Tropes in this book: Enemies to lovers, Rivals to Lovers, Cinderella romance

Chapter One

June tugged at the ribbon on her bodice. “This dress is a disaster!” Her skirt swished across the wooden floor as she paced her bedroom before her mother. “Mother, I need a new one. Send Cindaria to the dressmaker and demand our money back!”

“There’s no time, my sweet.” Her mother snapped her fingers. “Cindaria, get June her blue ruffled dress.”

In the candlelight and the last hint of dusk, Cindaria Hethrope stood back like one of the maids, and studied the dress. I don’t see what is wrong with it. “It’s out with the laundresses, Stepmother.”

Her stepmother narrowed her eyes so much her fat face scrunched. Her new-forming wrinkles deepened into higher relief. “Did I ask you for such information?”

“Mummy, I must have something to wear! Lord Romalo must’ve seen me in every gown I own, by now.”

Cindaria doubted it. June owned three times more dresses than Cindaria and Dorothea kept in their little wardrobe upstairs. Steps—which was what Cindaria called her stepmother in secret—spent a fortune on her daughters’ wardrobe.

“I know, sweet.”

Sweet isn’t what Cindaria would call her sisters. June had amber eyes, chubby arms with no sleek muscle on them, and Astra shared her eye and dark blonde hair color, but was thinner, and used too much wax pomade in her hair. But it was their demeanors that spoke to their spoiled nature.

Pity only I see it.

Steps waved her hands. “Cindaria, go to the dressmakers. Get your sister another dress! There isn’t time to waste.”

“Yes, Stepmother.” At this late hour? She knew the dressmaker was already closed for the evening. How absurd can she be? There wasn’t a dressmaker in London who would accommodate them now. They weren’t the princesses, after all.

She hurried out of the room, only to turn left toward the attic instead of right, to the mansion’s foyer. Up the winding steps, she paused before the rickety door and tapped on the wooden surface. “Dorothea?” No answer sounded from within.

Cindaria entered without another word. Her sister sat on the window seat where she’d left her before June demanded her time. “Doro?” Either her sister slept or she was playing. Cindaria looked down on the little girl, her round face slack, but she’d scrunched up her eyes. She was twelve, but small for her age.

“I see you’ve been playing at Sleeping Beauty’s spinning wheel again. Oh, dear. At least you won’t mind if I take this cloak.” She removed the blanket from the girl’s lap.

Dorothea giggled. “That’s mine.”

“Is it, now?” Cindaria kissed her sister’s head. “You need it to help with your studies?”

The girl squirmed. “Why are you pestering me?”

“I’m not. I’m looking for a dress for June.”

“She owns dozens.”

“I thought so too.” Folding the blanket, Cindaria set it to the side, and approached an old trunk. “But June thinks otherwise. Help me pick out another.” She opened the trunk and removed a white linen party dress. “Will this do?”

Dorothea screwed up her baby face as she considered. “Do you think she can squeeze her girth into that one?”

“No, you’re right.” Besides, it was her mother’s. I don’t want June in it. She set it back in the trunk.

Dorothea hobbled over and pawed through the dresses. “This one will suit her.” She drew out an olive green dress. “It’s big enough.”

Her father once said that the linen gown was one her mother wore before Cindaria’s birth. “This is a maternity dress.”

“Oh.” Dorothea touched the skirt. “Let her wear it, I say.”

“But didn’t you hear me, Doro? It’s for a woman who’s expecting a child.”

Her sister shrugged. “And so what? June’s expecting someone will dance with her, isn’t she?”

Dorothea had a point. It may be the only thing that would fit her. “If we tie the sash lower, and tightly, you might be right.” Still, she set the dress aside. “We have others.” She removed a pink dress with blue bows along the skirt hem that Astra had handed down to her. “This might do.”

“You can try.” Dorothea eyed it critically. “But we know her. She’ll say no.”

“I’ve no other choice.”

