Their eyes locked for an electricity-charged instant. For that timeless moment, he looked stunned. Stricken to his core. Maggie saw the emotion in his eyes, as plain as anything. But as quickly as it manifested, it was gone, lost beneath an air of glacial reserve.

He waltzed Miss Steele past, his attention once again fixed firmly on his partner’s face. He even smiled at her, though there was nothing of warmth about his expression.

Maggie looked after him for the space of a heartbeat before forcibly turning her attention back to Jane. It wouldn’t do to publicly pine after the season’s most eligible bachelor. Not when the entire fashionable world knew that he’d recently fought a duel with Fred. It would only spark further gossip.

“Has Harold returned?” Aunt Harriet asked, blinking owlishly about the ballroom. “He promised to take me into supper.”

Harold Trumble was Jane’s father. Aunt Harriet frequently mistook the younger generation for those who had come before them.

Maggie didn’t bother to correct her. “He’s in the gaming room playing cards, ma’am. I’m certain he’ll be here soon.”

The final notes of the waltz sounded, with St. Clare and Miss Steele ending their dance at the far side of the ballroom. Maggie could no longer see them through the crush of people.

She didn’t want to see them.

Though she’d resolved to keep her countenance, she didn’t think her heart could bear to witness St. Clare escorting his comely young partner into supper.

“Aunt Harriet.” George appeared out of the crowd, a little short of breath. He came to stand in front of his aunt. “Are you ready to go down to supper.”

“Yes, yes. I’m famished.” Aunt Harriet took George’s arm.

“Miss Honeywell?” He offered his other arm to Maggie.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I must have some fresh air. I feel a trifle light-headed.”

When Jane returned with her partner, she offered to accompany Maggie outside. “It will be no trouble at all.”

“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “I’m fine on my own.”

“But if you’re going out into the garden—”

“I won’t venture that far,” Maggie promised. “I’ll only step outside onto the terrace for a bit, and then I’ll come and join you. You’ll scarcely notice my absence.”

As her friends and the rest of the guests made for the dining room, Maggie pressed toward the opposite end of the ballroom. Glass-paned doors led out onto a wide stone terrace. A liveried footman opened one of them for her.

She passed through and kept walking until her hands found the cool edge of the railing. Lit by torches, the terrace looked out over an expansive tiered garden. No one else seemed to be about. Except for a few lingering servants tidying up in the ballroom, she was alone.