She drank some wine and then some more. It was very rough. Sir James Wheeler was known for his parsimony when it came to his wine cellar. The food, in contrast, was rich and fussy. Lizzie picked at it. She flirted with John Jerrold. She felt miserable, but after a few glasses of wine even George Wheeler’s gallantries seemed charming enough.

“Lizzie, you have been drinking,” Mary Wheeler hissed reproachfully when the ladies were obliged to retire at the end of the meal. “And flirting! I saw George kissing your wrist!”

“Mr. Wheeler was merely acquainting himself with my new perfume,” Lizzie said airily. She accepted the cup of tea that Lady Wheeler passed to her. It was very strong. Clearly Lady Wheeler felt that she needed to sober up. Lizzie looked at her and thought what a foolish old buzzard Lady Wheeler was. Like everyone else, she wanted to make Lizzie into a person she was not, a pattern card debutante, perhaps, like Perfect Priscilla. Lizzie felt reckless and angry. She knew this to be a sure sign that she was about to behave very badly. But how was she to misbehave, and with whom? The opportunities were rather limited in Lady Wheeler’s staid drawing room.

“Let us have an impromptu dance,” Tom suggested when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. “We could push the carpet back and have a little piano music. Lizzie-” he smiled at his sister, a wheedling smile “-plays very well.”

It was true, but Lizzie wanted to dance rather than to play. However, she could see that Lady Wheeler was already seizing upon the plan as a way to confine her and a very naughty idea started to form in her head. She took her place meekly at the pianoforte, waited for the servants to roll back the carpet, and then started on a very sedate minuet. Lady Wheeler’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. Nat and Priscilla trod a stately measure. Lizzie could see Tom taking advantage of the slow steps of the dance to woo Mary. He threw Lizzie a grateful, conspiratorial smile and Lizzie smiled grimly back. She moved into a rather livelier country-dance. The mood in the room lifted, the dancers smiled, those who were sitting out started to chat. The wine circulated again and the candles glowed. At the end there was a smattering of applause and the servants brought in more refreshment. Lizzie had managed to slip a glass of wine from under Lady Wheeler’s nose. She took a gulp and started to sing, very demurely:

“As Oyster Nan stood by her tub

To show her inclination

She gave her noblest parts a scrub

And sighed for want of copulation-”

“More refreshments!” Lady Wheeler bellowed, clapping her hands. She seized Lizzie by the elbow and almost dragged her from the piano stool.

“Mary, dear!” she caroled. “It is your turn to play now. We really must not trespass too much on Lady Elizabeth’s good nature!”

“Splendid singing, Lizzie,” John Jerrold said, whisking her into the country-dance as Mary struck the first chord. “I was disappointed not to hear verse two.”

“I will give you a private rendition of it one day,” Lizzie promised, and he looked at her, brows raised, his brown gaze suddenly speculative.

“Careful, Lizzie. I might hold you to that.”

Lizzie was enjoying herself. The room was spinning, the candles dancing in beautiful golden leaps and curves. Mary was a far better musician than she was and was playing very nicely indeed. Lizzie executed a turn, lost her footing and almost tripped. Jerrold grabbed her in his arms to prevent her from falling. It was rather nice to be in his arms. He felt strong. Lizzie could see Nat watching her-he and Priscilla were not dancing such an energetic country-dance, of course-and there was a heavy frown on his forehead now. Priscilla was whispering to him secretively behind her fan. And close by Sir James Wheeler was not even bothering to lower his voice.

“The chit is a hoyden, Vera! How you can possibly consider her suitable for George is quite beyond me.”

And Lady Wheeler’s reply: “James, when a rich, titled heiress behaves like a hoyden then she is merely displaying high spirits.”

“I don’t think that they should get their hopes up for George,” Lizzie hiccupped in Jerrold’s ear. “He has no chance of securing either my fortune or my person.”

“Hush,” Jerrold said, putting a hand over her mouth. “You do not want to offend Lady Wheeler too deeply.” He bent closer to her. “Would you like to take some air on the terrace?”

