then abruptly froze. ‘You are staying on here as well?’ She stared. ‘You are not invited just for the evening? For the opening ball?’
He shook his head.
With a cry of dismay, Mae’s mother entered, hurrying to kneel at her daughter’s side. Lady Corbet followed, and close on her heels came Lady Toswick with a brace of footmen and a large, cushioned chaise.
Stephen stood back as the women fussed over Mae. He noted the small frown creasing her brow as she answered her mother’s enquiries, but she never looked his way. With interest, he watched as she kept calm in the face of her mother’s alarm and Lady Toswick’s disjointed attentions. It appeared that somehow she’d managed to tame all the raw, nervous energy that had marked her as an always unpredictable—and sometimes nerve-racking—companion.
He tore his gaze abruptly away. It didn’t matter how many intriguing ways Mae had changed, or in how many irritating ways she had stayed the same. Her presence here could only be a distraction at best. It could prove to be an obstacle at worst, if she decided to make his life difficult—or if her father decided to take him into dislike. Barty Halford was a dedicated and influential racing man. Certainly he had the ability to crush Stephen’s plans with only a few words into the right ears.
With a curse, he made his way to Mae’s side. ‘I can see that you are in capable hands now, Miss Halford,’ he said formally. ‘I’ll just leave you to them. I beg your pardon if I somehow contributed to your accident.’
Mae glanced at her mother. She, in turn, exchanged speaking looks with the other women and stepped back a little, drawing the others with her and shooting nervous glances in Stephen’s direction.
Mae leaned towards him. ‘Let’s just agree to stay out of each other’s path? At least as much as possible?’ She offered her hand.
He bent over it. His nose ended up mere inches from that sparkling bodice. Her new, supple form spread out before him like a Michaelmas feast, all slick curves and sharp indentations. All of his masculine bits took notice, stretching and stirring to life, to let him know that they were awake—and hungry.
Well, they could dance a metaphorical jig if they liked, but they were not going to dine here.
He pulled away. ‘Agreed,’ he barked.
Spinning on his heel, Stephen stalked from the room. Wrong place, wrong time, he told his protesting body parts.
And definitely the wrong woman.
Mae chewed her bottom lip as she watched Stephen stalk away. Two long years, she marvelled. Thousands of miles travelled. Countless new people met, more than a few flirtations engaged in and two sincere marriage proposals received. None of which she was to be given credit for. Stephen had treated her as if she were still the same over-eager, love-struck girl.
Well, she was not that girl any longer—she smiled at her mother and at Lady Toswick, assured them that, yes, she was fine and, no, she ought not dance any more this evening—and she set out to prove it.
It turned out not to be as difficult as she feared, thanks in large part to Addy and her husband. Mae returned to the ballroom and was enthroned upon a comfortable chair in the corner, with a padded ottoman upon which to prop her foot—decently covered with an embroidered shawl, of course. She suffered a moment’s panic after settling in, envisioning herself an island of misery and loneliness in the midst of all the gaiety, but within moments Lord Corbet’s friends were obligingly clustering about her.
At first they were all a bit stiff and formal in their enquiries, but Mae was so grateful she did not hesitate to turn the sharp edge of her wit onto her own clumsiness. She thought she showed remarkable restraint in only sacrificing Stephen upon a pointed barb or two, and soon enough the gentlemen were relaxed and chuckling and vying for the right to sit out a set at her side.
Mae relaxed, too, as the evening went on and she concluded that, despite the inauspicious beginning, this evening was proving to be a grand start to her campaign. She was meeting eligible gentlemen, gathering vital information and making excellent connections.
She slipped only once. A Mr Fatch had taken the seat beside her. An earnest young gentleman, he was thrilled with the opportunity to tell her—extensively—about his ancestral acres and the minerals that had recently been discovered there.
The whole thing was Stephen’s fault, really. Mr Fatch rambled comfortably on about the canal he wished to build to transport his ores to market and Mae found she could not quite keep her gaze from straying in Stephen’s direction.
She could hardly be blamed. It had ever been thus—Stephen was invariably and always the most alive person in the room. It was impossible not to sneak glances at him, and impossible not to feel lighter for doing so.
He had a thousand mercurial moods—and the gift of always donning the correct one for the occasion. Tonight he was polished, convivial and full of dry wit, judging from the outbursts of laughter from the group of gentlemen he’d joined.
And Mae was distracted, despite her intent not to be. And intensely annoyed with herself, too. Mr Fatch might be a perfectly lovely gentleman, might he not? She turned her attention firmly back to him and took up his chosen subject with interest and fervour.
Except that wasn’t the right course either. Mae knew quite a bit about canals. Over the next few minutes she recalled her lessons on how the ancients had made use of them, talked of what she had learned in Paris, where Napoleon had attempted to use the idea to bring water to the city, and speculated that the use of steam-powered engines in boats was going to bring about an expansion of canal systems all over Europe.
She realised her mistake too late. Mr Fatch’s expression transformed from content to bemused and on to faintly horrified.
She stopped talking and stifled a groan.
‘Or so my papa believes,’ she finished with a weak smile. And threw in a flutter of her eyelashes for good measure.
But there was no salvaging the situation.
‘Indeed? Well, then, I thank you for sharing his views. And so thoroughly, too.’ Mr Fatch stood and sketched a hasty bow. ‘Do enjoy the rest of your evening.’
And he was gone. Mae bit back an eloquent curse she’d learned from her French maid.
She had not a moment to dwell on the setback, however, for her papa dropped into the empty seat with a grateful sigh. He glanced longingly at her stool, as if he’d like nothing better than to lean back and prop up his feet, as well.
‘You promised me a dance,’ he complained. ‘And now I cannot collect.’ He chucked her on the chin as if she was an infant. ‘You know how I hate an unpaid debt. I shall have to charge you interest.’
‘Then I shall be sure to dance with you twice at the next opportunity.’ Despite herself, she grinned.
His mouth curled up at the edges, but he didn’t say anything more. He just watched her with a brow raised and a patient look on his face, as though he had all the time in the world to wait for the answer to his unspoken question.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
He only continued to look at her.
‘Papa?’ Mae doubted this was about
