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the
craven used anonymity to insult and impugn.
    But he didn’t know who Lady Whistledown was, and he
suspected no one ever would, not in his lifetime, anyway, so he had to
content himself with taking out his foul mood on everyone else with
whom he came into contact.
    Which meant that he was probably going to owe his valet a rather large apology on the morrow.
    He tugged at his cravat as he navigated the
too-crowded ballroom at the home of Lady Hargreaves. He couldn’t refuse
this invitation; to do so would have given too much credence to Lady
Whistledown’s words. Better to brazen it out and laugh it off and take
some solace in the fact that he wasn’t the only one savaged in this
morning’s edition; Lady W had devoted a fair bit of space to five
guests in total, including the poor beleaguered Miss Martin, whom the
ton would surely turn upon, as she was merely Lady Neeley’s companion
and not, as he had already heard someone say, one of their own.
    Besides, he’d had to come tonight. He had already
accepted the invitation, and furthermore, every eligible young miss in
London would be in attendance. He couldn’t let himself forget that
there was a purpose to his presence in town. He could not afford to
finish the season without a betrothal; as it was, he could barely
manage to pay the rent on his humble bachelor lodgings north of Oxford
Street.
    He imagined that the fathers of those marriageable
misses might view him a little more carefully tonight, and several
would not allow their daughters to associate with him, but hiding at
home would, in the eyes of society, be tantamount to admitting guilt,
and he would be far better off acting as if nothing had happened.
    Even if he wanted rather desperately to put his fist through the wall.
    The worst of it was that the one person with whom
he absolutely couldn’t associate was Tillie. She was universally
acknowledged as the season’s biggest heiress, and her good looks and
vivacious personality had made her quite the catch indeed. It was
difficult for anyone to pay court to her
without being labeled a fortune hunter, and if Peter were seen to be
dangling after her, he would never be rid of the stain on his
reputation.
    But of course Tillie was the one person—the only person— he wanted to see.
    She came to him in his thoughts, in his dreams. She was smiling, laughing, then she was serious, and she seemed to understand him, to soothe him with her very presence. And he wanted more. He
wanted everything; he wanted to know how long her hair was, and he
wanted to be the one to release it from the prim little bun at the nape
of her neck. He wanted to know the scent of her skin and the exact
curve of her hips. He wanted to dance with her more closely than
propriety allowed, and he wanted to spirit her away, where no other man
could even gaze upon her.
    But his dreams were going to have to remain just
that. Dreams. There was no way the Earl of Canby would approve of a
match between his only daughter and the penniless younger son of a
baron. And if he stole Tillie away, if they eloped without her family’s
permission…. Well, she’d be cut off for certain, and Peter would not
drag her into a life of genteel poverty.
    It wasn’t, Peter thought dryly, what Harry had had in mind when he’d asked him to watch out for her.
    And so he just stood at the perimeter of the
ballroom, pretending to be very interested in his glass of champagne,
and rather glad that he couldn’t see her.
    If he knew where Tillie was, then he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from watching for her.
    And if he did that, then he’d surely catch a
glimpse of her. And once that happened, did he really think he could
take his eyes off her?
    She’d see him, of course, and their eyes would
meet, and then he’d have to go over to offer his greetings, and then
she might want to dance….
    It occurred to him in a sharp flash of irony that he’d left the war precisely to avoid the threat of torture.
    He might