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time to think as she travelled with her family, plenty of time to recognise the mistakes in her past and to identify what she wanted for her future.
    Mae wanted what everyone else appeared to take for granted. She wanted to be seen for what she was—and appreciated for it. More than anything, she longed for a man who could listen to her spout on about canals—andfind it charming. Even better if he had the intelligence and the confidence to debate or discuss it with her.
    Stephen looked at her and saw only what he expected to see. Mr Fatch and his kind only noticed the things they wished to change.
    Mae set her shoulders. She would put her ankle to the test and take a stroll around the room. Surely, somewhere out there was a man who would find her idiosyncrasies to be delightful, who would view her capabilities as an asset, not as an obstacle. She fixed a smile on her face and set out to find him.

Chapter Three

    M ae Halford’s laugh was a nearly palpable thing. It was a bedroom laugh, intimate and husky. It belonged in the dark, in moments of contented teasing and happy repletion. Out of place in a ballroom, it kept catching Stephen by surprise, destroying his concentration and tempting him to turn his head.
    The Earl of Ryeton, on the other hand, laughed like a donkey.
    Between the two of them, they had Stephen feeling like a damned puppet on a string, his head bobbing from one side of the room to the other, his attention reluctantly bouncing between the man who could help him achieve his dream and the woman he feared could wreck it.
    It was time to get stern with himself. He had to focus on the task—or the man—at hand. He’d done more than a bit of research on the earl. Ryeton was practically a legend in racing, widely acknowledged to own the deepest stables in the kingdom. But beyond hisracing credentials, Stephen had discovered only that the earl gambled at the drop of a hat, had a contentious relationship with his countess and kept a mistress of long standing here in Newmarket.
    He hadn’t heard of the braying laugh before tonight. Or that the man could be so damned elusive.
    Perhaps it was Landry’s assertion of snobbery that explained the earl’s reticence. Perhaps he didn’t approve of the Manning family’s reputation or even of Stephen’s own colourful past. Whatever the case, Stephen was drawing desperately close to the conclusion that the man was
trying
to avoid him.
    The ballroom was crowded, but the two of them were moving in the same circles. Mae’s father was here, too, and he was just one more object to throw into this delicate balancing act. This was more of a circus than a ball, what with Stephen subtly chasing Ryeton, delicately avoiding Barty Halford, and shivering each time Mae’s throaty chuckle floated past.
    If there was one bright spot in this difficult evening, it was the enjoyably single-minded nature of the conversations. In this end of the room, there was only one subject of interest. Horses and racing were what had brought them all together. The air was replete with references to bloodlines, time trials and handicaps. Pratchett’s name was on everyone’s lips and Stephen felt a stab of longing every time he heard it.
    This was his chance. Not for nothing had Stephen lounged for hours with his brother Leo in Welbourne’s stable offices. Just for this moment had he fought exhaustion and stayed awake after a long day’s labour at Fincote, devouring the Racing Calendar and the StudBook. He entered into the debates with fervour, insight and authority and held his own with these men of the turf.
    He saw surprise on some faces—and a grudging respect on others—and his spirits soared. That look meant everything to him. He craved it. He might be a man grown, with burdens and responsibilities and goals, but the shameful truth was that there was still a remnant of the young man he used to be inside him—the one always searching for an audience. Earning a bit of esteem from these men