Page 49 of Gentleman Jim

She went still, a shiver tracing its fingers down her spine.

It was St. Clare.

Maggie sensed him before she saw him, too afraid to turn and look lest he disappear in a puff of smoke. Indeed, it seemed like another dream. As if she’d conjured him out of the ether. A manifestation of her unrequited longing.

But he was no dream. He came to stand beside her at the rail, his body big and warm and breathtakingly real. His arm brushed hers. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Nor should you,” she said with creditable calm. “Your partner will be waiting for you.”

“Miss Steele? She’s seated quite comfortably in the dining room. Lord Mattingly is looking after her.”

“I wasn’t aware Lord Mattingly was here.”

“He’s been in the card room. As have I, until the waltz.”

“Ah yes. The waltz. You dance it very well.”

He brushed the back of his knuckles over the small expanse of exposed skin that resided between the bottom of her sleeve and the top of her elbow-length glove. “I’d rather have been dancing it with you.”

Butterflies fluttered wildly in Maggie’s stomach. That anyone’s touch should have such an effect on her! “You might have been. If you’d asked me.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here. You said that you no longer attended balls.”

“I don’t. That is, I haven’t. Not since my illness. But Madame Clothilde made this dress for me, and I thought—if there was a chance that you and I—” She stopped herself.

“You look beautiful this evening. You always look beautiful.”

“How kind of you to say so,” she replied dryly. “And how spontaneous.”

“I mean it. I’ve never known any lady who shines as brightly as you do. When I saw you in the ballroom—”

“You may keep your compliments. Save them for Miss Steele, or whoever else you—”

“Miss Honeywell.” His voice deepened. “Maggie.”

“Don’t.”

“I want to explain. About Miss Steele. About my absence these past days. There are things you don’t understand.”

“Undoubtedly,” she said. His fingers fell from her arm. She felt the loss of his touch too keenly for words.

“My grandfather has very specific plans for my life. He doesn’t allow for any deviation. And I have deviated since coming to London. First by dueling, and then by paying court to you.”

At last she looked at him. “He classes courting me in the same column as dueling?”

St. Clare’s brows lowered. “Unfortunately, yes.” He paused. “My grandfather’s concern—his sole concern—is securing the title with as little talk as possible. He wants me to marry and sire an heir. It’s the only thing he can think of.”

“What about you?”

His mouth quirked. “All I can think of is you.”

Maggie’s chest constricted on a pang of unutterable longing. She so wanted to believe him. “I’d never know it. It’s been, what? Three days since I saw you last? Four?”

“And every one of them a misery.”

“Please do me the courtesy of being honest. You haven’t been miserable. You’ve been squiring Miss Steele about. All of London is talking about it. Even this evening, when you were waltzing—”

“That wasn’t real,” he said. “None of it’s real.”