A Ballroom Temptation Read online

  Titles by Kimberly Bell

  A Convenient Engagement

  A Dangerous Damsel

  A Ballroom Temptation

  A Ballroom Temptation

  Kimberly Bell

  INTERMIX

  NEW YORK

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Kimberly Bell

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN: 9781101991282

  First Edition: April 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Titles by Kimberly Bell

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The Carolina coastline grew more and more distant as Adam watched from the ship’s railing. He hadn’t bothered when they were leaving port. Adam hadn’t enjoyed the bustle and noise of a city for years now, but—once they’d sailed far enough out to give a view of the labyrinth of inlets and islands he’d come to love—he’d come up to the deck to say good-bye.

  Crumpled in his fist was the letter he’d received from his father. It wasn’t long. They’d never had much to say to each other—especially not since he’d sent Adam away in exile—and the Marquess of Clairborne didn’t mince words. Not even when he was turning his son’s entire life upside down.

  The land has been sold. Come home at once.

  Five words that ruined everything Adam had spent the last ten years building. Four that sent him into a fury. The marquess might as well have disowned him for all the help Adam had received since being banished to the colonies, and now he claimed the right to once again order Adam about like a pawn on a chessboard?

  The tittering of female laughter floated toward him on the breeze. Adam looked over to realize he’d gained the attention of two female passengers posted farther down the railing.

  “. . . can’t be a native. Look at his blond hair . . .”

  “. . . dressed like a gentleman, but his skin is so brown . . .”

  Adam looked down at his hands. They were browned from the sun—from long days spent working the land and earning the respect of the men who worked with him. For him. What would happen to those men? To his neighbors? To his friends? There had been no notice. Just a curt letter, and suddenly the place that had been his home since his eighteenth birthday wasn’t his any longer.

  He blamed himself. Adam knew what the old man wanted. There had been other letters from his stepmother over the years suggesting he come home. Letters suggesting it was past time he find a wife. Adam had never expected they would sell the land out from under him to force it.

  If he’d had anything of his own, he would have stayed. But, like a dutiful son, like a fool, he’d stayed true to the pretense they’d used when they sent him away. He was in the Carolina holdings to manage the family interests. For ten years, Adam had kept up the lie. After the first year, when he’d fallen in love with the land and having a purpose, it had become the truth.

  Adam’s letter hadn’t been the only one his father had sent, just the last one. By the time it arrived, all of the accounts and lines of credit had been frozen. All of the profits he’d accumulated were trapped in the family accounts, and he was banned from accessing them. Even his passage back to London had been paid in advance through a third party. If he weren’t so angry, Adam might admit that it was cleverly done.

  He had no choice but to go home, but he’d be damned if he would stay. Whatever it took, Adam would find a way to get the land back and return. He wouldn’t betray the trust of the men he’d worked beside for a decade. The Marquess of Clairborne might not flinch at uprooting honest men in a ploy to bring his son to heel, but Adam wasn’t about to sit by and be reckless with their lives. He wasn’t the same boy that had left England ten years ago.

  “The female passengers seem quite taken with you, Lord Wesley.” The captain came to stand beside Adam at the rail. They’d made open water, and his expertise was no longer required at the helm.

  “If they know what’s good for them, they’ll recover from it quickly.”

  The captain gave him a sideways look. “You’re not interested in the attention of beautiful women?”

  “No,” Adam said. That was how the whole trouble had started in the first place.

  • • •

  Jane was blind, trapped in complete darkness. A boot heel sounded against the stone to her right. Her head snapped to follow it. The air just behind her left ear moved. She spun that direction. A shove to her shoulder knocked her off balance, and she flailed into the unknown, coming up with a fistful of . . . settee cushion?

  A chuckle came from across the room. It echoed through the high-ceilinged parlor of Dalreoch Castle.

  “I know that was you, Charlie.” Jane righted herself.

  “It’s not Blind Man’s Buff without the buff.”

  “You don’t have to shove so hard.” Jane fumbled a circumspect path in his direction.

  Parlor games had been a regular diversion in the Bailey house growing up. Jane knew from experience that her brother couldn’t resist teasing her, especially when she pouted. If she kept him talking long enough, she could corner him and claim her victory.

  Suddenly, a swish of skirts was heard perilously close to her location. She leapt in their direction, crying out with triumph when her hand closed around a silk-clad shoulder. Jane pulled the blindfold off to see who she had caught.

  “Damnation,” Hannah cursed. “I’m slow as an oxcart.”

  “You’re with child,” Jane soothed.