“Do you think it’ll fit her?” Dorothea patted her stomach.

Cindaria scoffed in disdain. “Imp!” She opened her own trunks and removed scissors and gave a second pair to Dorothea. “Help me and we’ll make a few alterations. She won’t notice it’s the same dress.”

Together they removed the bows from the skirt.

“Cindaria, where are you with my dress?” June screeched from the corridor.

“Oh, dear.” Cindaria lowered the scissors. “We’re not finished.” Two bows still clung to the hem.

“Yes we are.” Dorothea yanked and tugged.

Rrrriiiiiiiipppppp!

The hem tore.

Cindaria gasped. “Doro! What did you do?”

Dorothea’s light skin colored. “Ooh! I didn’t mean to do that.”

Cindaria sighed in frustration and spread the skirt out.

“Are you going to cut the bottom off?”

“I thought to mend the tear.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to lop it off?”

Cindaria eyed the hem and exchanged scissors for needle. “She’ll notice.”

“June? Doubtful.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Cindaria! Where’s June’s dress?”

She looked to the scissors in her sister’s hand. “Coming, Astra!” Hoping her two stepsisters wouldn’t barge into the attic, she turned her glare back on her little sister. “Dorothea, I don’t think this is the way to fix things.”

Dorothea took the needle from her hand and thrust the scissors at her. “Prove me wrong.”

Cindaria snipped.

“Cindaria!”

The door opened. Steps loomed in the attic doorway, face as red as her skirt.

Cindaria removed the ruffle and thrust it behind her back. “Yes?”

“Your sister is awaiting the dress you promised her. The hour is passing. I won’t arrive late to the ball because of you.”

“Yes, stepmother,” Dorothea said. “Cindaria’s found the perfect ensemble for her.”

Steps narrowed midnight blue eyes, but didn’t enter the room. “Hurry along. I won’t have my girls ridiculed for tardiness.”

“Yes, Stepmother.” Though she knew Steps wouldn’t abide it if she lingered longer, she must help Dorothea. “Come along, Doro.”

Her sister poked into the open trunk. “I’d like to play here a little longer.”

Cindaria scoffed. “Doro.”

Steps tapped her foot. Cindaria tried not to cringe but knew time was running out. “Please.”

“Go. I’ll call for you when I’m ready.” Dorothea waved her hands. “I promise.”

What was her sister up to? “Scamp.”

“Cinndaaariaaa,” June called her again.

Cindaria shook her head and heeded her stepsister’s summons. True to Dorothea’s prediction, neither June, nor Astra, noticed the gown’s jagged hem. But their final preparations took so much of Cindaria’s time she had only minutes for Dorothea.

When Cindaria returned to the attic, she found a maid watching over the girl, helping with whatever her project was. “Thank you, Mina.” Dorothea took a hoop skirt from the maid and thrust it and a wad of orange linen at Cindaria. “Here. Tie this over you.”

“What’s this?”

“Your costume.” Dorothea dropped the hoop skirt into her hands.

Cindaria stepped into it and shimmied it up to her waist.

“No! Like this.” Dorothea took the hoop skirt back, and turned it over. With the maid’s help, she slipped the waistband over Cindaria’s head, upside down. “Hold this. Bend down, so I can reach.”

Cindaria grasped the hoop skirt. Dorothea squished it in around her, and tied it. “There.”

“There, what? I can’t see a thing.”

She wiggled the hoop skirt down to clear her view.

“Stop it. Do as I say. Pick me up.”

Cindaria hoisted Dorothea into her arms. Her sister brought a pair of scissors with her.

“What are you doing?”

“Close your eyes.”

Snip, snip, snip. Cindaria winced with every cut.

“There.”

Dorothea tugged and tweaked until Cindaria’s view cleared. “You cut eyeholes?”

More tugging ensued. The linen was thin enough that she didn’t need eyeholes.

