“Well,” Belle declared sharply, “neither is she!”

Back in the side hallway, Emma had landed on the floor in an undignified tangle. Someone had left the side door open, but no candles had been lit in the hallway. As a result, Emma had not seen the doorway until she was right on top of it. She didn’t even try to stifle a groan as she slowly rose to her feet, twisting her neck and limbs to stretch out her aching joints. Absently rubbing her sore backside, she found herself fervently wishing that the Lindworthys had thought to lay down a carpet in the hall.

“You know,” she muttered, continuing the conversation she’d begun with herself in the garden, “it’s fairly clear that Alexander Ridgely is a danger to your health, and you should endeavor to keep far away from him.”

“I heartily agree.”

Emma whirled around in shock and found herself facing an elegantly dressed, sandy-haired man in his late twenties. She recognized him immediately as Anthony Woodside, Viscount Benton.

Emma groaned inwardly. She had met Woodside during the first few weeks of the season and had disliked him instantly. He had been dangling after Belle for over a year and would not leave her alone, despite her obvious efforts to put him off. Emma had tried her hardest to avoid him at subsequent affairs, but oftentimes she simply could not escape a polite dance. There was nothing overtly offensive about him; his manners were nothing if not correct, and he was obviously intelligent. Emma’s low regard for him was a reaction to far more subtle aspects of his character. The tone of his voice, the way he looked at her, the tilt of his head when he surveyed a ballroom—all of this somehow managed to make Emma feel extremely uneasy in his presence. He was a strange man, outwardly courteous to her but at the same time somewhat disdainful of the fact that she was American and did not possess a title. To top it off, Alex seemed to hold him in extremely low regard.

So Emma naturally was not overjoyed to find him facing her in the Lindworthys’ hallway. “Good evening, milord,” she said politely, trying to brush over the obvious fact that she was quite alone, far from the party, and had just literally fallen into the hallway from the garden. She prayed that he had not seen her sprawled on the floor, but one look at his sardonic smile told her that she was not so blessed.

“I trust you are not injured from your fall.”

Emma was exceedingly annoyed to note that he spoke those words to her bosom. She was acutely uncomfortable and longed to tug her dress up, but she would not give the obnoxious viscount the satisfaction of realizing that he unnerved her. “Thank you for your concern, milord,” she said through gritted teeth. “But I assure you that I am perfectly fine. If you’ll excuse me, however, I really must be getting back to the party. My family will be missing me.” Emma started to leave, but he quickly grabbed her upper arm. His grip was not painful, nor was it cruel, but Woodside held her firmly, making it abundantly clear that he did not intend for her to leave anytime soon.

“My dear Miss Dunster,” he said smoothly, his silky voice belying his iron grip on her arm. “I find myself intrigued by your presence in a deserted hallway just now.”

Emma said nothing.

Woodside’s grip tightened slightly. “No sharp comeback, Miss Dunster? Where is that famous wit of yours?”

“My wit is reserved for my friends,” she replied icily.

“And your family?”

Emma blinked, unsure of what to make of that comment.

“I have a feeling, Miss Dunster, that you and I will soon be much closer than mere friends.”

He let go of her arm abruptly, and Emma snatched it back. “If you think that I would deign to—”

Woodside let out a sharp laugh at the hot determination of her voice. “Really, Miss Dunster, I would not flatter myself so, were I you. I grant that you are attractive, but you do lack the breeding that I require in a woman.”

Emma took a step back, wondering if he was speaking about her or a horse.

“I am a Woodside. We may tumble gaudy-haired Americans, but we certainly do not marry them.”

Emma’s free hand shot up to slap his face, but he blocked her blow before it connected.

“Now, now, Miss Dunster, it wouldn’t do for you to antagonize me. After all, once I am married to your cousin, I can easily forbid her to associate with you.”

Emma laughed in his face. “You think Belle will marry you? She can hardly bear to dance with you.”

Woodside tighted his hold on her wrists until Emma could not help but wince from the pain. Her distress pleased him, and his pale eyes glittered dangerously in the dim light of the hallway. Emma lifted her chin stubbornly, and he abruptly let her go, causing her to stumble back a few steps.

“You shouldn’t waste your time with Ashbourne, my dear. He’d never marry the likes of you.” With that, Woodside laughed, executed a smart bow, and disappeared into the darkness.

Emma rubbed her sore wrists, slightly disconcerted by the encounter. She couldn’t remain in the hallway all night, however, and so she started quietly opening and closing doors, searching for a washroom. After about five tries, she found one and scooted inside, shutting the heavy door behind her. A candle had been left burning inside a lantern, dimly lighting the small chamber. Emma groaned as she surveyed the damage in a looking glass. She was a complete mess. She quickly decided that she lacked the necessary skill to fix her hairstyle, so she pulled out all of her hairpins and left them on the counter, figuring the Lindworthys could think whatever they pleased when they found the pile the next day. She picked up the emerald-studded clasp that had originally held her topknot in place and used it to secure the front of her hair on the top of her head, allowing a few fiery tendrils to curl softly about her face.