dancing, I am still counting this evening as a success.’
‘Are you?’ His tone was mild.
‘Indeed. For I’ve kept my smile fixed and my conversation light.’ No need to confess to sins he hadn’t discovered. ‘I did not speak to Lady Toswick about her grossly inefficient dinner seating. I also showed great restraint in not reorganising her servants, even though the savoury tarts were served cold and the champagne warm.’
That made him laugh. ‘A success, indeed.’
‘I’ve also made the acquaintance of several eligible gentlemen,’ she said loftily.
‘And become reacquainted with a certain one, or so I hear.’
She grimaced. ‘To the detriment of my ankle,’ she said wryly.
‘As long as the damage is contained to your ankle …’ He allowed the thought to trail away, but there was no need to continue. A wealth of warning conveyed in so few words.
Mae’s mouth compressed. ‘You are not being fair,’ she accused.
Her father merely snorted.
Her chin lifted. ‘You are as annoying as he is. All of that was a long time ago. It’s time for you both to realise that I am not the same person.’ She folded her arms and glared. ‘That young and inexperienced girl is in my past. And so is Lord Stephen Manning.’
Silent again, he searched her face. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him. He nodded and kissed her forehead. ‘Look at your mother,’ he said. ‘Lady Toswick must be inordinately skilled. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her enjoy herself at an event like this.’ He glanced back down at her. ‘But she’s drifted too far away. I’ll send her back to you.’
Mae watched him go and step up behind her mother. She saw the hand he slipped across the small of her back and the pleasure, spiced with just a hint of heat, in the smile she cast up at him.
And her gaze slid right back to Stephen.
Curse him, he shone in this milieu. Dark evening clothes only emphasised the width of his shoulders and outlined the splendid leanness of his physique. Candlelight glowed in his short, golden hair and flashed from strong, white teeth. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that captivated Mae.
Stephen Manning lived in the centre of attention, as the focus of every group he’d ever entered. He spent his life enticing the world to look at him, daring them not to—and denying them even a glimpse of his true self.
And Mae was the only one who had ever realised it.
The ton, even his family and friends, had always been content to watch him in fascination and accept the reflection that he cast back at them. Everyone believed in the shallow image he projected to the world.
It was all smoke and mirrors. Another person lived behind those eyes and only Mae knew the truth of it.
And if she wasn’t careful then she might fall victim—again—to the burning need, the consuming desire, to uncover him.
Except that she’d meant what she’d said to her father. It was those two stubborn men who were stuck in the past. She’d had plenty of time to think as she travelled with her family, plenty of time to recognise the mistakes in her past and to identify what she wanted for her future.
Mae wanted what everyone else appeared to take for granted. She wanted to be seen for what she was—and appreciated for it. More than anything, she longed for a man who could listen to her spout on about canals—and find it charming. Even better if he had the intelligence and the confidence to debate or discuss it with her.
Stephen looked at her and saw only what he expected to see. Mr Fatch and his kind only noticed the things they wished to change.
Mae set her shoulders. She would put her ankle to the test and take a stroll around the room. Surely, somewhere out there was a man who would find her idiosyncrasies to be delightful, who would view her capabilities as an asset, not as an obstacle. She fixed a smile on her face and set out to find him.
Chapter Three
Mae Halford’s laugh was a nearly palpable thing. It was a bedroom laugh, intimate and husky. It belonged in the dark, in moments of contented teasing and happy repletion. Out of place in a ballroom, it kept catching Stephen by surprise, destroying his concentration and tempting him to turn his head.
The Earl of Ryeton, on the other hand, laughed like a donkey.
Between the two of them, they had Stephen feeling like a damned puppet on a string, his head bobbing from one side of the room to the other, his attention reluctantly bouncing between the man who could help him achieve his dream and the woman he feared could wreck it.
It was time to get stern with himself. He had to focus on the task—or the man—at hand. He’d done more than a bit of research on the earl. Ryeton was practically a legend in racing, widely acknowledged to own the deepest stables in the kingdom. But beyond his racing credentials, Stephen had discovered only that the earl gambled at the drop of a hat, had a contentious relationship with his countess and kept a mistress of long standing here in Newmarket.
He hadn’t heard of the braying laugh before tonight. Or that the man could be so damned elusive.
Perhaps it was Landry’s assertion of snobbery that explained the earl’s reticence. Perhaps he didn’t approve of the Manning family’s reputation or even of Stephen’s own colourful past. Whatever the case, Stephen was drawing desperately close to the conclusion that the man was trying to avoid him.
The ballroom was crowded, but the two of them were moving in the same circles. Mae’s father was here, too, and he was just one more object to throw into this delicate balancing act. This was more of a circus than a ball, what with Stephen subtly chasing Ryeton, delicately avoiding Barty Halford, and shivering each time Mae’s throaty chuckle floated past.
If there was one bright spot in this difficult evening, it was the enjoyably single-minded nature of the conversations. In this end of the room, there was only one subject of interest. Horses and racing were what had brought them all together. The air was replete with references to bloodlines, time trials and handicaps. Pratchett’s name was on everyone’s lips and Stephen felt a stab of longing every time he heard it.
This was his chance. Not for nothing had Stephen lounged for hours with his brother Leo in Welbourne’s stable offices. Just for this moment had he fought exhaustion and stayed awake after a long day’s labour at Fincote, devouring the Racing Calendar and the Stud Book. He entered into the debates with fervour, insight and authority and held his own with these men of the turf.
He saw surprise on some faces—and a grudging respect on others—and his spirits soared. That look meant everything to him. He craved it. He might be a man grown, with burdens and responsibilities and goals, but the shameful truth was that there was still a remnant of the young man he used to be inside him—the one always searching for an audience. Earning a bit of esteem from these men soothed that bit of his past and at the same time promised security to the people of Fincote who were his future.
Now if only he could find the