Cindaria put her sister down. Shoving here and there, Dorothea and the maid finished all the adjusting and pinning. Cindaria found the skirt extended forward, with two poufs to the left and right. “I look like a squash. Is this your idea?”

“Not a squash.”

“An orange ghost?”

Dorothea huffed in exasperation. “No, silly girl.”

“What, then?”

“You’ll see.” Dorothea held out her hands. “Help me get dressed.” Dorothea had chosen a silver-gray dress with a wide skirt, and blue bows on her sleeves.

Cindaria peered through tulle at her sister. “You’re lovely. Aren’t we to wear matching costumes?”

“No. Pick me up.”

She bent and scooped Dorothea up. Dorothea pointed to the mirror and squirmed in her arms. “Careful, Doro! I don’t want to drop you.”

“Stop.” She pointed to the mirror. “See us? Now, what do you think?”

Cindaria blinked. Her sister in silver cradled in her orange arms. “We clash.”

“No we don’t. And shush. Carriages don’t speak.”

“Oh! Is that what I am, a carriage?”

“A pumpkin carriage. Like Cinderella’s. Now you’ll have to go to the costume ball, as I can’t go without you.”

They made their way downstairs, where Steps stared. “What are you doing? Who is under that fabric?”

“My assistant, of course.”

“You mean your sister.” Steps pulled down the sheet and tulle. “This is your way of trying to attend? Absolutely not. I forbid you to go, Cindaria.”

Dorothea had the audacity to object. “Why?”

“I’m attending this party for my daughters’ benefit. You will honor my wishes.”

“We are your daughters!” Dorothea squirmed in her arms.

“No. You are your father’s daughters.”

Cindaria sighed. “I suspected you’d forbid it.”

“Will you not let me go?” Dorothea coughed into her hand.

She’ll get nowhere with this tactic. “Doro–”

“When I might never get another chance before I die? Father wouldn’t have liked that.”

Steps’ frown deepened. “No.”

“Think. Should I live to my eighteenth birthday, we might find a match for me tonight.” Another cough. “A rich one. You’ll never have to worry about me again, that way. Or perhaps we will find a governess willing to rear me to her profession.”

Please let Doro live to eighteen and beyond, Lord.

Steps looked them over. “What are you wearing?”

“What do you think?” Dorothea wiggled in her arms. “Our costume for the ball.”

“You won’t be going, that’s final. You’ve work enough around here for the night.”

While Dorothea drooped, Cindaria tensed up. “The hostess invited your family.”

“She invited me and my daughters. You are my stepdaughters.” Steps waved a fat hand at June. “Come along, girls. We’ll be late.”

“But Mother!”

Steps glared at Dorothea. “You need rest, do you not? You can’t dance, after all, and need your sister to watch over you. Do as I say and go upstairs now.”

Their stepsisters giggled as they rushed past them and outside to their carriage. Why should we stay? Cindaria followed them.

Steps put herself between them. “Cindaria?” She pointed to the stairs.

Cindaria opened her mouth, shut it. “Come on, Doro. We’ll make our own fun.”

She carried her sister to the parlor, and set her in her chair. Dorothea crossed her arms and pouted. Cindaria paced the parlor, agitated.

“TWO is a rat.” TWO is what Dorothea called her, when no one else was listening. “She certainly lives up to the name ‘The Wicked One’.”

“Doro, there will be other parties. We need not attend them all.” Disappointment filled her, more for Dorothea’s sake. She paced the parlor, wondering what to do.

An idea struck her and Cindaria urged her sister up. “Come with me.”

Dorothea protested. “Where do you think you’re taking me?”

“To visit Winifred Clankton.”

“But she has no sisters my age.”

“No, but she has a bigger carriage.”

Recognition lit in her sister’s eyes. Cindaria led Dorothea down the street to the omnibus stop. When they arrived at Winifred’s, they found the house alive with activity.

