curls and winked and blinked from the hearts of countless diamonds. Gowns in a range of brilliant hues swirled as the ladies danced, creating a shifting sea of vibrant plumage contrasting with the regulation black-and-white of their partners. Laughter and conversation blanketed the scene. A riot of perfumes filled the air. In the background a small orchestra strove to deliver one of the most popular waltzes.
Eliza watched as her elder sister, Heather, circled the dance floor in the arms of her handsome husband-to-be, ex-foremost rake of the ton, Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Even if the ball had not been thrown expressly to celebrate their betrothal, to formally announce it to the ton and the polite world, the besotted look in Breckenridge’s eyes every time his gaze rested on Heather was more than enough to tell the tale. The ex-darling of the ton’s ladies was now Heather’s sworn protector and slave.
And Heather was his. The joy in her face, that lit her eyes, declared that to the world.
Despite Eliza’s own less-than-happy state, much of it a direct outcome of the events leading to Heather’s engagement, Eliza was sincerely, to her soul, happy for her sister.
They’d both spent years — literally years — searching for their respective heroes among the ton, through the drawing rooms and ballrooms in which young ladies such as they were expected to confine themselves in hunting for suitable, eligible partis. Yet neither Heather, Eliza, nor Angelica, their younger sister, had had any luck in locating the gentlemen fated to be their heroes. They had, logically, concluded that said heroes, the gentlemen for them, were not to be found within their prescribed orbit, so they had, also logically, decided to extend their search into those areas where the more elusive, yet still suitable and eligible, male members of the ton congregated.
That strategy had worked for their eldest female cousin, Amanda, and, employed with a different twist, for her twin sister, Amelia, as well.
And, albeit in a most unexpected way, the same approach had worked for Heather, too.
Clearly for Cynster females, success in finding their own true hero lay in boldly stepping beyond their accustomed circles.
Which was precisely what Eliza was set on doing, except that, through the adventure that had befallen Heather within minutes of her taking her first step into that racier world — namely being kidnapped, rescued by Breckenridge, and then escaping in his company — a plot to target “the Cynster sisters” had been exposed.
Whether the targets were limited to Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, or included their younger cousins, Henrietta and Mary, no one knew.
No one understood the motive behind the threat, not even what was eventually intended beyond kidnapping the victim and possibly taking her to Scotland. As for who was behind it, no one had any real clue, but the upshot was that Eliza and the other three “Cynster sisters” as yet unbetrothed had been placed under constant guard. She hadn’t been able to set toe outside her parents’ house without one of her brothers, or if not them, one of her cousins — every bit as bad — appearing at her elbow.
And looming.
For her, taking even half a step outside the restrictive circles of the upper echelons of the ton was now impossible. If she tried, a large, male, brotherly or cousinly hand would close about her elbow and yank her unceremoniously back.
Such behavior on their part was, she had to admit, understandable, but … “For how long?” Their protective cordon had been in place for three weeks and showed no signs of relaxing. “I’m already twenty-four. If I don’t find my hero this year, next year I’ll be on the shelf.”
Muttering to herself wasn’t a habit, but the evening was drawing to a close and, as usual at such ton events, nothing had come of it for her. Which was why she was hugging the wall in the screening shadows of the huge palm; she was worn out
Eliza watched as her elder sister, Heather, circled the dance floor in the arms of her handsome husband-to-be, ex-foremost rake of the ton, Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Even if the ball had not been thrown expressly to celebrate their betrothal, to formally announce it to the ton and the polite world, the besotted look in Breckenridge’s eyes every time his gaze rested on Heather was more than enough to tell the tale. The ex-darling of the ton’s ladies was now Heather’s sworn protector and slave.
And Heather was his. The joy in her face, that lit her eyes, declared that to the world.
Despite Eliza’s own less-than-happy state, much of it a direct outcome of the events leading to Heather’s engagement, Eliza was sincerely, to her soul, happy for her sister.
They’d both spent years — literally years — searching for their respective heroes among the ton, through the drawing rooms and ballrooms in which young ladies such as they were expected to confine themselves in hunting for suitable, eligible partis. Yet neither Heather, Eliza, nor Angelica, their younger sister, had had any luck in locating the gentlemen fated to be their heroes. They had, logically, concluded that said heroes, the gentlemen for them, were not to be found within their prescribed orbit, so they had, also logically, decided to extend their search into those areas where the more elusive, yet still suitable and eligible, male members of the ton congregated.
That strategy had worked for their eldest female cousin, Amanda, and, employed with a different twist, for her twin sister, Amelia, as well.
And, albeit in a most unexpected way, the same approach had worked for Heather, too.
Clearly for Cynster females, success in finding their own true hero lay in boldly stepping beyond their accustomed circles.
Which was precisely what Eliza was set on doing, except that, through the adventure that had befallen Heather within minutes of her taking her first step into that racier world — namely being kidnapped, rescued by Breckenridge, and then escaping in his company — a plot to target “the Cynster sisters” had been exposed.
Whether the targets were limited to Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, or included their younger cousins, Henrietta and Mary, no one knew.
No one understood the motive behind the threat, not even what was eventually intended beyond kidnapping the victim and possibly taking her to Scotland. As for who was behind it, no one had any real clue, but the upshot was that Eliza and the other three “Cynster sisters” as yet unbetrothed had been placed under constant guard. She hadn’t been able to set toe outside her parents’ house without one of her brothers, or if not them, one of her cousins — every bit as bad — appearing at her elbow.
And looming.
For her, taking even half a step outside the restrictive circles of the upper echelons of the ton was now impossible. If she tried, a large, male, brotherly or cousinly hand would close about her elbow and yank her unceremoniously back.
Such behavior on their part was, she had to admit, understandable, but … “For how long?” Their protective cordon had been in place for three weeks and showed no signs of relaxing. “I’m already twenty-four. If I don’t find my hero this year, next year I’ll be on the shelf.”
Muttering to herself wasn’t a habit, but the evening was drawing to a close and, as usual at such ton events, nothing had come of it for her. Which was why she was hugging the wall in the screening shadows of the huge palm; she was worn out
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