  Hannah rubbed the small of her back. “Well it’s exceedingly inconvenient. How is a person supposed to do anything swelled up to the size of a house?”

  “They’re not supposed to do anything. They’re supposed to take their husband’s sage advice and spend the ordeal in blessed repose while adoring clansmen wait on them hand and foot.” Lord Rhone did not look up from the chess game he was engaged in with his cousin, Lord Dalreoch.

  “I’m not going to lie about enceinte for the better part of a year,” Hannah argued with her husband, not for the first time. “Not anytime, but certainly not through my very f
irst Christmas celebrations.”

  “I don’t blame you, dear.” Aunt Mathilda climbed down from the armchair she had been standing on.

  Charlie stepped out from behind a suit of armor. “Thank God. I was running out of ideas.”

  Lady Dalreoch and her brother, Tristan, hopped down from the windowsills.

  “Does this mean I won?” Fiona, Lord Rhone’s younger sister, rolled out from under the settee.

  Jane gaped at them. “Was everyone cheating except Hannah?”

  Her friend Hannah blushed, inspecting an invisible wrinkle in her skirts. “I tried to climb the windowsill, but Deidre beat me to it.”

  “For your own safety,” Lady Dalreoch said.

  “You’re all horrible,” Jane declared. “I refuse to play any more games with you, because you do not play fair.”

  Mathilda patted her niece on the shoulder. “It’s probably not wise for us to blindfold a pregnant woman and send her crashing into the furniture anyway. Why don’t we call the game and enjoy drinks around the fire?”

  Oh good, more drinking. Because they hadn’t done enough of that already. Honestly, between the cheating and the whiskey they might as well be spending Christmas at a dockside pub.

  “Why don’t we each open a present instead?” Jane suggested.

  “Can we?” Fiona asked. “I want Gavan to open mine.”

  It was agreed that they would all exchange one present—over drinks, of course—and the gathering broke apart to go claim their chosen presents from where they were hidden. They couldn’t be displayed in a pile, like any normal Christmas. Not with this lot. They had to be hidden to ensure no one peeked.

  “While they’re gone, there’s something I need to tell you,” Charlie told her ominously.

  “What is it?”

  He took her hands, leading her to the settee and replacing the cushion. “I think you should sit down.”

  “All right.” She sat. “Tell me.”

  “I invested all the money we’ve made working for Lord and Lady Rhone,” Charlie announced.

  Her brother at least had the courtesy to look sheepish. Seven years ago their father had invested the family fortune to the hilt, losing it all when the South Sea Bubble burst. Jane hadn’t explicitly told Charlie not to invest the money she made as a companion—she hadn’t felt comfortable telling him what to do with it when he had been supporting her all these years—but quite frankly she had assumed he would know better.

  Jane sighed. It wasn’t the end of the world. She wished he hadn’t done it, but they each had secure positions with Hannah and Lord Rhone. “We’ll make it back, Charlie. It will be all right.”

  “Make it back? You’ve got it all wrong. We made a killing.” He leaned close, willing her to understand. “I did it, Jane. We don’t have to work anymore. I can become a gentleman of leisure. You can have a real season—not like the mess we made of the last one. Hell, we might even be able to reopen the house in Sussex!”

  It took a moment for what he was saying to register. When it did, Jane was consumed with a rising dread. A real season in London—with everyone looking at her. With everyone talking about her first season and the way they’d left halfway through in disgrace. What if she saw Geoff? She couldn’t. She couldn’t do it.

  “That’s wonderful, Charlie,” she lied.

  “Isn’t it though?” he exclaimed. “I’ve already broken the news to Aunt Matty, but I’m sure you two will need to do all sorts of womanly planning that I don’t know about.”

  “Surely it can wait until Mother and Father come home.” Relief settled over Jane like a blanket. Lord and Lady Bailey were living rough out in the colonies, pursuing fortune and adventure. It would take months for word to reach them and for them to travel back to England.

  “I wrote them this summer. Father was on about some sort of issue with the corn and a hard winter? They said they’re not sure when they’ll have time to make it back, so we should proceed without them.”

  “Oh.” Just like that the relief drained away. “I might be too old, Charlie. It’s been so long . . .”

  “You’re four and twenty. It’s not the usual, certainly, but you’re hardly on the shelf.” Charlie looked at her, puzzled. “You’re happy about this, aren’t you, Janey?”

  She pasted a very convincing smile on her face. “Of course I am. I’m just . . . in shock is all.”

  He jumped, too excited to sit still. “I told you I’d do it. I told you I’d get our lives back.”

