A throat cleared behind her. “Er, Miss Blanchard.”

No escape. Her back stiffened. She turned to smile at young Freddy Keasdon.

And Mr. Hartfell. She caught her breath as her gaze tangled with his.

Close up, he appeared even more handsome and very large, his broad shoulders made wider by his tight-fitting evening clothes. His thick gold hair, worn slightly longer than was fashionable, created a halo around his severely beautiful face.

Something wavered in the corners of her memory, but she could not bring it quite into focus.

Freddy ducked his head bashfully. “May I present Mr. Hartfell?” he asked, indicating the man beside him. “You didn’t meet him before dinner, did you?”

She had not been presented to any of the Basings’ guests, a slight that did not trouble her in the least. She would have preferred to say in the nursery, out of sight. Out of mind.

Out of trouble.

Mr. Hartfell bowed. “Miss Blanchard,” he said, a faint emphasis on the first word.

As if he had the slightest interest whether she were married or not, Aimée thought wryly. She was not an heiress like Julia.

She bobbed a curtsey. “Mr. Hartfell.”

“Your name is an old and noble one in France,” he said politely. “You are not by chance related to the Comte de Brissac?”

For a bastard, he was very interested in her antecedents. Perhaps his own birth made him sensitive to such things? “My father,” she admitted.

His eyebrows arched. “Then—forgive me—are you not the Lady Aimée?”

“A distinction without a difference,” Aimée said. “Titles have been abolished in France, Mr. Hartfell. The king himself signed the decree a decade ago.”

Even if her rank had survived the Revolution, it could not have survived life with her mother’s relatives. It would be untenable, intolerable, for the impoverished Lady Aimée to take precedence over Miss Julia Basing and Lady Basing in their own home.

She glanced toward the pianoforte where Julia was settling herself to play. Her cousin was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked with anticipation. Or annoyance. Tom Whitmore hovered stiffly beside her, ready to turn the pages of her music. Julia, however, turned her gaze hopefully toward their corner of the room, rustling the sheets of music together.

Hiding her amusement, Aimée addressed Mr. Hartfell. “I believe my cousin requires your assistance, sir.”

He raised his brows, in no apparent hurry to heed Julia’s summons. “You do not play, Miss Blanchard?”

Why did he not go? “I do not play in company.”

His green eyes filled with lazy amusement. “You are too modest.”

Something in her rose to meet the challenge of those eyes. “Not at all. But since I am not in the running for a husband, I see no point in showing off my paces.”

He laughed, a short, surprised bark that transformed his rather cool, disdainful expression to wry humor. “And if I were not forced into the running for a wife, I would keep you company in your corner.”

She grinned foolishly back.

Very foolishly, she realized a moment later as heads turned. She should not be seen amusing herself.

She must not be seen amusing him.

Too late.

“Ah, Cousin Amy.” Her stomach dropped into her thin-soled evening slippers as Howard Basing approached from the direction of the tea tray. “Teasing another gentleman?”

“Basing.” Hartfell nodded shortly. “You must not blame Miss Blanchard. She is guilty only of bearing with my company. I am at fault for monopolizing her attention.”

She lifted her chin. “I was telling Mr. Hartfell I do not play.”

Howard leered. “As I know, to my sorrow. You are cruel to deprive your admirers of enjoying your . . . hidden talents.”

She was growing very tired of Cousin Howard, his wandering eyes and speaking pauses. But she must not make a scene in Lady Basing’s drawing room. “You must content yourself listening to the other ladies,” she said.

“Must I? But they are tame entertainment.” Howard’s gaze flitted over her face and fastened on her bosom. “I prefer more vigorous, ah, pursuits.”

Aimée’s cheeks burned.

Freddy Keasdon had just enough wit to look embarrassed.

Lucien Hartfell took a half step forward, looming very large indeed. “Your comments are offensive, sir,” he said, his voice chilled and soft.

Aimée’s heart beat faster. She might have appreciated his gallantry—One rake defending her from another?—but it would not do at all for Julia’s chosen suitor and her brother to come to blows over a perceived insult to a poor relation. Julia would be mortified. Aimée would be disgraced.

“I am sure Mr. Basing meant only that he would prefer dancing to singing,” she said.

Hartfell narrowed his eyes. “Indeed.”

She looked at Howard. “I believe your mother plans a ball on Christmas Day. That should be sufficient outlet for your energies.”

“Then you must save me a set, Cousin.” Howard smirked. “I can only be satisfied in your arms.”

Hartfell inhaled sharply. But as long as she did not protest, there was nothing further he could say.

And nothing she could do, Aimée thought. Her skin crawled as if she had touched a slug. But her mother’s cousin refused to hear any criticism of her son. In Lady Basing’s eyes, any improper behavior must be Aimée’s imagination.

Or her fault.

She held her tongue.

The silence stretched.

Howard’s smile broadened. “You will dance with me? I have your promise?”

The unfairness of her situation burned her throat. But she must be practical.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“If the music is not your liking, Basing, I suggest you visit the card table,” Hartfell said, still in that calm, cold voice. “I see Lady Basing has set up a game. Perhaps Keasdon here will partner you.”

Prompted, Freddy blushed and stammered his willingness to play.

Hartfell waited while the two men made their way to the opposite side of the room. He bowed curtly to Aimée, his face impassive. “I will leave you to your amusements, Miss Blanchard.”

Dismay washed through her. He could not believe she encouraged Howard’s improper attentions.

But of course he could, she thought as he walked away. He had just heard her excuse Howard and then agree to dance with him. What else could he think?

Howard probably thought the same.

She felt faintly ill. And unreasonably disappointed. Why she cared for Hartfell’s good opinion she did not know.

Except for that moment when their eyes first met and she had felt a quiver of . . . What? Recognition? Yearning?

Foolishness.

She watched him cross to Julia’s side, his broad, black back, his gleaming golden hair, and her vision blurred suddenly.

She took a deep breath. She would not indulge in regret or self-pity.

It was stupid, stupid, to sigh and dream over a man simply because he had sought an introduction and shown her a little courtesy. Women like her—dependent females at the mercy of their relations—had little chance of attracting a suitor or changing their situations.

Besides . . . Her gaze skittered to Howard, taking his seat at the card table. Hartfell’s politeness, innocent as it was, had had the unwelcome result of provoking Howard. Her cousin was like a dog snarling over a bone, anxious lest it be snatched away.

She sighed. She had no desire to be slavered over. Or mauled. Better for her, safer for her, to avoid them both.

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