Her Cinderella Season. Deb Marlowe

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      ‘I am not detached!’ Jack said, walking away. ‘You make me sound like a freehold listing in The Times.’

      ‘Auction on London Gentleman, Manner Detached,’ his brother yelled after him.

      Jack ignored him. Legendary detachment be damned. He was anchored fully in this moment and surging forwards on a wave of anger. The fool woman had nearly been killed, and by his hand! Well, that might be an exaggeration, but without doubt the responsibility would have been his. He’d caught sight of her over the thrashing heads of the horses—standing where she clearly did not belong—and fear and anger and guilt had blasted him like lightning out of the sky. The realisation that his concern was more for himself than for her only fuelled his fury.

      ‘Madam!’ he called as he strode towards her. The entire incident had happened so fast that the park drag had still not manoeuvred completely past. People milled about on the pavement, and one florid gentleman glared at the woman, but made no move to approach her.

      ‘Madam!’ No response. ‘If you are bent on suicide, might I suggest another man’s phaeton? This one is borrowed and I am bound to deliver it in one piece.’

      She did not answer or even look at him. ‘Ma’am, do you not realise that you were nearly killed?’ He took her arm. ‘Come now, you cannot stand in the street!’

      At last, ever so slowly, the bonnet began to turn. The infuriating creature looked him full in the face.

      Jack immediately wished she hadn’t. He had grown up surrounded by beauty. He’d lived in an elegant house and received an excellent education. From ancient statuary to modern landscapes, between the sweep of grand architecture and the graceful curve of the smallest Sèvres bowl, he’d been taught to recognise and appreciate the value of loveliness.

      This girl—she was the image of classic English beauty come to life. Gorgeous slate-blue eyes stared at him, but Jack had the eerie certainty that she did not see him at all. Instead she was focused on something far away, or perhaps deep inside. Red-gold curls framed high curving cheeks, smooth, ivory skin gone pale with fright and a slender little nose covered with the faintest smattering of freckles.

      And her mouth. His own went dry—because all the fluids in his body were rushing south. A siren’s mouth: wide and dusky pink and irresistible. He stared, saw the sudden trembling of that incredibly plump lower lip—and he realised just what it was he was looking at.

      Immense sorrow. A portrait of profound loss. The sight of it set off an alarm inside of Jack and awoke a heretofore unsuspected part of his character. He’d never been the heroic, knight-in-shining-armour sort—but that quivering lower lip made him want to jump into the fray. He could not quell the sudden urge to fight this unknown girl’s battles, soothe her hurts, or, better yet, kiss her senseless until she forgot what upset her and realised that there were a thousand better uses for that voluptuous mouth.

      He swallowed convulsively, tightened his grip on her arm…and thankfully, came back to his senses. They stood in the middle of a busy London street. Catcalls and shouts and several anatomically impossible suggestions echoed from the surrounding bustle of stopped traffic. A begrimed coal carter had stepped forwards to help his brother calm the bays. Several of society’s finest, dressed for the daily strut and starved for distraction, gawked from the pavement.

      ‘Come,’ Jack said gently. Her steps wooden, the girl followed. He led her out of the street, past the sputtering red-faced gentleman, towards the Grosvenor Gate. Surely someone would claim her. He darted a glance back at the man who had fallen into step behind them. Someone other than this man—who had apparently left her to be run down like a dog in the street.

      Lily was lost in a swirling fog. It had roiled up and out of her in the moment when she had fully understood her predicament. Her life was never going to change. Just the echo of that thought brought the mist suffocatingly close. She abandoned herself to it. She’d rather suffocate than contemplate the stifling mess her life had become.

      Only vaguely was she aware that the stampeding horses had stopped. Dimly she realised that a stranger led her out of the street. The prickle of her skin told her that people were staring. She couldn’t bring herself to care.

      ‘Lilith!’ Her mother’s strident voice pierced the fog. ‘Lilith! Are you unharmed? What were you thinking?’

      Anger and resentment surged inside of her, exploded out of her and blew a hole in the circling fog. It was big enough for her to catch a glimpse of her mother’s worried scowl as she hurried down from Mr Wilberforce’s barouche, and to take in the crowd forming around them.

      Her gaze fell on the man who had saved her from herself and she forgot to speak. She stilled. Just at that moment a bright ray of sunlight broke free from the clouds. It shone down directly on to the gentleman, chasing streaks through his hair and outlining the masculine lines of his face. With a whoosh the fog surrounding her disappeared, swept away by the brilliant light and the intensity of the stranger’s stare.

      Lily swallowed. The superstitious corner of her soul sprang to attention. Her heart began to pound loudly in her ears.

      The clouds shifted overhead and the sunbeam disappeared. Now Lily could see the man clearly. Still her pulse beat out a rapid tune. Tall and slender, he was handsome in a rumpled, poetic sort of way. A loose black sling cradled one arm and, though it was tucked inside the dark brown superfine of his coat, she noticed that he held it close as if it ached.

      His expression held her in thrall. He’d spoken harshly to her just a moment ago, hadn’t he? Now, though his colour was high, his anger seemed to have disappeared as quickly as her hazy confusion. He stared at her with an odd sort of bated hunger. A smile lurked at the edge of his mouth, small and secretive, as if it were meant just for her. The eyes watching her so closely were hazel, a sorry term for such a fascinating mix of green and gold and brown. Curved at their corners were the faintest laugh lines.

      So many details, captured in an instant. Together they spoke to her, sending the message that here was a man with experience. Someone who knew passion, and laughter and pain. Here was a man, they whispered, who knew that life was meant to be enjoyed. ‘Lilith—’ her mother’s voice sounded irritated ‘—have you been hurt?’

      Lily forced herself to look away from the stranger. ‘No, Mother, I am fine.’

      Her mother continued to stare expectantly, but Lily kept quiet. For once, it was not she who was going to explain herself.

      Thwarted, Mrs Beecham turned to Mr Cooperage, who lurked behind the strange gentleman. ‘Mr Cooperage?’ was all that she asked.

      The missionary flushed. ‘Your daughter does not favour…’ he paused and glanced at the stranger ‘…the matter we discussed last week.’

      ‘Does not favour—?’ Lilith’s mother’s lips compressed to a foreboding thin line.

      Mr Cooperage glanced uneasily at the man again and then at the crowd still gathered loosely around them. ‘Perhaps you might step aside to have a quiet word with me?’ His next words looked particularly hard for him to get out. ‘I’m sure your daughter would like the chance to… thank…this gentleman?’

      ‘Mr…?’ Her mother raked the stranger with a glare, then waited with a raised brow.

      The stranger bowed. Lily thought she caught a faint grimace of pain in his eyes. ‘Mr Alden, ma’am.’

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