1. The First Ballroom #2
Kate’s jaw tightened, but before she could respond, Mrs. Henley appeared like a black-clad guardian angel, whisking the Baron away with some manufactured introduction to a visiting dignitary. Kate took the reprieve gratefully, moving toward the refreshment table for a moment’s peace.
She’d just reached for a champagne flute when Mr. Evans—no relation to the Baron, though equally tedious—cornered her, blocking her escape route with the strategic positioning of someone who’d planned this ambush.
“With your father’s health declining, you need a husband’s protection, Miss Sullivan,” he snapped by way of greeting, with the condescending tone of a man explaining the obvious to a child.
Kate felt her patience, already exhausted by the parade of fortune hunters that night, finally evaporate.
“Why must men equate breasts with incompetence?” she asked pleasantly, her smile never wavering even as her words landed like stones. She rolled her eyes while adding, “If I had a shilling for every time one ‘explained’ tides to me—”
Mrs. Henley gasped audibly from right behind her back, her fan snapping shut with an alarmed click.
Kate couldn’t quite suppress her smile. But she hid it with a graceful sip from her champagne flute, watching Mr. Evans sputter and flush over the rim of her glass.
A long, boring half-hour later, Kate stood alone, sipping the last of yet another champagne and surveying the wreckage of her evening’s social obligations.
“There you are, dear,” Lady Rutledge’s voice came from beside her, warm with amusement. “I’ve been watching your campaign all evening.”
Lady Rutledge glided over, pressing a cheek to Kate’s in greeting, lingering just a breath too long, enough for Kate to catch the scent of her perfume.
“Is that jasmine?” Kate asked, perching her nose toward Lady Rutledge to inhale better. “Lovely.”
Lady Rutledge smiled.
“You’ve slain every suitor tonight, darling,” she observed joyfully. “Do you ever leave survivors?”
“Ramsay’s still breathing, unfortunately.” Kate chuckled.
“Poor man. He’s like a parrot—repeats whatever the East India Company tells him.”
Kate laughed again, relaxed for the first time all evening. Here was wit that matched her own, conversation that didn’t begin and end with the assumption of her inferiority.
From the entrance hall, the footman’s voice carried across the ballroom: “Mr. Jason Moore of Devonshire.”
Kate paid no attention at all, too absorbed in the lady in front of her.
Lady Rutledge was in the midst of reducing a preening dandy to dust with a few well-aimed remarks, and Kate found herself almost gleefully captivated.
The woman was a legend—the most scandalous and desirable widow in all of London, a woman who wore her independence like armor and her sharp tongue like a sword.
“Charming,” Lady Rutledge murmured, eyes glinting as she delivered the final cut with masterful delicacy. “For now.”
The woman had a duelist’s grace—one smile, one word, and her opponent was finished.
Kate was still absorb in this delicious spectacle, when a shadow fell across her. An elegant hand, pale, refined, with long, aristocratic fingers, extended a fresh glass of champagne toward her.
“Excuse me, Miss Sullivan,” said a refined male voice. “Might I tempt you with champagne? I find these affairs far more tolerable with something in hand.”
Kate turned toward the voice and the polite refusal she’d been forming died on her lips.
The man before her possessed a beauty that was almost feminine in its refinement, yet undeniably masculine in presentation, a combination that made her blink repeatedly before widening her eyes in astonishment.
She was certain she’d never seen this one before.
His features were delicate but somehow strong, his golden hair was parted cleanly, slicked back with oil, and tied at the nape of his neck, and his green eyes held a sparkling intelligence that seemed to see straight through her.
“I don’t believe I’ve met you…” she began, her voice trailing off as she studied his face with narrowed curiosity.
“Jason Moore, recently arrived from Devonshire,” he said with a slight bow. “I’ve had the pleasure of corresponding with your father regarding potential investment in Sullivan Shipping.”
Kate’s brows lifted in mild surprise. For a brief moment, she hesitated, studying further the elegant stranger before her—the confidence in his tone, the steadiness of his gaze, the hand still offering her the glass.
Then, finally, she accepted the champagne flute.
“Indeed? My father always mentions his correspondents to me.”
Their fingers did not touch as the flute passed from one hand to the other.
“Perhaps because our correspondence has been preliminary,” Mr. Moore said with a graceful tilt of his head. “Though it concerned your Eastern trade routes specifically. I understand you oversee them.”
Kate’s eyes sharpened once more. “How have you come to know that?”
A smile played at the corners of Mr. Moore’s mouth. “I make it my business to know who truly manages the enterprises I might invest in, Miss Sullivan.”
The revelation was everything Kate didn’t expect it to be. Not the usual polite deflection men employed when her work came up before steering conversation back to her beauty, her solitude, her dying father, or the unseemliness of a woman involved in such business.
Here was a man who not only knew of her involvement in the business but had specifically sought her out because of it. This was direct. Intentional.
“You’re unusually well-informed, Mr. Moore,” she said carefully.
“I prefer to deal with the people who actually make decisions,” he replied smoothly. “In my experience, that’s rarely the name on the letterhead.”
Kate met his eyes then, really met them, and found herself briefly unmoored.
Not by admiration or flattery, she’d learned to navigate those waters years ago.
This was something else entirely: the odd sensation of being seen with perfect clarity, neither magnified nor diminished.
He looked at her the way she looked at ledgers, assessing worth, calculating potential, acknowledging what was actually there.
That unsettled her unexpectedly, causing her to sharpen her attention toward her interlocutor.
“And what brings a gentleman like yourself to London society?” she asked with curiosity. “Just business or pleasure as well?” Pleasure, really? Come now, Kate.
Mr. Moore smiled again, showing perfect white teeth this time. “Can they not be one and the same?”
Kate felt the champagne flute grow warm in her hand. She opened her mouth—though what she might have said, she couldn’t be certain—when Mrs. Henley materialized at her elbow like a ship cutting through fog.
“Kate, dear, your father’s associate Mr. Thompson is asking after you.”
The spell fractured. Kate blinked, suddenly aware of the ballroom again: the music, the heat, the press of bodies that had somehow faded during their exchange.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Moore.”
“Of course.” He executed a bow that managed to be both respectful and strangely personal, as though they’d shared something the rest of the room hadn’t witnessed. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sullivan. I hope we see each other again very soon.”
The formality of his words didn’t match the certainty in his voice. Not I hope, more like I expect .
Kate nodded and turned away, letting Mrs. Henley guide her toward the far side of the ballroom. But she’d barely taken three steps before the pull became irresistible.
She glanced back.
He was still watching her . Not with the furtive glances men usually employed, quickly averting their eyes when caught.
No, Mr. Moore held her gaze deliberately, openly, as though he had every right to follow her progress across the room.
That green-eyed attention traveled over her with an intensity that made her skin warm beneath her gown.
Kate turned forward again, her pulse doing something unwelcome.
For the first time ever, she had met a man who intrigued rather than irritated her.
Who spoke to her about trade routes and investment as though her opinions might actually influence his decisions.
Who looked at her not as an oddity to be managed or a prize to be won, but as something valuable and trustworthy.
A question suddenly blossomed in her mind: what did Mr. Jason Moore truly want? And even more unsettling: who, in reality, was this gentleman who had just arrived in London society with such aspirations?
These questions lingered in her mind, leaving her deeply disquieted for the remainder of the evening.