"Yes. But unfortunately his full head of hair only comes up to my chin. He doesn't speak to me-he speaks to my bosom."

"An affliction that affects many men, I'm afraid, regardless of their height," said Carolyn.

"Yes, but there is a lasciviousness to Penniwick's expression that makes my skin crawl. Every time he looks at me, I fear he's about to lick his chops. Then drool."

"Drooling is definitely bad," Emily said, wrinkling her nose. "What about Lord Beechmore? He's extremely handsome and tall."

Julianne shrugged. "And is very well aware of his exceptional looks. I cannot see him falling in love with any woman when he is so completely enamored of himself. He's also very aloof."

"People have said you're aloof, Julianne," Emily pointed out with her usual brutal honesty, "when you're actually just shy. Perhaps the same can be said about Lord Beechmore."

"Perhaps," Julianne conceded. "But there is no mistaking his conceit."

"Don't forget Logan Jennsen," Sarah interjected. "You spoke with him as well. He's incredibly handsome, incredibly tall, and not the least bit aloof. And he's fabulously wealthy."

Julianne shook her head. "I agree Mr. Jennsen is all those things, but it doesn't matter. Father would never consider him as he's a commoner, not to mention an American."

"Lord Walston has called upon you several times," Carolyn reminded her. "He's attractive and seems quite nice."

"I suppose. But he's just so…" She searched for a word to adequately describe the viscount who was, as Carolyn said, quite nice. They'd shared a pleasant conversation, but in spite of his obvious intelligence and kindness, he hadn't lit the slightest spark of interest within her.

"Dry," she finally finished. "He's like unbuttered toast."

"Well, he's the best of the lot, so slather a bit of butter and jam on him," Emily said with a hint of impatience in her voice. "Unless…" Her eyes narrowed and filled with speculation, an expression that snaked a fissure of unease through Julianne. "You're finding fault with gentlemen who, while perhaps not perfect, are certainly acceptable-and certainly far preferable to drag-you-off-to-Cornwall Eastling. The only reason I can fathom why you would do that is because your interest lies elsewhere."

A flaming flush scorched her cheeks, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks for the dim lighting. How had their conversation floated into this perilous water?

"My interest lies in conducting a séance," she said firmly.

"I meant that your interest lies in a different man," Emily stated just as firmly. "One we haven't mentioned."

Botheration! Of course Emily, whom she'd known since childhood, would see through her diversionary tactic.

"Who is it?" Sarah asked, her face alight with curiosity.

Someone I can never, ever have. Someone who made every other gentleman mentioned pale in comparison. "No one." No one I can discuss with you. "I'm just feeling unsettled because I suspect Father will be making his decision within the next year, and all the gentlemen he's considering are so very… civil." The word seemed to burst from her, opening the floodgates to her frustrations. "I'm so tired of polite and restrained civility. I want a man who is interested in what I have to say and who will discuss more than fashion, the weather, and other trivialities with me. I don't want to merely exist-I want to live. I want passion. Feelings. Fire." Her words sounded desperate, even to her own ears, yet how could they not when desperation was all she felt?

Sarah reached out and clasped Julianne's hand. Behind her spectacles, Sarah's eyes brimmed with a combination of sympathy and concern. "As someone who is extremely fortunate to have those things you want, I completely understand your desire. You deserve that happiness-every happiness-and I dearly hope it comes your way."

"I agree," seconded Emily, and Carolyn nodded.

Tears pooled behind Julianne's eyes. For the show of compassion and loyalty. And because she knew the things she truly wanted were, by virtue of her circumstances, out of her reach.

Not wanting to dwell on such a depressing subject, Julianne said, "Thank you. Perhaps all of us hoping will insure a favorable result. As for tomorrow night, shall we say nine o'clock?"

"Perfect," Sarah agreed, while Carolyn and Emily nodded. "But now I think we'd best return to the party. Matthew is no doubt craning his neck about, looking for me, worried that something's amiss. Good heavens, by the time the baby is actually due to arrive, I fear his hair will be standing up straight on end-all of it that he hasn't yanked out-and he'll teeter on the edge of panic."

Julianne smiled briefly at the picture Sarah's words painted of her normally calm, levelheaded husband. Clearly love could make one act in very uncharacteristic ways.

Just then she heard a soft click. She turned quickly and stared at the closed door. "Did you hear that?" she asked in an undertone.

"What?" responded a trio of whispers.

"It sounded like a door being softly shut." She hurried over to the door and opened it a crack. Peeked into the corridor. And found it empty. Relieved, she drew a deep breath, and detected a hint of… something. Something elusive she couldn't place other than to know it pleased her.

She turned back to her friends. "Clearly I'm imagining things."

"Or perhaps my aunt's ghost is flitting about," Emily said with a grin. "Regardless, it's time we returned to the party."

Julianne again peeked into the corridor, and upon finding it empty, she silently motioned for her friends to follow her. They made their way back to the party, the sounds of merriment increasing as they approached, and Julianne prayed no one had noted their departure.

Chapter 2

Gideon watched Lady Julianne leave the crowded drawing room. She'd timed her exit well; no one else appeared to notice her slip away from the party. Except him. But then, he'd noticed everything she had done since the moment she'd arrived at Lord and Lady Daltry's soiree.

Keeping close to the wall, he unobtrusively made his way to the curved archway through which she'd escaped. A few of the guests looked his way, but with that inborn, innate ability the aristocracy possessed, they clearly recognized that he wasn't one of them, and their gazes didn't linger. No doubt they thought he was one of the hired help. Which he was. Hired to catch a murdering thief.

Could Lady Julianne somehow be connected to the criminal?

His instincts, which had served him well through the years, told him no, yet based on her furtive departure, she was clearly up to something. And he was determined to find out what that something was. For investigative purposes only. Because his training and commitment to his task demanded he leave no avenue unexplored. Certainly not because he was compelled by an irritating curiosity and need to know what she was up to.

He entered the corridor and found it empty. His gaze swept the area, detecting no changes from his earlier scouting. After turning the corner, he noted the four doors. In his mind's eye he pictured the layout of the house he'd committed to memory during his inspection before the party began, when he ascertained all the windows were securely locked.

Slowing his pace, he strained his ears for any sound but heard nothing save the muted hum of conversation from the party.

He silently opened the first door. A swift perusal of Lady Daltry's femininely appointed sitting room proved it empty. He continued on to the second door, behind which was Lord Daltry's private study, and silently entered the room. And instantly knew he wasn't alone. With his back pressed against the paneling, his gaze swept the deeply shadowed chamber. The oversized desk. Hunting trophies mounted on the walls. Tall bookcases flanking the windows.

A low, guttural groan came from the corner. Gideon's gaze shifted. Narrowed. And then he saw them. A woman, whose white blond hair rendered her instantly recognizable as Lady Daltry. She was bent over the arm of a leather settee, her fine gown gathered up about her waist, her bare arse hoisted in the air. And a man. Standing behind her, with his breeches open.

"Spread your legs wider."

The man's impatient demand was met by a rustle of material and a querulous female whisper. "Don't you dare leave me hanging as you did last time, Eastling."