The Thirteenth Earl by Evelyn Pryce

not argue with that.
    “We were just chatting, Miles. I must do so at balls, you know.”
    “I asked that you not fraternize with him, and you blatantly disobeyed me. Do you think me a fool, that I cannot see what is going on?” He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to his raised voice. “I will not tolerate it, Cassandra. You will not speak to him beyond greeting, and if he asks you to dance again, your answer will be no, thank you.”
    “And what of Lucy?” she snapped. “Will you cease dancing with her?”
    “She has nothing to do with this.”
    “I beg to differ.”
    “Leave it,” he said, his words clipped and tight. “This is not a discussion for a ballroom, but I will summon you tomorrow.”
    “You will . . . summon me?”
    “Indeed I will, as is my right.”
    Cassandra stayed mum, fearing that if she opened her mouth a torrent of words would come out—every miserable feeling she had about this man who had ruined her life. She would save it for when he “summoned” her, she thought, shivering with indignation.
    “I will look forward to it,” she said, able to measure her words but not her scorn. “I find that I have developed a headache, Miles. I think I will make my apologies to the countess and turn in early.”
    “See that you do,” he said, his mouth turned down.
    Cassandra tried to glide away gracefully, but felt more like she was stomping. The crowd in the sitting room would never demonstrate such behavior. Her stepmother did not seem to be among them. More the better if she had gone to bed early, one less explanation to make. Cassandra touched Eliza’s elbow and made her good-bye, feeling a fleeting guilt at her deception.
    She did not have a headache and was not going to bed. She had seen Thaxton leave ten minutes before, and it was past time to follow him. She was going to be late.

    Thaxton did not think Miss Seton was coming, after all.
    By five past he paced the blue parlor alone. He left the door open a crack, to signal that he was inside. He lit two candles, enough to obliterate the darkness. Music from the ball filtered down in a faint shadow of itself, leaving the ground floor of Spencer House quiet. Only one footman remained posted near the front door of the estate, in case of emergency, but he knew enough to pay no mind to Jonathan Vane wandering around at night.
    Six past. He could not believe it; he had been convinced she would show.
    Thaxton turned his eyes to the ceiling and sank into a chair in the corner, which emitted a cloud of dust from disuse. Foolish idea in the first place, this whole thing. He was not sure what had possessed him to invite Miss Seton to meet him alone, an act that would mean devastation to her reputation if they were caught. He drummed his fingers on a side table and resisted the urge to reach for the brandy snifter.
    Eight past. Incredible.
    He lifted one crystal glass, shifted it to glint off the moonlight low in the windows. It had been too long since he had enjoyed the company of a woman in the biblical sense—likely the reason behind his rash decision to extend the invitation. When things had deteriorated at home, Thaxton had found himself with a distinct lack of female companionship. Merry widows were too merry to have a fling with a man holed up in gloomy city rooms with his mad father. Debutantes were out of the question, and prostitutes . . . perish the thought.
    Blast it. He was going to have a glass of brandy.
    “Don’t you dare,” Miss Seton hissed from the doorway, wreathed in the glow of the candles. “You cannot investigate in your cups.”
    He sat up, putting a finger to his lips and waving her closer. Shame ruddied his cheeks in the absence of brandy to fulfill the same function. How quickly he had shot to attention. He closed the door, flicked his wrist with the precise speed required to fool the telltale creak, and turned the lock. Cassandra stared at the doorknob for a moment; he would have paid to