Emily was unashamedly enjoying herself. She felt positively exhilarated, almost like a young girl again, as she was twirled by Mr. Giles Hamilton in a lively country dance, her skirts of azure blue shagreen silk billowing about her. It had been years since she'd danced. Although she had attended many assemblies in Bath with the dowager, they had generally spent their time in the card room or the tearoom, only entering the ballroom occasionally, and then only to watch and gossip with the other dowagers and chaperons.

But this evening, at her first London ball, she was not allowed to sit quietly among the dowagers. Her employer and Lady Lavenham had seen to that. Her dance card was almost filled. Lord Bradleigh and his cousins and Lord Lavenham had all solicited dances. But there were other gentlemen as well—those gentlemen deliberately tossed in her path by her scheming employer.

Oh, but she didn't care just now about the dowager's matchmaking plans. After her first dance with Lord Lavenham, she had given herself up to the sheer enjoyment of the ball. She would feel guilty about it later. Tomorrow, perhaps. But not just now.

Mr. Hamilton, whom she had discovered was the younger son of an earl, had been introduced to her at Lady Bessborough's rout, and had been at her side within minutes of her arrival this evening in order to solicit a dance. He had been flattering in his attentions, and she quite enjoyed his company. As the dance ended he offered his arm to escort her back to the dowager.

"Oh, but that was most enjoyable, sir," Emily said somewhat breathlessly. "Thank you very much for the dance."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Townsend," Mr. Hamilton said. "I am glad you are enjoying the ball."

"Indeed I am, sir," she replied.

"May I be so bold, Miss Townsend," he said, "to ask you to join me in a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon? I would be honored to take you up in my phaeton."

"Why, thank you, sir," Emily replied, somewhat flustered. She hadn't considered that any gentleman would be interested in more than a dance. It was really quite flattering, she thought, smiling. But she must not forget her place. "I will need to check with my employer first, to make certain that she does not require my presence. If she agrees, then I shall be delighted to join you."

"I shall look forward to it, Miss Townsend," Mr. Hamilton said, bowing over her hand as she took an empty chair. "Until tomorrow, then," he said as he took his leave.

Oh, my, thought Emily, biting back a smile. She opened the fan at her wrist and tried to cool herself, as the last country dance had been rather energetic. She reached for her dance card and was relieved to see that she had not promised the next set, as she preferred to sit and catch her breath.

"Well, well, well."

Emily looked up to see an older somewhat dissipated-looking gentleman glaring down at her with steely gray eyes. He was unfamiliar to her, but something about him caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up.

"I'd know the gel anywhere, Hugh," he said to a younger fair-haired gentleman standing behind him. "She's the spitting image of her mother." He almost spat out the last word.

Emily's breath caught. Who was this man?

"You knew my mother, sir?" she asked, her calm voice hopefully giving no hint of her uneasiness.

"Indeed I did," the man said and then bared sharp teeth in a broad smile that sent a tremor up Emily's spine.

Emily slowly closed her fan and tried to look calmly at this man without letting him sense her fear.

"Your mother," he spat, "the slut, was once my sister. Before she was ruined by that ne'er-do-well Townsend and disgraced the family by running away with him."

Emily caught her breath and felt the blood drain from her face. She was beginning to feel faint. The man moved closer, bent down, and fingered the pearls at her throat. Her mother's pearls.

"Not to mention," he continued, "that she absconded with some very valuable jewels that belonged to my family."

"You are my uncle?" she asked in a quiet voice as she moved away from his touch. "Lord Pentwick?"

"I am Pentwick," he replied, sneering at her movement.

At that moment the young man behind him stepped forward and extended his hand. "And I am Viscount Faversham," he said.

Out of pure habit Emily reached out to accept his hand.

"My dear cousin," he said as he lifted her hand toward his lips. Her hand was batted away by Lord Pentwick, who had abruptly stepped between them.

"She is a baseborn bastard, Hugh," Lord Pentwick bellowed in an overloud voice, "and no true cousin of yours."

Emily swallowed convulsively and tried to remain calm. She was vaguely aware that voices around her had quieted.

Oh, God, she thought, there mustn't be a scene. Please, not a scene.

