The music was starting for another waltz and couples moved onto the dance floor, leaving a wary space around Kendra and her partner. Foxton took her arm and escorted her to the sidelines where their hostess was saying good-bye to other departing guests.

Lady Clanton’s mouth tightened when Kendra approached. “I hadn’t realized you were still on my guest list, Lady Denshire.”

Kendra had wondered why she’d received an invitation. “I’m sorry I’ve brought notoriety to your doorstep, Lady Clanton.”

The other woman’s face eased into wry humor. “I should probably thank you. Notoriety enhances a social event.” She turned away to speak to another guest.

Foxton accompanied her to the vestibule, where an efficient footman produced Kendra’s black cloak and Foxton’s hat. After she donned the cloak, she took her escort’s arm and they descended to street level. He asked, “Where do you live? You said it was nearby.”

“Thorsay House. It’s just off St. James, only three blocks away.” Kendra was surprised by how relaxed she felt on his arm. Was it because they had a prior acquaintance, or because he didn’t judge, leer, or despise her? Perhaps both.

Foxton walked like the military officer he’d been: upright, quietly alert to their surroundings, and clearly not an easy victim. She wasn’t afraid of a short walk at night in this part of London, but it was no bad thing to have a capable male escort.

“Thorsay,” he said thoughtfully. “Named for the group of Scottish islands between Orkney and Shetland?”

“Yes, all three of the archipelagos are more Norse than Celtic, though they’re part of Scotland now. Thorsay House belongs to the laird of the islands, and he allows Thorsayians to use it as a sort of boardinghouse when in London. My grandmother was from Thorsay, first cousin to the laird. I spent summers there so I qualify as Thorsayian.” The relaxed, accepting nature of Thorsay House had been a sanctuary in the hell her life had become. “I was grateful to be welcomed at the house when I needed a new home.”

“You were forced out of your marital home?” Foxton asked quietly.

“Yes.” Her voice was stony. That had been the worst day of her life, a raging firestorm whose details blurred in her mind. What she remembered was pain and loss.

Neither of them spoke as they walked the short blocks to Thorsay House. At the bottom of the steps, she paused to pull her key from her reticule.

She was going to offer a polite thank-you for Foxton’s escort when he caught her gaze and said soberly, “Your life has been shattered, Kendra Douglas. Rage and grief are inevitable and likely necessary. But at some point you need to step beyond the anger toward your future. What is possible? What matters most to you, and how can you take the first steps toward achieving that?”