“Good evening, Miss Hethrope.” Winifred’s elder brother was nineteen, healthy, and handsome, and polite as he bowed to her.

Lady Miranda Clankton scolded her younger sons to “Now, listen to your nanny, while we’re gone” while adjusting a bejeweled comb in her dark hair. “Good evening, Cindaria. We didn’t expect you tonight. Did Winifred not tell you we had an invitation?”

Cindaria curtseyed. “She did, my lady. That’s why I’m here.”

“Aren’t your stepsisters going to the party too?”

“They are. May I speak with Winifred, my lady?”

Lady Clankton came forward and tugged on Dorothea’s pigtails. “Of course. Miss Dorothea, you may play with my boys.” She turned a stern look on the children. “If they promise not to be too rough.”

“I can’t, ma’am. I’m part of the costume.”

The corner of Lord Clankton’s mouth lifted in a momentary smile as he adjusted his cravat by the mirror in the foyer. “Are you?”

“She’s Cinderella. And I’m the coach. If we can get to the ball.”

Lord and Lady Clankton looked at each other. “I see.”

She didn’t think they did.

“Winifred!” her younger brother, at eleven years old, shouted up the stairs at her. “Miss Hethrope and her sister are here.”

“They are?”

“Why are you here?”

“To see your sister.”

“Stop pestering her, Jonah.” Winifred shouted down the stairs. “Come up, my friend.”

Cindaria thanked the family and carried Dorothea upstairs. “Don’t worry, Doro. We’ll get to that party yet.”

Winifred settled back at her vanity and the maid went back to work on a last braid in the girl’s hair. Jewels shined from Winifred’s frilly yellow gown. Winifred met her gaze in the mirror. “This is a surprise.”

“My word, you’re lovely.”

“Do you think so?” Winifred shook out her sleeve. “I hope Lord St. Vincent will believe me so.”

“I’m sure he will.” Cindaria set Dorothea in an empty chair and approached Winifred. “My friend, I’m in a bind.”

Concern lit her friend’s eyes. “What’s the trouble? You can’t wear the same gown you wore this morning, unless you think that orange cape will make a difference? Though it will go with your coloring, it looks … too big.”

Cindaria glanced at herself in the mirror and noted the high color in her olive cheeks.

“Of course it is,” Dorothea said. “It’s meant to be big.”

Winifred’s lips twitched and she picked up the edge of the sheet. “You’re supposed to be an orange ghost?”

“No, silly. She’s my pumpkin coach. If she’d put the costume on correctly.”

Cindaria took her arm. “If we had somewhere to show off her clever costume, I would. We seem to be without a conveyance to the ball.”

“What happened?” Winifred leaned closer to the mirror, and plucked a stray eyelash from her cheek. “Or do I need to guess?”

Grateful for her friend’s perception, tension lessened, and she drew her to the side. “My stepmother refused to let us attend the dance, at the last minute, as you see. Doro was so looking forward to it.” She waved a hand to her little sister. “Would you mind if we join you?”

“Of course not, my friend.” Winifred opened her wardrobe. “Let me add a few embellishments to your costume, and then we’ll go downstairs.”

A few quick stitches added with the help of Winifred’s maid transformed the fluffy orange dress to a toga, of sorts. They used the tulle as an orange veil and Winifred sent another maid to the attic for an old, black velvet mask. The mask was cut a little too large for her face, but it would do. A few more strategically-pinned bows made a presentable costume. Winifred stepped back. “There, now. You make a lovely pumpkin coach, Miss Hethrope.” She picked up Dorothea and deposited the girl in Cindaria’s arms. “Now we can go.”

They followed the family out to their hansom carriage. Cindaria settled Dorothea into her lap, and the drive to the center of London flew by. Cindaria soon found herself entering the packed ballroom.

The hostess cooed over Dorothea. “What are you supposed to be, my dear girl?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dorothea straightened as much as her back would allow. “I’m Cinderella. And this is my carriage.”