  “Yes, you did.” Jane needed to get out of the room, away from his excitement, before the walls started closing in on her. “I’ll just go tell Aunt Matty you’ve told me.”

  She left her brother grinning like a lunatic and went upstairs to her aunt’s room.

  As soon as Mathilda saw her, her aunt put down the present she’d been digging out of the armoire. “He’s told you, then.”

  Jane nodded.

  “Jane, dear, if you don’t want to go to London, tell him.”

  Jane shook her head. “I can’t. He’s so proud of what he’s done. And it’s wonderful. It truly is.”

  “You’re white as a sheet just from the news. If you don’t tell him—”

  “No,” Jane said. She straightened her spine. “I won’t ruin this for him. I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’ll manage. I always do.” She would. Somehow.

  • • •

  Twenty-two days at sea. With favorable winds and a bit of luck, it was one of the fastest crossings the captain had managed. Adam did not feel lucky. The reek and noise of the city made his head hurt as they made slow progress toward the dock at Billingsgate harbor. If they could have been blown off course, turning up on some unnamed shore, it would have suited him much better. Instead, they’d made it swiftly and safely back to England—just as his father wanted.

  Adam waited as long as he could, letting the other passengers and crew laden with cargo off before him, but eventually there was nothing else to do but shoulder his luggage and disembark. He made his way toward the coach, waiting a short way from the dock.

  He dropped his trunk with a thud in front of the groom.

  “Oi, what are you—Lord Wesley?”

  “The very same. You look well, Ben.”

  “Thank you, my lord. You look . . .” The groom searched for the words.

  Adam grinned. “Rustic?”

  “A bit, aye.” Ben grinned back. “Shall we get you home?”

  “If we must.”

  Ben strapped Adam’s luggage to the carriage, and they were off. Adam thought about asking whether they were headed for the London house or one of the country estates, but he realized it didn’t matter. Even if he had an opinion on the subject, he didn’t really have a say. When they stayed on course for St. James’s Square, he had his answer. He would be confined to London for the immediate future.

  As they turned onto Charles Street, Adam was given a momentary stay of execution in the form of a broken-down carriage. It had been in the process of making the turn onto the square and was expertly blocking both sides of the lane.

  Adam’s driver hollered something obscene to the offending vehicle, whose driver hollered back in kind. Apparently their axle had cracked on the cobbled streets, and they were still rounding up the men to get it moved out of the way.

  “Sorry, m’lord. We’ll go round to the York Street entrance. Won’t take but a minute.”

  “Nonsense,” Adam said, getting out of the carriage under protest from the driver. “We’ll help.”

  He’d been cooped up in the coach for almost an hour while they made their way through the noise and traffic of the city. Adam would not squander the opportunity to stretch his legs and work off some tension doing honest labor before seeing his father.

  Ben
came to the driver’s aid. “We can do that. The house is just right there. Why don’t you walk over and we’ll—”

  “Ben. I’m going to help move this carriage.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Defeated, Ben went to confer with the driver of the offending carriage.

  They came to an agreement. The driver imparted the information to his occupants, and a woman stepped out. She was everything Adam despised about London society. From her cream and honey coloring that had never seen sun without a parasol to the light blue sheen of her completely impractical traveling dress. Of course she’d sat inside, patiently waiting for the universe to right itself. It would never occur to her to try and solve the problem herself. Her only purpose was to be pleasing to the eye, and physical exertion might displace her perfectly upswept hair. But this was exactly the sort of woman Adam’s parents wanted to tie him to for the rest of his life.

  A second woman, a vaguely older copy of the first, stepped down after her. A mother and daughter. Generations of helplessness being bred one after the other. Had it not been for his exile to the colonies, no doubt he would have ended up just like them. Another purposeless fop, out to breed more fops to continue the endless succession. Adam sighed. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “This is highly embarrassing,” the younger woman murmured as Adam approached.

  “Carriages break down, Jane. It’s hardly a national crisis.”

  Adam stopped in front of them. “Good afternoon, ladies. May we be of service?”

  The older of the pair looked him from head to foot. “Indeed you may. Thank you . . .”

  “Adam.”

  Behind him, Ben cleared his throat.

  “Lord Wesley,” Adam corrected.

  The younger woman’s blue eyes went impossibly wide. No doubt he had offended her with his manners or his bared forearms, or perhaps it was just his person in general.

  Her mother’s head dropped politely. “I am Lady Hawthorne, and this is my niece, Miss Jane Bailey.”

  Not her mother, then. With how similar they looked—Adam shook himself. It didn’t matter, and he didn’t care. “Let’s see what can be done about your coach.”