.

      They parted and she had to wait until the dance joined them again to answer. ‘I went away to school,’ she told him.

      School had been a mostly pleasant experience. So many of the girls had been kind and friendly, and a few had become dear friends. Others, however, had delighted in cruelty. The wounding words they’d spoken still felt etched in her memory.

      He grinned. ‘And you grew up.’

      ‘That I could not prevent.’ Blast! Could she not contrive something intelligent to say?

      He laughed. ‘I noticed.’

      The dance parted them again, but his gaze did not leave her. The music connected them—the gaiety of the flute, the singing of the violin, the deep passion of the bass. She would not forget a note of it. In fact, she would wager she could play the tune on the pianoforte without a page of music in front of her.

      The music was happiness, the happiness of having her childhood friend back.

      She fondly recalled the boy he’d been and gladdened at the man he’d become. When his hand touched hers the music seemed to swell and that long-ago girlish fantasy sounded a strong refrain.

      But eventually the musicians played the final note and Phillipa blinked as if waking from a lovely dream.

      He escorted her back to where she had first been standing.

      ‘May I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked.

      It was time for him to part from her, but she was thirsty from the dance. ‘I would like some, but only if it is not too much trouble for you.’

      His blue eyes sparkled as if amused. ‘Your wish is my pleasure.’

      Her insides skittered wildly as she watched him walk away. He returned quickly and handed her a glass. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

      Showing no inclination to leave her side, he asked polite questions about the health of her parents and about the activities of her brothers, Ned and Hugh. He told her of encountering Hugh in Spain and she told him Hugh was also back from the war.

      While they conversed, a part of her stood aside as if observing—and judging. Her responses displayed none of the wit and charm at which her friends so easily excelled, but he did not seem to mind.

      * * *

      She had no idea how long they chatted. It might have been ten minutes or it might have been half an hour, but it ended when his mother approached them.

      ‘How do you do, Phillipa?’ Lady Piermont asked.

      ‘I am well, ma’am.’ Phillipa exchanged pleasantries with her, but Lady Piermont seemed impatient.

      She turned to her son. ‘I have need of you, Xavier. There is someone who wishes a word with you.’

      He tossed Phillipa an apologetic look. ‘I fear I must leave you.’

      He bowed.

      She curtsied.

      And he was gone.

      No sooner had he walked away than her friend Felicia rushed up to her. ‘Oh, Phillipa! How thrilling! He danced with you.’

      Phillipa could only smile. The pleasure of being with him lingered like a song played over and over in her head. She feared speaking would hasten its loss.

      ‘I want to hear about every minute of it!’ Felicia cried.

      But Felicia’s betrothed came to collect her for the next set and she left without a glance back at her friend.

      Another of Phillipa’s former schoolmates approached her, one of the young ladies to whom she had introduced Xavier. ‘It was kind of Mr Campion to dance with you, was it not?’

      ‘It was indeed,’ agreed Phillipa, still in perfect charity with the world, even though this girl had never precisely been a friend.

      Her schoolmate leaned closer. ‘Your mother and Lady Piermont arranged it. Was that not clever of them? Now perhaps other gentlemen will dance with you, as well.’

      ‘My mother?’ Phillipa gripped the stem of the glass.

      ‘That is what I heard.’ The girl smirked. ‘The two ladies were discussing it while you danced with him.’

      Phillipa felt the crash of cymbals and the air was knocked out of her just like the day in Brighton when she fell.

      Prevailing on family connections to manage a dance invitation was precisely the sort of thing her mother would do.

      Dance with her, Xavier dear, she could almost hear her mother say. If you dance with her, the others will wish to dance with her, too.

      ‘Mr Campion is an old friend,’ she managed to reply to the schoolmate.

      ‘I wish I had that kind of friend.’ The girl curtsied and walked away.

      Phillipa held her ground and forced herself to casually finish sipping her glass of wine. When she’d drained the glass of its contents she strolled to a table against the wall and placed the empty glass on it.

      Then she went in search of her mother and found her momentarily alone.

      It was difficult to maintain composure. ‘Mama, I have a headache. I am going home.’

      ‘Phillipa! No.’ Her mother looked aghast. ‘Not when the ball is going so well for you.’

      Because of her mother’s contrivance.

      ‘I cannot stay.’ Phillipa swallowed, trying desperately not to cry.

      ‘Do not do this to yourself,’ her mother scolded, through clenched teeth. ‘Stay. This is a good opportunity for you.’

      ‘I am leaving.’ Phillipa turned away and threaded her way quickly through the crush of people.

      Her mother caught up with her in the hall and seized her arm. ‘Phillipa! You cannot go unescorted and your father and I are not about to leave when the evening is just beginning.’

      ‘Our town house is three doors away. I dare say I may walk it alone.’ Phillipa freed herself from her mother’s grasp. She collected her wrap from the footman attending the hall and was soon out in the cool evening air where no one could see.

      Tears burst from her eyes.

      How humiliating! To be made into Xavier Campion’s charity case. He’d danced with her purely out of pity. She was foolish in the extreme for thinking it could be anything else.

      Phillipa set her trembling chin in resolve. She’d have no more of balls. No more of hopes to attract a suitor. She’d had enough. The truth of her situation was clear even if her mother refused to see it.

      No gentleman would court a scar-faced lady.

      Certainly not an Adonis.

      Certainly not Xavier Campion.

      Chapter One

      London, August 1819

      ‘Enough!’ Phillipa slapped her hand flat on the mahogany side table.

      The last time she’d felt such strength of resolve had been that night five years ago when she fled Lady Devine’s ball and removed herself out from the marriage mart for good.

      To think she’d again wound up dancing with Xavier Campion just weeks ago at her mother’s ball. He’d once again taken pity on her.

      No doubt her mother arranged those two dances as well as the first. More reason to be furious with her.

      But never mind that. The matter at hand was her mother’s refusal to answer Phillipa’s questions, flouncing out the drawing room in a huff instead.

      Phillipa had demanded her mother tell her where her brothers and father had gone. The three of them had been away for a week