Music swirled around the hall from a chamber quartet in the corner. A gentleman approached. “Miss, may I add myself to your dance card?”

“Oh, I’m just here to watch.”

Dorothea made a sound of disdain. “Nonsense. Here, sir. Add your name.”

“All right.” He claimed the first dance.

As soon as they finished, the second on Cindaria’s card lined up. She danced another and returned to where her sister rested with other children.

“There’s my coach.” Dorothea nodded to the little boy next to her. “Here, take my chair.”

Cindaria didn’t like the fake innocence of his smile so she picked her sister up again. “What did he do?”

She held up one of her dress’s ribbons. It was tied to one diagonal to it, and that one, further up and tangled in her hair. “Tied this in the queerest way.”

“Oh, how rude of him!” Try as she might, she failed to unloose her sister. “Let me put you down so I can fix this.”

“Quick, as we need to return to our ensemble.”

“Doro, I can’t carry you in that chair position all night. I’ll break my back.”

“That will never do.” A male spoke behind her. “But then, you mustn’t ruin the illusion. What a dilemma.”

Cindaria straightened and turned. A mask of ivory satin covered part of the man’s face but she noted he had a fine mustache and dark hair. Dark stubble graced his chin. Another, half-year might see him with a full beard. “Breaking the illusion, sir, is inevitable.”

“Shush.” Her sister squirmed.

“I’m not to speak. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I understand.” The man stepped around her, and taking Dorothea’s hand, bowed to her. “Greetings, Princess.”

Cindaria battled with a particularly fussy knot. The gentleman swooped in to lend a hand. “May I offer my assistance?”

They soon set all Dorothea’s ribbons free.

“There now.” He patted Dorothea’s head. “May I see the illusion you refer to?”

“Of course.” Dorothea reached out. “Pick me up, sister.”

Cindaria did so.

“There. What do you think?” Dorothea angled her chin as if she were a princess.

“I see. You picked a fresh pumpkin for your conveyance. It’s only appropriate for Cinderella.”

Cindaria narrowed her eyes at him. “Fresh?”

“Is your pumpkin skilled in the waltz?”

“Me?”

He cocked his head to the side as he studied them. “Yes. May I claim the next dance from you, Miss Pumpkin?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Dorothea bounced in her arms, fluffing her tulle skirt. “Of course you may, sir. She’d enjoy dancing with you.”

I would? “My ensemble isn’t conducive to dancing, sir.”

“Nevermind he just saw you dancing.” Dorothea eyed her with disdain. “He signed your dance card.”

“He did?” Dorothea offered it to her, and Cindaria angled her head to read, but couldn’t make out his handwritten name. Did it say Mould? Or Moreld? Then she glanced back to him. “Well. I can’t. You see what trouble she got into in my first dance.” Where was Winifred? Oh, there. Dancing with a short, dark-haired fellow.

Dorothea pinched her. “Set me down.”

Cindaria winced but did as she asked. “Again, I’m sorry, sir.”

“If you’re sure.” He didn’t seem inclined to leave. At any rate, Dorothea wouldn’t let the matter drop.

“Don’t be a goose, dance with the fellow!”

“But I can’t leave you.”

“Nonsense.” She wiggled in her chair. Two little girls who approached, took the chairs nearby, and greeted her. “The scamp is gone. I’ll be fine. Won’t I?”

The girls nodded.

Dorothea waved her hand to shoo her sister away. “I’m fine here. Be off.”

The fellow gave her a questioning look, and offered his hand again.

“I’d be honored, sir.” Cindaria straightened her skirt. The waist sagged, but the fellow didn’t seem to notice. Thanking God for that, she took the fellow’s hand, and followed him to the dance floor.

Everything about this ball screamed opulence, but she didn’t dwell in hope. This was only one stranger, and one dance. Not a prince to search the kingdom over wondering who might fit a mysterious glass slipper.

