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feigned maidenly offense. “Were you about to kiss me?”
    Some of his suspicion was replaced with embarrassment, much to her relief. “I think I was. How terribly inappropriate of me.”
    She tried not to sigh. Yes, terribly. But he didn’t seem to want to believe she’d been a willing party, so she cast her eyes downward. “You think me fast.”
    “I don’t!” He seemed horrified by the charge, and she felt guilty for befuddling him, but she couldn’t risk him eyeing her with suspicion again.
    He shook his head as if to clear it. “I merely wanted to comfort you, and then I suppose…” He shook his head quickly once more, then stepped back even farther. “I’m not made of brimstone,” he muttered.
    What an odd thing to say.
    “Very well,” she announced, “we didn’t almost kiss. May I have my trunk now? I don’t want to be late for dinner.”
    He continued to look somewhat absent, as though he’d baffled himself with his supposed ungentlemanly behavior. “Of course, Miss Conley. I’ll see to it immediately.”
    He turned and left. As soon as his boot steps muffled down the hallway, Elinor wasted no time hurrying to a narrow wardrobe in one corner of the small room. Rifling through its drawers, she turned up a sewing kit. Just as she’d feared; she was being kept in the servants’ quarters.
    No mind. At least now she had what she needed to alter the bodice of her best frock. When her trunk was finally brought to her, she’d leave Grantham in no doubt that she was, indeed, ready to be kissed.
     

     
    WHEN GRANTHAM went down to dinner a few minutes early, he almost didn’t recognize his own drawing room. The hookahs had been replaced with sprigs of holly. Rather than snifters sticky with remnants of liquor, twinkling candelabras were set about the room. All of the pillows on the chaises were fluffed, rather than strewn about the floor. And the windows had been left open earlier in the afternoon, it seemed, because the stench of the party had been cleared and a chilly bite lingered in the air.
    Lord Steepleton was picking at the thistles of an evergreen bough with practiced ennui. “Do tell us you have a kissing ball, Grantham. At least we should be allowed that diversion.”
    Grantham stiffened. A kissing ball. The perfect excuse to finish what he’d started with Miss Conley. Exactly the reason he wasn’t about to hang one from the door. “We lost it,” Grantham lied, at almost the same time Mrs. Calloway bustled into the room.
    “Here ’tis, my lord, with a fresh sprig of mistletoe on it.” She handed the ball and a tack to Lord Steepleton, who must have asked her to find them. “If you require a footman to hang it, let me know and I’ll have one sent in.”
    Lord Steepleton waved away her offer. “I’ll manage it myself.”
    No sooner had she left than he pulled a chair beneath the door frame and tacked the kissing ball over his head. Grantham frowned. “Chaste kisses only.”
    Steepleton leered at him. “Are you offering?”
    Grantham would have laughed, only he was too concerned by his own outrageous behavior to be amused by Steepleton’s. What had possessed him to hold her close? And then he’d almost kissed her! Why did he have the feeling she’d been more than willing to let him?
    As his guests filtered into the room, he knew he had been right to be concerned about the kissing ball. Soon there were wagers flying over who would kiss whom. Thank heavens there were only four berries on the mistletoe, each allowing one kiss; this torture couldn’t last all night.
    “Where’s your mystery woman?” Tewseybury asked. “I want to see if I ought to be betting on her or not.”
    “Not,” Grantham ground out.
    Tewsey only laughed.
    De Winter drew Grantham’s attention with a beckoning finger. “You’ll want to hear the ladies’ names,” he said when Grantham came over. “Mrs. Fawcett and Miss Bennett you know. This is Miss Sarah Moppet, Mrs. Eells and Cousin Fanny.” He