to whoever huddled in the bushes.
Another sniff. Another choked sob.
He took a couple of steps down the white gravel path. If someone cried out here alone, it was none of his damned business. If he delayed, Vera Standish would turn to some other swain. She wasn’t noted for her patience.
His shoe scraped across a rock. Silence descended. Whoever was hiding now knew that she wasn’t alone.
Harry recognized that he was incapable of leaving someone to suffer. As a rake and roué, he was a rank failure. With a sigh, he turned toward the holly-smothered alcove. As he battled through the prickly greenery, he couldn’t help thinking of the prince struggling through thorns toward Sleeping Beauty.
“Please don’t come any closer,” a soft, broken voice whispered from mere feet away.
“Too late,” he muttered, bursting through the hedge into an enclosed hollow. His eyes had adjusted and he easily made out the girl in a light-colored gown cowering against the wooden seat.
“Go away.” Although he couldn’t see her face, she sounded very young. Her lace handkerchief twisted in her hands.
“Are you all right?” He ventured closer and she pressed back.
“Perfectly.”
There. He’d asked. She was fine. He could now find Lady Vera. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.” Her quaking voice proclaimed her a liar.
“You sound like you are.”
“It’s a bad cold,” she said stiffly.
“You shouldn’t be sitting outside, then.”
“And you shouldn’t be talking to strange women without an introduction.”
The show of spirit intrigued him. He could make out very little apart from her slenderness and the constant tugging at the handkerchief.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?” she asked with a hint of snap.
He hid a smile. “Strange.”
She stood. The full moon chose that moment to emerge from behind a cloud, granting his first glimpse of his damsel in distress.
He felt like someone had punched him in the gut.
How in hell had he missed her before this? Had he been so fixated on the pinchbeck of Vera Standish when somewhere in that ballroom waited pure gold?
“I’m not strange.” She surveyed him with wide eyes in a delicate face under a pile of thick golden hair. “I’m beginning to think you might be.”
His damsel was breathtakingly lovely. “Why the devil are you sitting out here all alone?” he asked roughly. “You don’t know who might come upon you.”
Tentative mischief lit her expression. He’d been right to suspect liveliness beneath her distress. “Well, you did.”
He should say something rakish. But when he looked at her, his heart stopped. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Who on earth was she? Damn it, he’d been out in society since leaving university and he had a reputation as a dog with the ladies. But this girl stole his ability to do more than mumble and act the looby. He managed a smile, quite a feat when his heart performed somersaults in his chest. “I’m generally accounted quite benign.”
She stared at him as if she’d never seen a man. “I should go.”
He chanced a step nearer and felt a surge of triumph when she didn’t retreat, although even in the uncertain light, he saw her wariness. Not quite as innocent as all that, apparently. “You don’t want to go back into the ballroom with red eyes.”
“Nobody would notice.”
His laugh was short. “This is your first season, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then take advice from someone older and wiser—the old tabbies notice everything. And they pass it on. If you don’t want the world to know that you’ve been crying, you’ll enter that room utterly composed.”
Her lush lips turned down. “I don’t like London.”
“You will.”
Daringly he reached for one of her gloved hands. She started, but even through two layers of fabric, he felt her warmth. The urge to strip away both gloves and test the softness of her skin beat like a war drum in his head. But one false move and she’d scarper for the ballroom, red eyes or not.
“I’m not so green that I don’t know a stranger shouldn’t hold a lady’s hand,” she said drily.
“Yes, remiss of you not to tell me your name.”
To his surprise, she laughed. He was glad to see her regain her cheerfulness. “It’s better that you don’t know who I am.”
“Won’t you tell me why you’re crying?”
She raised shining eyes to his and he suffered another blow from an invisible assailant. “You’ve just told me I can’t trust anyone.”
Hoist by his own petard. “You can trust me.”
An unimpressed look crossed her face. “I’m sure every untrustworthy person in the world says that.”
Good Lord, she was sweet. “Where does that leave us?”
“With plans to return to the ballroom?”
“Are you deserting me?”
Another faint smile. He had a delicious sense that she tested her power. “Yes.”
He fleetingly wondered whether perhaps he’d dipped too deeply into the punch. But when her smile widened and his heart lurched like a drunken sailor, he recognized that this intoxication reached far beyond lowly alcohol’s power. “Cruel beauty.”
“How can I be cruel when you’ve been so very kind?”
He groaned. “That makes me sound like an aged uncle.”
This time when she tried to withdraw, he let her. “Nevertheless, it’s true.”
“Will you save me a dance?”
Her poise revived with every second. “My card is full.”
“What about tomorrow night?”
“We mightn’t be at the same party.”
It was his turn to smile. “Oh, that we will, my mysterious miss.”
The moonlight was bright enough to reveal the flash of unhappiness that crossed her face. “There’s no point flirting with me.”
“There’s