“You dance divinely, Miss Pumpkin.” He stepped past her. “Have we danced together before? Perhaps at Lord Kennedy’s summer fete?”

“I don’t think so, sir.” Her stepsisters had attended; but she didn’t. Dorothea had taken ill from something she’d eaten for lunch that day, and Cindaria stayed to tend to her. But you ate the same thing. Why aren’t you sick? Dorothea had wondered that between spells. Cindaria tried to fire the cook, but Steps nullified the attempt. For a while afterward, Cindaria fed a little of the girl’s food to the cat before every meal. No ill befell the creature. That was, until one of Astra’s potential suitors ran it over trying to impress her. The memory still angered Cindaria.

Maybe her constitution that day was to blame. It hadn’t happened since, after all. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t attend the fete.”

“Your evil stepmother locked you in the tower?”

You have the right of it.

“I suspect your faery godmother waited for a more auspicious time. The more to make you breathtaking tonight.”

Breathtaking? Me? In this costume? “You’ve mistaken me for Cinderella, sir. That would be the pretty young lady we left behind with the children.”

“No, I think Cinderella is herself one of tonight’s wallflowers.”

What to say to that? “Let me decipher you, sir, since you’ve taken your turn at me.”

His laugh thrilled her. “By all means. What do you think my story is, Miss Pumpkin?”

Miss Pumpkin’s sister wasn’t the only one with charm. Spencer wondered how much Miss Pumpkin resembled the young Cinderella. They shared the same face shape; dare he say even the same ears? The elder possessed a sadder air than her sister. He wondered why.

“You are the queen’s hunter, out for the blood of London’s villains.”

“You won’t shun me if I’m a working man?”

“It is the unseen middle and lower classes that make London the brilliant jewel of the empire that it is, sir.”

“You’re a radical. Shocking!”

“Well, Mr. Mould, I don’t mean to be.”

“Mould?”

Miss Pumpkin’s steps faltered. “That’s what you wrote on my dance card.”

Spencer did his utmost to hide his amusement. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to read my handwriting.”

“Nonsense. Your penmanship was beyond perfection.”

No, it wasn’t, usually. Why would tonight be any different? “Would you vouch for me to my colleagues then? They’d disagree.”

They continued to dance as Spencer attempted to glean more about his dance partner. Many young women knew this dance, and he’d gone through many a quadrille partner at many dances over the years. But he didn’t recall one so concerned with her sister as this one. From time to time, he noticed her gaze straying to the sidelines. So he thought it the best subject to break the ice. “What is it about our little Cinderella that inspires such devotion?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your charge. She’s a lively little thing. You were kind to bring her.”

Miss Pumpkin drooped. “You mean because she won’t be dancing.”

“On the contrary, I thought I’d take her for a whirl, after our set.”

“You did?” Miss Pumpkin brightened. “I know she would enjoy that. But it will require a bit of fortitude. She … can’t truly dance.”

“Not if I judge your stamina rightly. Or does Cinderella weigh more than she seems to?” Before he gave Miss Pumpkin a chance to answer, he barreled on. “You’re right. I’d better include you both in the dance. It would only be fair to you, as well.” When was the last time he’d seen a child like this at a ball? He couldn’t remember. Maybe the sisters never ventured into society. Families with disabled children rarely flaunted them here. What a shame, if they hid such lively ones as Miss Pumpkin’s sister. At least, he guessed that might be why Miss Pumpkin hesitated to allow her to dance.

Miss Pumpkin had a similar style to many young women he encountered in the past. Dark eyes, with a definite olive tone to her skin made her stand out among them. And she possessed a generosity to her that he rarely saw. Who was this young woman? Was she a member of the Lake family or the Robinson family?

The unmasking would happen at midnight, but curiosity was killing him.

Perhaps there was another way to abate that curiosity. “With whom do you like to spend your time, Miss Pumpkin?” Did they have mutual acquaintances in the ton?

