Oh dear, he was doing it again. Staring at her. She darted behind a potted palm praying no dirt would mar the pristine condition of her white ball gown. A quick glance from behind a particularly large leaf told her she was still the object of his attention. Drat, she’d never accomplish a single goal if that man insisted on marking her with his attentions. Although, admittedly, she’d done her fair share of staring at him.

      She’d first caught sight of him last week at the Fauntley rout and smiled graciously, before she’d known who he was, of course. Once he’d entered the room, it was as though all the other eligible bachelors faded into the walls, leaving only him. She’d gazed at his tall, broad form and dark hair in raptures. At last, a newcomer to the Ton. A man who wouldn’t know her reputation and scorn her at once.

      Unfortunately, the whispers of his reputation quickly circled the ballroom, filling her heart with disappointment. Who cared if he was a Marquis? With his tarnished name, he may as well have been a chimney sweep for all the good he’d do her. With a silent prayer to be left alone, she shrank behind the plant again and counted the minutes until the evening’s end.

      “What about that one?” Pierce gestured to the woman hiding behind a plant, a woman he’d been discreetly tracking since last evening. He seemed to have some sort of special awareness when it came to her, for once he’d seen her all other debutantes faded in comparison.

      She appeared older than the rest of the innocent chits circling the ballroom like cats hunting mice. Mice, of course, being eligible bachelors.

      “No. Absolutely not. You don’t want her,” Adam, Viscount Ryder, said.

      “Why not? What’s wrong with her? She appears to be the right age, and if she has the sense to avoid gossipy old biddies here by hiding, then she shows a modicum of intelligence lacking in every other lass I’ve spoken to tonight.” His exasperation rose. Day one of his wife search had extended into week one and was now hovering on week two. Damn, how hard could it be to find an eligible miss, get the papa’s permission, marry her and beget an heir? Apparently more difficult than foreseen.

      His prolonged absence from good societal events had ensured his reputation had sunk to a tattered ruin. Furthermore, his frequent attendance at events lacking in all propriety buried it even more than a mudlark’s boots. Few fathers and even fewer mamas seemed willing to let their daughters take a turn around the dance floor, let alone marry him.

      “Don’t let the white fool you. She’s no innocent,” Ryder said with a scowl on his face. “And besides, she appears to be hiding from you.”

      Pierce snorted. “You deride her innocence with such disdain as if you’ve never dallied in a lady’s bed. While I’m intrigued by the notion of taking a woman’s virginity, as it is the one sin I’ve yet to commit, I do not require my wife to be a virgin.”

      “Marriage to Lady Helene Sayer will do nothing to repair your reputation, nor gain you entrance into the best Ton homes,” Ryder said.

      Pierce remained silent. He’d allowed Ryder to imagine his marriage hunt was an attempt to mend bridges with good Ton, but in reality, his search for a wife and desire to procreate was simply fulfillment of a deathbed promise to the one decent woman he’d ever known, his mother. He assumed he’d be like his father and abandon his wife at his estate and come back to London. Back to the days filled with gaming and drinking at his disreputable club and nights fucking a myriad of nameless, faceless women and the occasional man. He took a step toward the potted palm and Lady Helene. “Introduce me. I wish to dance with her.”

      He ignored the groan that emerged from Ryder and continued on his path.

      Oh, Lord. He was actually coming closer. Helene’s heart pounded a rhythm faster than the country dance currently in progress. A glance behind her revealed neither escape, nor another human for whom Lord Brandford could possibly be headed. Suddenly aware of the ridiculous picture she made, Helene stood to her full height and pretended the blazing candelabra on the post in front of her was of sudden fascination. Perhaps if he thought her daft, he would bypass her altogether.

      No, of course her luck had abandoned her this evening, and, in fact, had done so long before. Not for the first time, she wished for some sort of magical carpet or contraption that would transport her three years past. Back to when she was the belle of every ball and eligible bachelors threw proposals at her feet. Before a wild whim led her to assuage her curiosity about her own desires.

      But no such magic existed, and here she was, firmly on the shelf and a laughingstock to boot. So, of course, the villain of the Ton would seek her out. He probably assumed she was just like him based on her degrading reputation. Well, she refused to succumb without a fight. If Lord Brandford thought to pull her into the muck alongside him, he had another think coming.

      She’d done nothing to even allow a whisper of scandal near her in three years, and sometimes she thought she saw some progress. There were certainly fewer whispers behind fans and fewer indecent proposals from supposedly decent gentleman. However, if her name became in any way connected to Lord Brandford, all her hard work would be for naught. All the pointed fingers, snide remarks and direct cuts would be placed in her path again. Permanently.

      And then he was upon her, accompanied by Lord Ryder, who was still accepted in most ballrooms, though his reputation bordered on being unacceptable.

      “Lady Helene, may I present Lord Pierce Brandford?” Lord Ryder swept a neat bow in her direction.

      She swiveled her head, praying her father would come rescue her as she’d seen most parents do when Lord Brandford approached their precious daughters. No such luck for her, of course. Father remained hidden away at the gaming tables in a distant room, not caring about his daughter’s reputation. Only that she not embarrass him further.

      “A pleasure, sir.” She faced her unwanted visitors again and extended a gloved hand and bobbed a miniscule curtsy as a screaming hint for the two men to leave her.

      “Lady Helene.” Lord Brandford bowed over her hand and gave a gentle, yet delicious, squeeze to her fingertips. A hint of humor winked in his eye, and he showed no concern for her clear resistance to his presence. “May I please have the honor of the next dance?”

      Time froze as she mentally rolled through excuses to absent her from further contact with this wicked lord. It was currently raining buckets outside, so she could not express a wish for fresh air, and that would only gain an unwanted escort to the balcony. Would they believe her father was looking for her? Before she could tell him she needed to use the ladies’ retiring room, he’d grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the center of the room where couples were finishing up a set.

      Helene had managed to catch snippets of Brandford’s misdeeds circling the opera house like wildfire when he dared put in an appearance at a performance a few evenings past. It had not helped that several of the female performers had winked and waved at him as the curtain fell to close the first act. And now the blackheart wanted to dance with her.

      To her horror the