Lord Pentwick bent over Emily and wagged a finger inches from her face. "If you had any sense, madam," he continued in a harsh but less loud voice, "you would continue to keep yourself buried in the country, away from the censure of Society. You do not belong here, do you understand? I will not abide meeting up with my sister's bastard at Society events. I would recommend that you remain out of sight as you have done so well these last years. Otherwise you might find it extremely unpleasant. Do I make myself clear?"

"I believe this is my dance, Miss Townsend."

Emily almost swooned in relief at the sound of the familiar deep voice and the touch of a firm hand at her elbow. Lord Bradleigh somehow managed to get her to her feet and placed himself between her and Lord Pentwick. "Remind me," he said in a clear voice, "to speak with Lady Rutland. It seems that all sorts of riffraff are being allowed entrance to her ball."

A collective gasp was heard from several bystanders. As Emily numbly followed Lord Bradleigh toward the dance floor, she heard a distinct "Blast!" from the direction of her uncle.

* * *

Robert felt Emily's arm trembling slightly as it rested on his. He looked down to find her unnaturally pale face staring straight ahead. Good girl, he thought. Hold your head up. He knew the eyes of this half of the ballroom were on them, as he also knew that all the whispering they heard as they passed was undoubtedly about them. He only hoped that most of the swiftly moving gossip was about himself and the cut direct he had just given another peer of the realm. He hoped that few had actually overheard Pentwick's insults.

Robert could not remember ever having been so angry. He had been on his way to relay a message to his grandmother from one of her cronies when he had seen Pentwick with Emily. As he heard the vile insults thrown at her, he had wanted nothing more than to leap upon the man and beat him to a bloody pulp. But then he had looked at her, sitting there stoically—saying not a word, her widened eyes the only outward sign of her distress—and he had been overwhelmed with the need to protect her. He needed to get Emily out of there, away from Pentwick. This young woman who had been so afraid that his grandmother's harmless matchmaking would publicly embarrass her was now the center of a potentially explosive and very public scene. Despite his almost uncontrollable desire to flatten the blackguard, he knew that such an action would only further publicize the unpleasantness of the confrontation and further distress Emily. The best thing to do was to calmly extricate her from the situation.

The strains of a waltz began as they reached the dance floor. As he turned to face Emily and take her in his arms, she looked up at him, her brow furrowed in alarm as she shook her head. He understood at once. It would only make matters worse if Emily were to be seen dancing the waltz without first getting permission from one of Almack's patronesses. What an idiotic practice, he thought in frustration as he looked frantically around the ballroom. Emily was not a young miss in her first Season, but she was unmarried and must therefore abide by the rules of Society. His eye finally caught that of young Emily Cowper, the daughter of his aunt's friend, Lady Melbourne. Lady Cowper was one of the patronesses of Almack's and a good friend, not only through his long acquaintance with her through Aunt Doro, but also because she was the mistress of Robert's friend, Lord Palmerston. He cocked his head toward Emily and raised his brows in question. Lady Cowper smiled and nodded. He blew a kiss at her in thanks.

"You have permission to waltz now, Miss Townsend," he said, looking down at her. "Lady Cowper has made it so. Have you ever waltzed before?"

Emily shook her head.

"Well, luckily for you, I have," he said, smiling. "It's quite simple. I put my right hand at your waist, like so, and you put your left hand on my shoulder . .." He waited while she complied. "And then I take your right hand in mine. Now, just listen to the music and follow me."

After a few awkward steps he felt Emily pick up the rhythm and move naturally with the music. She still held herself stiffly, though, and she had not looked up at Robert even once. Her lips were drawn together in a tight line, and her eyes were overbright. He knew that she was making an effort to fight back tears.

"That's it, Emily," he whispered in her ear, "stand tall. Pretend nothing happened, and the incident will soon be forgotten. Eyes are already moving on to other more interesting couples. Like Lady Byng, just over there. What do you suppose makes her think that all the world needs to see such an expanse of her ample bosom? Of course, her partner, Sir Humphrey Ingram, has probably never so appreciated his own short stature. Only look where his eyes fall!"

Robert chattered on, making jokes and telling stories about the various couples on the dance floor. After a few minutes he felt Emily relaxing in his arms. When she finally looked up and offered him a tremulous smile, he gathered her a bit closer and sighed in relief.

When Robert felt that they had truly lost the interest of the crowd, he steered her toward French doors leading to one of the terraces.

"Come," he said softly. "Let us find some cool air."

