GERARD STARK did not expect to find another soul in that part of the garden, but he did.

He was not certain if he was more surprised than she was because while her eyes widened at the sight of him, she also almost immediately ignored his presence, shamelessly walking past him.

He let out a silent scoff of amusement as he turned, pulled his hands from his pockets, and followed her and the invisible Lady Margaret and her friends.

Hands clasped behind him, his lips twitched into a small smile when she threw him another glance that invited him to move along and disappear.

And so he took hurried, silent steps and squeezed between her and the hedge to their right.

Her eyes followed his movement, her face perfectly impassive.

He offered a small bow of his head as he fell into pace with her and the voices on the other side. The woman's jaw tightened. She did not expect that move, he thought.

"The sister? Why will she be a concern?" asked one of Lady Margaret's friends.

"Come closer. I will tell you what my niece shared with us..."

The lady beside him increased her pace to overtake him and position herself back beside the hedge. Gerard bit his lips, took three long strides, and settled to her left.

He hung his head back in a relaxed fashion, arms behind him, ears focused on the conversation, and eyes slanted to the side to steal his mysterious walking companion a glance.

Any woman who had any sense of propriety would either silently express their horror or scurry away the moment he boldly walked beside her, but this woman was doing none of those. Here he was, a stranger, walking alone with her in a dark garden, and yet she was in no way showing signs of interest. In fact, she seemed to have completely decided that his presence was insignificant enough to threaten her reputation, which made him wonder if she had one to keep at all.

Surely, she did, he quietly thought.

She was in a deep green gown that was in the latest fashion, albeit simple and far less expensive. Her black hair, although not as intricately done like most women inside the ball, was neatly gathered and wrapped in a chignon, leaving him to wonder how long it was or how it would feel between his fingers. Locks of her black hair fell over her forehead in a straight fringe, teasing her eyebrows. Her nose was small and straight. The only telling sign that she was not pleased with his company was her heart-shaped lips that she held tightly closed.

He did not shy away when she turned her head to look at him, while Lady Margaret's friend chanted the many flaws of the sister of the two Worthington men. He may not have seen her brows entirely, but Gerard was certain one was arched as her sea-green eyes locked with his. He could not read the expression on her face, or what her splendid eyes were trying to convey, because for a few seconds, he was entranced. Her lashes were thick, lining her almond-shaped lids. He allowed room for disappointment given that the moon was the only lighting at the moment, but he could somehow tell this woman's face and eyes had more to offer in daylight.

"But she is titled. I am certain that despite your niece's experience, the young Lady Worthington—her mother was the Lady Hartmour, yes? The one who was in that accident?"

"Yes."

Gerard smiled at his companion and she stiffly turned away.

"Well, as I was saying, the young Lady Worthington must have tremendous connections. Should your daughter marry into the Worthingtons, your husband, dear Lady Margaret, may just have a chance in the House of Lords."

They reached another turn. They both stopped. She waited while he checked if the path ahead was clear. With a mocking gallant bow, he spread his arm to the side to let her walk on and she did as though it was ordinary to have a leisurely walk in a dark garden with a stranger while eavesdropping on gossipmongers, all the while pretending to each other that they were not eavesdropping on three women on a marital scheme.

"Both Hartmour and Hargrave are old, prized titles, dear. Their estates are also entailed. I hereby suggest that you go for the eldest Worthington. While waiting to be a marchioness, your daughter can enjoy the title of a countess. Imagine the life it shall offer her and that of your entire family!"

"Good heavens, I blush even as I imagine it," Lady Margaret said with a sigh. "I should seriously consider Mr Stark's service."

Gerard's eyes stayed with the woman, all the while absorbing Lady Margaret's plans with her friends on how to present her brilliant idea to her husband, Baron Stourton.

And then he stopped listening as his senses became more aware of the woman standing a little too close than the acceptable distance. He was here because he luckily heard Lady Margaret speak his name while on his way into the ballroom, and he followed her and her friends here out of curiosity. Now, however, he was also curious about how his silent and odd companion came to be here.

Was she truly just taking a leisure walk in the garden as she was pretending to do?

Or did she have other ulterior motives like him?

"How do you reckon Mr Stark creates his matches?" asked Lady Margaret.

He bent his head as he listened, and he noticed the woman's footwear. Leather with wooden soles. He frowned. Leather shoes and wooden soles?

Who was this woman?

"I heard—and this may be scandalous—that he orchestrates the meetings should his clients wish for the match to feel natural and fated," the voice behind them said. "I heard the parents typically make those requests. As for those who acquire the service for themselves, it can go however they desire."

He looked up and found his companion's sea-green eyes again. If she was appalled by what she heard, it did not show. What he read in her expression, however, as she cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, were plain bafflement and curiosity. She turned to him, maybe also curious about his opinion. He gave a tiny shrug in response.

"That is very conniving and manipulative, almost evil!"

Gerard raised his brows at the woman, silently asking if she agreed. Her answer was a blink and a turn of the head.

Astonished, he realized she did not know she was walking with the subject of the gossip behind the hedge.

Or did she and was only pretending?

The ladies had finally stopped walking and so did Gerard and his companion.

