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and watch Lord Morecombe dance with Damaris and the Cliffe girls. Worse, what if Mrs. Cliffe decided to press him into dancing with the wallflowers, such as Thea? Thea was not about to risk that embarrassment.
    She found a candelabra and lit it, illuminating the room with a soft glow. She was pleased to find a bookshelf on the wall behind the door, and soon she was settled down in a comfortable chair out of sight of the open doorway, engrossed in a book. A few minutes later, there were steps in the hallway, and Thea looked up to see her brother peering cautiously around the door. His expression brightened.
    “Ah, Thea! So you stole away, too? Too noisy by half in there, I thought.” Daniel came farther into the room. “You found a book?” She pointed toward the bookshelf, and he turned. “Ah, excellent.”
    He examined the shelves and chose a tome, then sat down on the chair closest to Thea, the candelabra burning on the table between them. The two of them remained there through the rest of the ball, reading in companionable silence, as they so often did of an evening. Thea glanced over at her brother and smiled fondly. She had a good life, she reminded herself. It was foolish to grow downcast because one arrogant rake had not recognized her. Her life was orderly and unhurried and had purpose. She did not want for anything, and she had friends and family. She could do as she pleased—within the bounds of propriety, of course. There was no reason to be discontented or sad over the behavior of Gabriel Morecombe, whom she would probably never see again, anyway. She would simply forget about him.
“Lord, what a bore!” Alan Carmichael declared as he and Lord Morecombe entered the drawing room of the Priory, followed closely by Sir Myles. Gabriel went straight to the decanters of liquor on the sideboard, and Alan flung himself into one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace, letting out a dramatic groan. “I should have listened to you, Ian, and stayed here.”
    Ian, Lord Wofford, who was stretched out in the other chair, his feet propped on the hassock and a snifter of brandy in one hand, merely lifted an elegant eyebrow. “Told you.”
    “It wasn’t so bad.” Sir Myles propped his elbow on the mantel and grinned at the other men. His eyes, usually twinkling with merriment, and his close-cropped curls were almost the same golden-brown color. Though not as tall as Gabriel, he was powerfully built, with the wide chest and muscular arms that denoted his devotion to the gentlemanly art of pugilism. “There was dancing. Young ladies. And the Squire served a damned fine hot punch back in his smoking room.”
    “Yes, but did you look at the ladies?” Alan countered. “All those Cliffe girls! There must have been ten of them.”
    “Four, I believe,” Gabriel Morecombe offered as he poured healthy amounts of brandy into their glasses. “It only seemed like more because they were so uniformly alike in looks, dress, and general silliness.”
    “I have to endure that sort of rural festivity whenever I am home,” Ian said. “I had no intention of subjecting myself to it here. I shall be eternally grateful that Father sold this place—though I cannot conceive why you agreed to buy it, Gabriel.”
    “Come, now.” Gabriel made an expansive gesture, a smile lighting his handsome features. “Look around you.” He turned and handed their drinks to Alan and Myles. “Where else can I obtain such peace and solitude as I have here?”
    “And such lack of civilization,” Ian drawled.
    “Civilization is overvalued. I far prefer owning a house to which I can retreat without having to deal with tenants and my estate manager or worry about whether I offend my stepmother’s sensibilities.”
    “Well, if you didn’t want obligations, why’d you go to the Squire’s Christmas ball?” Ian asked.
    “A good question.” Gabriel grimaced. “One which I asked myself as Mrs. Cliffe dragged me across the room, introducing me to