Lizzie looked at him. He was not inviting her outside so that she could sober up. She knew that. They would go out into the dark and he would kiss her and she…Well, she would respond because she was curious to know if he was any good at kissing and after all it did not really matter who she kissed now because Nat did not love her…She might even go further if she liked the way Jerrold kissed, because everyone would know anyway that she was a flirt and a wanton so why not? Perhaps it would make her feel less miserable. She felt the edges of her mind starting to fray with despair and jumped when someone spoke from close by.

“Jerrold.” It was Nat’s voice, very hard and very cold now. “If I might cut in?”

Lizzie saw the smile wiped from John Jerrold’s face like a candle blown out. The sudden tension in the air made her spine prickle as the little shivers ran down it.

“Of course, Waterhouse.” Jerrold conceded gracefully, with a bow. “Lady Elizabeth…”

“Do you mind?” Lizzie snapped as Nat’s hand closed about her wrist and he drew her inexorably to the side of the room. “I was enjoying myself-”

“That is all too evident,” Nat said grimly.

“It is Monty’s job to take care of me, not yours,” Lizzie said, nodding toward where her elder brother was dozing before the fire, face flushed, the inevitable glass of wine in his hand. He might not have inherited their mother’s fabled looks and charm, she thought, but he had certainly inherited her taste for drink. The misery twisted in her again.

“Not that I need anyone to protect me,” she finished, and hated the forlorn tone that had somehow crept into her voice.

“Can we talk about that?” Nat asked. His gloved hand still rested gently on her wrist and Lizzie looked from it up into his face and found that she could not seem to look away. Had she ever looked at Nat properly before, she wondered. She knew what he looked like, of course. She had seen him so many times during her childhood and youth that she could describe him with her eyes closed. But had she ever stopped to think about the way in which his features had changed as he, too, had grown older, developing from the youth she had known into the man he was now; how the curves and planes of his face had grown leaner and hardened with experience, how the lines had deepened about his eyes and his hair had darkened to the ebony it was now in the firelight?

Had she noticed when first the stubble had started to shadow his cheeks and chin and when the expression in his eyes had changed from the bright eagerness of youth to this watchful calculation? She did not think that she had detected the precise moment. She did not remember why Nat had changed nor how. He was just Nat and he had been there for her from the moment she had arrived at Fortune Hall, a lonely child who had lost both her parents and had been forced to start a new life in a new place with people she did not know.

But now Nat was no longer simply a youth she had once known or a man who had become her friend. She felt a pang of loss although she was not exactly sure what it was she had misplaced. Perhaps she mourned losing the easy friendship they had once had, for despite the disparity in their ages they had been close and their friendship had been warm and valuable and precious to her. Or perhaps what she regretted was that she had not seen until it was too late that her respect for Nat, her need to hold his good opinion, had been so important to her. She wished she had realized sooner how deeply she had fallen in love with him. Instead she had been blinded by her pride; she had been in denial about her feelings, pretending that her jealousy was disinterested friendship and that she was acting from the purest of motives when really she wanted Nat for herself with the fierceness of a tigress.

“Lizzie?” Nat’s voice had softened now. Perhaps he had seen the bewilderment in her eyes and heard that unhappy tone in her voice. He wanted to protect her. She knew it. Damn it, protecting her was what he had always done. But now it was only a part of what she wanted from him. If she did not have his love then to offer her his protection out of a sense of duty, was simply not enough. She wanted his passion and his wildness and his primitive anger and possession and all the things she had seen in him that night in the folly. But she wanted his tenderness and his love as well, to meet and match with hers, and that was not what he was offering.

“No,” she said, meeting his eyes, “there is nothing to talk about.”

She freed herself from his touch and walked quickly toward the door. She was tired now and the reckless edge the wine had given her was ebbing from her blood. She wanted to go home. She would send the carriage back for Tom and Monty, send, too, a gracious note of thanks to Lady Wheeler in the morning to prove that she was not entirely bereft of good manners.

Nat was still standing where she had left him. Even as she thought that he would not make a scene in a public place by demanding to accompany her or to speak further with her she realized that she had made a serious mistake. There was a single-minded resolve in Nat now that would not baulk at causing a scene. She saw him start to move toward her with absolute determination-and then Priscilla Willoughby drifted across to him and claimed his attention with a hand on his arm, and Lizzie whipped though the door as quickly as a cat and slipped away, her heart beating fast.