The Wayward Debutante. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

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      Eleanor swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t come up with that particular profession. He was right. No governess would traipse off to the theater alone—not if she expected to keep her position, anyway. “It is not a crime to enjoy the theater. And I’m not employed. Currently, that is,” she blurted out. “I am looking for work.”

      James leaned forward. “I can help you with that,” he said, his voice low and slightly thick.

      “You can?” With his face so close to hers, she felt her train of thought begin to slip carelessly away. Her eyes wandered to his mouth. She was watching him speak, but not really attending to what he said.

      “You’ve overlooked one crucial point, Miss Smith. You’re far too pretty to be a governess. No one will ever hire you.”

      “No?” Her voice sounded small and faint.

      He shook his head. “Afraid not. But I’d be happy to employ you.”

      She blinked, not understanding at first what he meant. But when the meaning of his words slowly became clear, all the anger and embarrassment she’d felt that evening came back to her in one large dose. She opened her mouth to retort, but she had no insult to equal the one he’d just dealt her. So instead she said nothing and rose. He didn’t try to stop her as she pushed past him. What a fool she’d been. She knew he was watching her, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was leaving the building, finding her hack, and getting home as soon as possible. With her head down, she picked up her pace.

      And then the next thing she knew she’d crashed into a large, solid object. It was the man who’d been sitting in front of her, the one who’d started her disastrous night off on such a sour note. She glared up at him. He was coming back to his seat for the second act, but unfortunately, he seemed to have had several pints of ale in the interim. He wasted no time latching his fat hands on to her shoulders.

      “Well, ’ullo. What’s the ’urry, luv?” he slurred. She backed away from him quickly, but she tripped on the hem of her dress as she did so. With a startled cry, she fell backward.

      She should have hit the floor, and she braced her body for the inevitable pain, but it didn’t come. She found herself instead being held by a pair of strong arms. She didn’t have to look behind her to know to whom they belonged. She went rigid, trying to ignore the unfamiliar sensation that washed over her, a feeling of both helplessness and safety, of anger and, most frightening of all, of thrilling pleasure. She took a deep, steadying breath and regarded the large man in front of her. Although she couldn’t see it from her position, something in Mr. Bentley’s expression—that handsome face that had been laughing and mocking her until just a moment ago—must have told him to retreat. Any menace the man had possessed was now replaced by an almost comic apprehension, and he nodded apologetically as he backed away. She shivered, wondering if Mr. Bentley really could be dangerous if provoked.

      He turned her around in his arms and looked down at her face with concern. “Are you all right?”

      She nodded shakily and tried to straighten. He was too close, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. Heavens, he was tall. She hadn’t noticed when he’d been sitting.

      He brushed a finger across her cheek, and she realized he was wiping away a tear. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been crying. There was something…almost tender in his expression, something truly apologetic for having upset her. It only lasted a second—perhaps she’d even imagined it—but it sent a shock of uncertainty through her body. Was he to be her friend or her foe? At that moment it wasn’t clear which. One minute he was arrogant and insulting, and the next he was protecting her from harm. A tiny inexplicable part of her wanted to bury her head in his arms, even though prudence told her to kick him in the shins and run.

      He was still holding her, still looking down at her face. She couldn’t look away. His head dipped and she was certain he was going to kiss her; it felt inevitable, like a force she was powerless to stop and didn’t want to stop, anyway. She’d never been kissed before and she didn’t know what to do. She closed her eyes and waited.

      Nothing happened.

      “Miss Smith?”

      She opened her eyes. He was looking at her questioningly and holding up a long, chestnut-colored curl. With a startled intake of breath, she reached her hand up to feel her wig. It had slipped to the side just slightly, probably when she’d run into that man. He reached out his hand, too, and she stepped away quickly, concerned that he was going to pull it off.

      They faced each other. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew how she felt: nervous. There was no telling how he would react to this discovery. He might be angry, or feel deceived. He’d obviously be suspicious. But instead all that emerged from his guarded expression was…the same look of intense curiosity that she’d seen on his face several times that evening.

      “You’re a bit of a puzzle, aren’t you, Smith?” he said, taking a step forward and stopping when only a few inches separated them. “But I’m afraid I’d rather like to figure you out.” His head dipped slightly again, only this time to whisper, “I was going to kiss you a moment ago. Unless you want that to happen you’d better run.”

      She still wasn’t at all clearheaded, but for the first time that night she had no trouble making a decision and acting upon it. She took him at his word and turned and fled. She didn’t look back.

      And James didn’t follow. He would have liked to, but he could tell from her expression that he’d frightened her. He just watched her dash up the aisle, long enough for her to disappear through the doors. Then he sat down on the closest seat, not yet ready to return to his box. Jonathon had doubtless observed the whole encounter and would be waiting to rib him. Normally James would have no problem handling his jokes, but for some reason this situation was different. He felt…disappointment at her leaving, and regret that he was the one responsible for her departure. It was an odd sensation since he didn’t even know her. She remained a mystery, and he’d stupidly frightened her off for good. He believed that she was exactly what she claimed to be: a governess who, for whatever reason, simply liked a bit of Shakespeare. Nothing wrong with that. It was actually rather endearing. Like a lot of governesses, she probably had no family and therefore no chaperone. So why, having determined that she was not a doxy trolling the theater, had he treated her like one?

      The answer was pretty obvious. Because, in the short time he’d spent with her, she’d intrigued him more than any woman he could remember. Because she had the most remarkable eyes, and a face that was both sensual and intelligent, a rare combination. Because he did want to kiss her. Because he knew, whether she knew it or not, that she’d wanted him to kiss her, too.

      The curtains parted for the next act and he sighed. He didn’t really want to sit through the play once more. He rose, but as he stepped into the aisle something caught his attention: a reticule, abandoned on the floor. She must have dropped it. He bent over to pick it up, noting that it was made of cream silk and embroidered with birds and flowers. It was obviously expensive. Perhaps it wasn’t hers after all…

      He didn’t mean to snoop, but there was only one way to find out. He opened it, looking for some clue. It contained a long piece of frayed blue ribbon, a small leather-bound volume of the plays of William Wycherley, a mirror and several coins.

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