The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman. Margaret McPhee

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      His eyes never faltered for a moment. He stood there, all quiet strength and stillness, with those eyes that knew her secrets and those lips that had seduced her own. ‘I am here to ask you to dance, Miss Northcote.’

      Her stomach gave a somersault.

      Beside her she heard Miss Chichester give a quiet gasp.

      ‘I thank you kindly for your magnanimous offer, sir.’ Emma held his gaze with a determined strength, knowing that, in this battle of wills, to look away would be to admit defeat. ‘But I am obliged to refuse. I am here as Lady Lamerton’s companion, not to dance.’

      His mouth made a small dangerous curve, making fear trickle into her blood at what he meant to do. Too late she remembered that one word from his mouth could destroy her. One word and her return to the ton and all that meant for her brother would be over. Her mouth turned dry as a desert.

      He turned his attention to Lady Lamerton. Only then did Emma notice that all of the ladies around them had fallen silent and that Lady Lamerton and her friends were watching with avid interest.

      ‘I am sure that Lady Lamerton would be able to spare you for some small time.’ He looked at Lady Lamerton with that quiet confidence in his eyes. Cocked the rogue eyebrow.

      All eyes turned to the dowager, like a queen with the presiding vote over a court.

      ‘Mr Stratham has the right of it, Emma.’ Lady Lamerton turned her focus to Ned. ‘I trust you will return m’companion to me safely, sir.’

      ‘Safe and sound, ma’am.’ Ned smiled at Lady Lamerton.

      Safe and sound. The very air around him vibrated with danger.

      All of the tabbies watched in rapt amazement.

      His eyes switched back to Emma, the bluest blue eyes in all the world, so cool and dangerous, and filled with the echoes of shared intimacies between them. ‘Miss Northcote.’ He held out his hand in invitation. ‘Shall we?’

      Her eyes held his for a tiny moment longer, knowing that he had manoeuvred her into a corner from which there was no escape. Then she inclined her head in acknowledgement.

      He might have won the battle but it did not mean he would win the war.

      She placed her hand in his, rose to her feet and let him lead her out on to the dance floor.

      * * *

      They joined the nearest set for a country dance that was neither progressive nor too fast for conversation.

      ‘What game are you playing, Ned Stratham?’

      ‘No game. We need to speak with a degree of privacy. This provides the perfect opportunity.’

      She glanced around to all the pairs of eyes fixed upon them, to all the murmurs being whispered behind fans and into ears. ‘You call this privacy? Our every move is under scrutiny.’

      ‘Indeed. Apparently I am a source of fascination for the ladies of the ton.’

      She blushed and eyed him with anger. She was very aware of the warmth of his hand around hers, of the proximity of his body. ‘I have already told you I will not listen to more of your lies.’

      ‘But I was not the one who was telling the lies, was I, Emma?’

      ‘Given what you did, I do not think I owe you any explanation as to why I did not wait. And as for a lady’s maid, I have undertaken such duties in the past. For a month.’

      ‘A month.’ He paused. ‘As the daughter of the maid’s master.’ He looked at her.

      ‘Strictly speaking it was not a lie.’

      ‘Strictly speaking.’

      She pressed her lips firm. Glanced away.

      He leaned closer, so that she felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, felt the shiver tingle down her spine and tighten her breasts.

      ‘And as we are speaking strictly, the little fact of your name, Miss de Lisle...’ His blue eyes seemed to bore into hers.

      ‘It was not a lie. De Lisle is my mother’s name.’

      ‘Your mother’s name. But not yours.’

      She swallowed again. Her mouth was dry with nerves. He was making it sound as if she were the one in the wrong. ‘My father and I could hardly admit the truth of our background. That we were fallen from society. That we were of that privileged class so despised in Whitechapel. Do you think we would have been accepted? Do you think Nancy would have given me a job in the Red Lion?’

      ‘No.’ His eyes held hers, unmoved by the argument. ‘But it does not change the fact that you lied to me, Emma Northcote.’

      ‘Small white lies that made no difference.’

      Something flashed in his eyes, something angry and passionate and hard. Something in such contrast to the cool deliberate control normally there that it sent a shiver tingling down her spine and made her heart skip a beat. ‘They would have made all the difference in the world.’

      The dance took them apart, leading them each to change places with the couple on their right. She took those few moments to try to compose herself before they were reunited once more and his hand closed over hers, binding her to him. And to this confrontation she had no wish to conduct upon a crowded dance floor.

      ‘Do not seek to turn this around,’ Emma said. ‘You made me believe you were something you were not.’

      He raised his eyebrows at that. Just as she had made him believe she was someone she was not.

      It fuelled her anger and sense of injustice.

      ‘All those nights, Ned... And in between them you were here, living in your mansion, dancing at some ball with the latest diamond of the ton hanging on your arm. Seeking to ally yourself with some earl’s daughter while you played your games in Whitechapel.’

      He said nothing.

      ‘You would have bedded me and cast me aside.’

      ‘Would I?’ His voice was cold, hard, emotionless. There was something in his eyes when he said it that unnerved her.

      Had she waited, she would know for sure.

      Had she waited it would have been too late.

      The dance played on, their feet following where it led. There was only the music and the scrape and tread of slipper soles against the smooth wood of the floorboards. Only the sound of her breath and his. Given all that was at stake, she had to know. She had to ask him.

      ‘Are you going to tell them the truth of me? That I was a serving wench in a chop-house in Whitechapel? That my father is a dockworker? That we lodged in one of the roughest boarding houses in all London?’

      ‘Are you going to tell them that I was a customer in the same chop-house?’

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