Chapter One
London 1817
“Please, Caroline. Just take someone’s name off your dance card and replace it with mine.”
“No. How many times do I have to say it?” came the sharp reply.
Julian Palmer, Earl Newhall, stopped in his tracks at the harsh words. He had been hoping to find a quiet spot away from the other guests at the ball in which to finish his brandy, but from the sound of the argument, he was in no such luck.
“I am not taking anyone’s name off my dance card. I don’t wish to dance with you this evening, Timothy Walters, and that is that.”
Julian waited, in two minds as to what he should do. Some men would turn on their heel and head toward the safety of the crowded ballroom, but Julian’s protective instincts could not allow him to ignore the edge of panic in Caroline’s voice. He stepped forward and turned the corner.
In front of him was a young couple. The man, whom he assumed was Timothy, had his back to Julian and was standing with his head bowed. As Julian approached, he turned. His face was flush with obvious frustration; beads of sweat sat on his temple. In his hand he held a dance card. It was still attached to Caroline’s wrist by means of a pale cream ribbon.
Caroline met Julian’s gaze. She looked him up and down, showing scant regard for his presence, then looked away.
Julian knew that look only too well. His mother was the supreme mistress of the disdainful glare. Pity the man who fell on the wrong side of her favor.
“What is the problem? Perhaps I may be of assistance,” he said.
“Everything is the problem. She is determined to vex me this evening. What is a chap to do when his lady will not save a place for him on her dance card?”
Caroline harrumphed. “Timothy, I have told you, I am not your lady and shall dance with whomever I please.
Julian had dealt with enough negotiations during his time as a diplomat in post-Napoleonic Paris to know when parties were at an impasse.
“Can I do anything to help resolve the situation? Help the two of you to find a happy medium,” he bravely offered.
Caroline snatched the dance card from out of Timothy’s grasp and marched toward Julian. She stopped in front of him. Her emerald-green eyes glistened with rage. “What you can do sir, is mind your own bloody business.”
With a whirl of skirts, she brushed past Julian and disappeared around the corner. Timothy quickly followed.
Julian closed his eyes for an instant as long-buried memories of his childhood resurfaced. How many times had his parents played out that scene? And every time his father would scurry after his wife and do her bidding. All in order to remain in her good graces.
“Don’t do it, my good fellow. That path only leads to misery and pain,” he muttered.
He downed the last of his brandy and went in search of another drink.