“I spend most of my time, when I’m not taking care of my sister, with Miss Winifred Clankton.”

Ah, the Clankton family. She looked nothing like the family, but perhaps she was one of their inner circle. She must be a … Broadchurch. “I believe I know your father, Miss Pumpkin.”

“How can you?”

“From mutual circles.”

“None that I can think of. If so, I’d know you.”

He took a chance and leaned close to her ear. She smelled of dust and old lavender. “Ah, so you’ve seen through my disguise?”

She said nothing, but pulled away.

He sought a quick remedy and found only apology. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry. Tell me, who are your favorite poets?”

Miss Pumpkin relaxed a little.

The song ended. Spencer bowed to his partner and escorted her back to her sister’s alcove. “May I get you and Cinderella some refreshment, Miss Pumpkin?”

She hesitated, and scanned the crowd.

“No, you’re right. We don’t need it.” Spencer took the initiative and the chair next to her sister. “Well then, shall I fill out your dance card, Cinderella?” The girl was charming enough, but would she trust him for a dance? It didn’t seem so, to see how she kept to her chair. What a pity that the child might have to turn down any offer of a dance from a younger gentleman. “If you have no space for me on your dance card—” He scanned the crowd and spotted a little boy of one of his brother’s mutual acquaintances. The child had long ago learned to handle a cane better than most able-bodied dandies. “—might I suggest that little scamp?”

“I—” The little girl sized him up as if trying to decide if he was making some cruel joke.

“I assure you he would put any potential dance partner here to shame.”

Miss Pumpkin’s gaze hardened.

Spencer held up a hand. “Just a moment. I shall introduce you.” Leaving the two girls like this might be a hazard. But to bring some joy to the young girl’s night—and for a chance at another dance with her escort, it was worth the trouble.

Spencer searched through the crowd, and found Charles with some young boys. A few looked like they were about to play ball with one of the host’s precious crystal vases. “Charles.”

His brother straightened.

“Charles, come with me. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Charles stared up at him. “Why?”

“To give you a chance to redeem yourself. She’s a nice girl, who needs more charity than you.” He looked to Charles’s companion. “And you, leave by the side door now, and be home when I drop by to check on you tonight.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’ve had your fill of the ball.” As the boys melded into the crowd, Spencer set Charles on his course.

“Ow, you don’t have to pull!”

“If I don’t, will you be the polite gentleman on your own?”

“I’ll dance with whoever you want. Just leave me arm in its place.”

Spencer placed himself at eye level with Charles, which didn’t require as much bending as it did the year before. When did that happen? “I want your word that you’ll be the soul of kindness to this girl. Make her forget dancing.”

“Why don’t you want her to dance?”

“You’ll see if you follow me.”

“My, how mysterious. You would puzzle even Sherlock ‘olmes.”

“Holmes.”

“What did I say?”

Spencer glared at him. “You’ll be the gentleman Barnaby and I have taught you to be. Just for tonight. Please.”

“I don’t see why I should.”

“You will.” Spencer bid him to keep going and soon found the alcove Miss Pumpkin and Cinderella waited in.

It was empty, but for two young ladies, about Miss Pumpkin’s age. He bowed to them and excused himself.

“Can I go now?” Charles asked.

Spencer scanned the ballroom. Where the devil did she go? 

Synopsis:

When Cindaria Hethrope and Mr. Spencer Moreland collide, the collision destroys a precious gift for her ailing sister. Her nasty stepmother won’t purchase another, so Cindaria has no choice. She must agree when Spencer offers to procure it for her, even if it means traveling outside London with him to meet the creator. All Spencer wants is to clear his debt to the infuriating Cindaria, and forget the horrid, no good day he had less grace than an earl’s son should have. Then maybe he can put this girl behind him and find the charming beauty who stole his heart at a recent masked society ball.

If only he had a glass slipper to prove what his heart tells him is true…

Setting: London, 1890

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