Betina Krahn by The Soft Touch

French doors that led to the terrace, looking anything but pleased. She stifled a moan and glanced frantically toward the rear salon doorway. There, Louis Pierpont, punch cup in hand, was being detained briefly in the doorway by people who recognized him and offered him greetings.
    What was intended to be a private groan escaped her.
    On her left was Morgan Kenwood … horse czar, country squire, neighbor, and self-appointed fiancé. On her right was Louis Pierpont III … philanthropist, sometime missionary, childhood friend … and self-anointed betrothed.
    There was no time to develop a plan. She was about to be caught between contradictory and onrushing futures—a matrimonial squeeze—and the last thing she needed was to have them collide in front of Baltimore’s elite.
    She needed an obstacle, something big enough to hide behind and mobile enough to drag from the room with her. The only thing at hand was one large and largely annoying Westerner. She regarded her other dreaded options a moment longer … then slid to McQuaid’s side, shoved her arm through his, and steered for the door.
    “I was just on my way out, Mr. McQuaid.”
    He scowled and looked off in the direction of whatever—whoever—had set her fleeing. He must have caught sight of Louis returning. “Where are you leading me? Besides away from your parson?”
    “He’s not a parson. He’s a missionary. And he definitely is not
mine
.”
    “Does he know that?” he asked.
    He must have seen the look Louis gave her, she realized. In addition to McQuaid’s more obvious faults, he was a bit too perceptive to suit her.
    Eager to be out of both his company and his debt, she released his sleeve as soon as they cleared the doorway and entered the main hall. But Morgan’s distinctive baritone drifted through the doorway behind her—“Wait, is that her?”—and she realized that while she might be out of the salon, she wasn’t out of danger. McQuaid’s company and the strains of music floating down the staircase from the ballroom on the second floor seemed her best hope ofavoiding both Morgan and Louis until she could think of a way to leave the party early.
    “Upstairs”—she seized his arm again, scrambling for an explanation of why she was pulling him up the steps with her—“the Vassars have a most marvelous fresco on the ceiling of their ballroom. You simply must see it.”
    “A fresco.” He took the steps, beside her, with long, sure strides. “Heck, yes. Can’t wait to see that. Never miss a
fresco
if I can help it.”
    She glanced up at him through severely narrowed eyes. One corner of his broad, expressive mouth was curled slightly. Insufferable man. He probably didn’t even know what a fresco was. As soon as this interminable evening was over, she was going to see to it that she never crossed paths with him again.
    A spirited country dance was under way in the gaslit ballroom and the music had enlivened conversation as well as feet. It was no surprise to her that heads turned and fans came up to hide whispers as they paused in the doorway. She could just imagine what was being said. He’d rescued her as she arrived, been paired with her at dinner, and now sported her on his arm … it was nothing short of a scandal in the making.
    Anxious at the delay caused by people socializing and blocking the way just inside the door, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder and received yet another jolt. Morgan had started up the steps to the ballroom, but it was the sight of the person behind him that caused her hands to turn to ice in her gloves.
    In growing horror, she stared at another all-too-familiar figure climbing the stairs, dressed in a regal set of men’s evening clothes, negligently donned and worn. One of his cuffs was unfastened, some of his vest buttons and shirt studs were not done, and his silk tie was carelessly lopsided. Reckless dishevelment only seemed to add to rakish,raven-eyed Paine Webster’s magnetic