Lady Margaret's friend continued, "But I believe that most matches are made with careful deliberation, making certain that the match is plausible. One lord, they say, has tried to take Mr Stark to the courts because Mr Stark refused to make a match between his son and the daughter of the Duke of Remington."

Gerard had to slowly nod his head for it was true.

"But the duke's daughter is already betrothed."

"Yes!"

"Then there is a fair chance that Mr Stark may oppose a client's idea of a match?"

Again, he nodded.

"Apparently so, yes."

"Then he may oppose to the eldest Worthington?"

He narrowed one eye. He knew Jonathan Worthington, but he may have to find out more. The man was an earl and a future marquess. His standards may be too high.

"Darling," said Lady Margaret's friend, "Mr Stark may oppose to your daughter for both Worthingtons."

For the first time, Gerard saw a reaction from his companion.

She let out a condescending scoff, not too loudly, but loud enough to catch the attention of the three women who immediately fell silent and retreated without another word spoken.

*****

The intruder let out a dramatic sigh. Angela turned to look at him, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second.

At first, she did not think he would stay, but of course, he did.

And he dared walk with her!

And then she thought that he may know her or her brothers. But they both listened to the three ladies talking about her, and she saw no sign at all that he made the connection.

The stranger did not move even after Lady Margaret and her friends left. In fact, he let out a sigh, clearly to catch her attention.

At that point, Angela thought of endless possibilities.

Did he think I endured his presence because I welcomed it? If so, would he dare make an advance? She silently asked, studying the man's appearance.

He was dressed to impress both genders of the elite. His dark blond hair was cut in a Brutus fashion, as most men wore them nowadays; his brows and lips curled in a way that may lure a woman, while his eyes, which appeared to be blue, were filled with amusement and awe.

Is he hoping to predispose me to think he is interested in me? And if I am indeed hoping for it like most normal ladies, will he take it as a chance to entice me to engage in a possible exchange of romantic interest?

It was hard to conclude, but she may be right. After all, she often was.

Angela continued to assess the man's face.

His nose, she realized, told her a different story. It was slightly crooked.

An injury from a fight or an accident. That feature was why she found him dashing, but it also turned him into a dangerous ground for any woman, most particularly one in her station and status. She may not be prone to scandal, but this man could very well be scandal itself.

Although she was secretly interested, she realized that he was too dangerous. She had spent more than enough time with him; she should not test her luck further.

Making her decision, Angela haughtily lifted her chin and took the few initial steps to escape.

"You are quite intriguing."

Angela stopped, hearing his voice for the first time. It was deep with an odd accent. He must be from overseas.

Very dangerous ground, indeed. She took another step, but his additional words, laced with amusement, stopped her. "Mysterious, in fact."

Should she reply?

She would love to stare longer at his face, actually. He may not be that dashing, after all.

But he could be setting a trap.

"Or is it an act?" he added.

Her leather shoes dug into the graveled path. Her face as impassive as it naturally was, Angela stiffly turned, taking liberty at studying his beautiful face from a different angle. She hastily accepted that he was indeed dashing, and at the same speed dismissed the fact to say, "It may be a valid accusation, but I shall not waste time to argue."

"Then answer one question," he hastily added when she made another motion to leave. "Why are you here?"

Angela regretted not walking away sooner. "Why are you interested?"

"Because I find you a curious case. Why would a woman be alone in here—" When he did not finish, she looked at him and found that he deliberately waited to add, "Were you waiting for your beau? Or looking for one?" He cocked his head, looking for answers by reading her face. "But I also wonder if you are here pretending to be someone else." When she merely frowned, he stole her feet a look. "You are wearing leather shoes with wooden soles."

She did not reply. Instead, her jaw tightened and she narrowed her eyes. He was trying to coax her into an argument. He wanted her to be offended and defend herself, thereby prolonging her stay.

Should I?

Perhaps this man knew who she was, and like Lady Margaret, was also planning to be part of the Worthingtons to elevate his status in society. It was plausible, considering how he judged people by their shoes.

He leaned closer, giving her a good view of his eyes.

Sapphire.

She was highly intimidated by the closeness, but she was also too proud to step back and maintain proper distance.

Angela took the chance to study his face closely. He had a tiny flat mole on the crown of his right cheek, merely an inch away from his eye.

"It is astounding how you maintain such an impassive look. You make it a challenge for anyone to decipher your thoughts."

Angela scoffed. "The muscles of my face do not coordinate well in the presence of an obtrusive..." Angela scoured him from head to foot with an insulting twitch of her brow before finishing, "stranger."

*****

Her eyes were a brilliant shade of green when trying to contain fury.

And she is a master at it, Gerard concluded.

He would have loved to be more obtrusive. He wanted to know why someone wearing a pair of leather shoes with wooden soles was in this party, but thought against it and stepped away, hands up in the air, grinning from ear to ear.

She stiffly turned away with a condescending and satisfied curl at the corner of her lips.

He followed her until she reached the exit of the garden where he stayed slightly hidden in the dark, hedged path.

With great regret and silent fascination, he let her walk away from him and into the light of the ballroom. Whoever she was, wherever she had been all this time, he would love to know, but Gerard blinked away the urge to follow and find out who she was.

A client was waiting for him in the gaming room.

Miss Leather Shoes and Wooden Soles was not the goal for now.