Page 23 of To Steal a Kiss

Oh, Lucia,

What have I done?

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Senorita Lucia de Feria.

24th June 1814. Somewhere lost at the Eversley’s’ Ball, Regent’s Park, London.

“Damn you, Nate,” Matilda raged as she stared down a never-ending corridor that lay to both her left and her right. “Damn and blast, you wretched man.”

It had only been a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, but Nate’s tall blond figure was unmistakable, and a glimpse of Alice’s red hair was all she required to know who his companion was.

How could he?

She’d hoped that her brother and her friend would hit it off, it was true, and she’d believed that there might be a match to be made there, but how could he do such a thing? What manner of madness would possess him to lead Alice away from the ball?

Good God. If they were discovered….

Matilda felt a wave of icy cold shiver over her as her stomach pitched.

Which way might they have gone? There were dozens of doors, not to mention other corridors and staircases. The Eversley’s’ were among the minority who could keep such a huge behemoth of a house in town. Most of the ton preferred a snug little town house, saving such grandeur for their country estates.

Of course, most of the ton could not afford to keep such a grand house in town and in the country, not any longer. That pleasure was left to the merchant class with more money than breeding, and the ton enjoyed laughing behind their hands about it, and pretending they didn’t care.

Matilda hesitated and then took the left-hand corridor. She’d barely gone ten steps when movement from a staircase to her right caught her attention.

Oh, no. It simply couldn’t be.

She froze in place, pierced by cold, grey eyes, like a butterfly impaled with a pin through its gut.

“Well, well, Miss Hunt. We meet again.”

God, his voice unnerved her. It was precise and cold, sharp enough to cut through rock.

“Oh,” she said, hoping she looked disgusted and not as though fear was sliding down her back in a sickening wave. “It’s you.”

“It’s you, my lord,” he corrected, his cruel mouth twitching just a little. He looked amused by her intentional rudeness which surprised her somewhat, almost as if he enjoyed it. Perhaps it was the novelty. She doubted anyone dared treat him with anything less than deference.

“Go to Hell,” she replied, telling herself to turn around and move the other way, but just like the blasted butterfly she could not, held as she was by his gaze. She’d never known a man to exude power like the marquess could. He was frightening and compelling all at once.

“Oh, give it time,” he said, eyes the colour of storm clouds glinting as he watched her, making her feel ever more like a scientific specimen. “I’m a relatively young man yet.”

“What do you want?” she ground out, folding her arms, in part to hide the fact her hands were trembling.

He frowned at that, his head tilting a little to one side as he considered the question.

“Want?” he repeated, like she’d spoken in some foreign tongue. “Of you?”

Matilda felt fury rise within her. Well, naturally, a man like the Marquess of Montagu wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole, she thought savagely. He wanted none of her, that much was abundantly clear, and thank God for it.

“You should have a care, walking around a place like this alone,” she said, sneering at him. “You never know what dangerous single females are lying in wait for you, poor unsuspecting creature that you are.”

He shrugged, dismissing this attack. “I have a fool proof method for dealing with such presumptuous jades.”

Matilda flinched, just a little, but never let her gaze fall from his. He can’t hurt you, she reminded herself. They’re just words. He’s done his worst already.

“What on earth are you doing at such a disreputable affair in any case?” she demanded. “The Eversleys are hardly worthy of your distinguished presence. They let in any old riffraff,” she added, sweeping a gesture towards herself.

His keen gaze followed the movement, returning to look her in the eyes. “I was… bored.”