She took his arm as he led her onto the terrace. There was one other couple enjoying the cool night air, and Robert led Emily away from them. She leaned on the balustrade overlooking the gardens. This terrace was too small for private conversation in the presence of the other couple, and so Robert did not speak. He knew that Emily was still hanging on to her composure by a mere thread. She had not spoken one word since he had dragged her onto the dance floor. When the other couple moved back into the ballroom, Robert turned and put his hand on Emily's shoulder.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he asked.

She continued to stare out into the gardens, and he thought she was not going to speak. After a moment she turned to look at him.

"That was my uncle," she whispered, a slight catch in her voice.

"I know."

"I suppose I really shouldn't be so shocked," she continued quietly. "Your sister had warned me that he and my cousin were in Town for the Season. But I assumed that if our paths accidentally crossed, he would simply ignore me. I never dreamed that he would deliberately seek me out and ... and ..."

She bit down on her lip and turned to face the gardens again. She was blinking furiously. She was trying so hard to be strong, thought Robert with some admiration, but she needed to cry. His hand moved from her shoulder down her arm and took hold of her hand. She grabbed back convulsively, her fingernails digging into his palm.

"He called me a bastard," she whispered, still not looking at him. "I am not a bastard! I am not!" Her voice broke on a sob.

Robert turned her toward him and gathered her in his arms. She buried her face in his neckcloth and sobbed. She tried to talk. She choked out a few disjointed sentences about her parents having been married, saying over and over that she was no bastard. Finally she lost control of her voice altogether.

"Hush," Robert said, rubbing one hand up and down her back, the other holding her head tightly against his chest, taking care not to dislodge the blue satin fillet intricately woven though her hair. "Hush," he repeated. "Don't talk."

She cried into his neckcloth for a few more minutes, and then he felt her quieten and hiccup and he knew the storm had passed.

She made a move to lift her head from his chest, but he kept her pinned there. He was savoring the feel of her in his arms and wasn't ready to relinquish her just yet. She didn't fight him, but instead seemed to relax into his embrace.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said, her voice muffled against his chest, "but I believe I've ruined your neckcloth. Your waistcoat, too, no doubt."

"Don't worry about it," he whispered, still stroking her back.

"I've always hated them, you know," she said. "My mother's family. I'd never actually met any of them. Until tonight. They were so cruel to her."

Suddenly she couldn't stop talking. She told him all about her mother's beauty and sweetness. About her father's recklessness and bravado. About their love for each other and their happiness as a family. About her mother's death and her father's grief. About his drowning his grief in drinking and gambling until there was nothing left. About her own anger and hurt that her father could never seem to love her as much as he had loved her mother. And about her own rage and hatred for her mother's family. How even as a child she had blamed them for everything bad that ever happened.

Robert listened in silence as she talked on, resting his cheek against her silky hair, delighting in the faint scent of lavender. God, but she felt good, although there was nothing particularly sensual about their embrace. It was a gesture of comfort and there was something very touching about her trusting response. It was important that she trust him. He felt a protectiveness toward her that almost overwhelmed him.

As he listened he knew instinctively that Emily was telling him things that she had never told anyone else. He had known from the start that she was a very private person, that she didn't allow herself to get close to others. But a barrier was being broken down between them as she spoke. As much as he treasured her trust and confidence, he knew it could also be very dangerous to completely break down those barriers. Something more than a simple friendship would result. Something more precious.

But that could never be. Not now. He was engaged to Augusta now. Bloody hell!

He loosened his arms, and Emily pulled back to look up at him. She smiled so sweedy that his breath caught in his throat.

He couldn't take his eyes from her soft, moist mouth. He ran a thumb gendy along her lower lip.

"Are you feeling better now, my dear?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, my lord," she replied, a bewildered look in her eyes.

He forced his thumb away from her lips, knowing he must avoid that danger. He moved it up to her cheek and wiped away some remaining tears.

"You had better go freshen up," he said, moving his hands to her shoulders and deliberately putting her away from him. "You look terrible."

She smiled up at him and nodded. He turned to go, but she put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Thank you again," she said. "You've been very kind, my lord."

"Robert."

She looked at him quizzically.

"Anyone who cries into my neckcloth may call me Robert."

"Thank you, Robert," she said. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

He wanted nothing more than to gather her back in his arms and kiss her properly. Instead he smiled and offered his arm as they turned toward the French doors leading to the ballroom.

Suddenly they were face to face with Augusta, who was standing in the doorway.