The man she doesn’t know she wants 
A queen of the ton, Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell maintains her rule with a clever mind and a cutting tongue. A long-held rivalry leads her to attempt a seduction, but when the severely handsome lord proves difficult to beguile, Sera is forced to look beneath the surface…and finds a man who speaks to her soul. 

The woman he doesn’t know he needs 
Lord Stephen Farlisle has no time for society. Followed by tragedy, he spends his privilege in helping those less fortunate, prowling Society’s ballrooms to charm funds from deep pockets. When a striking beauty seeks a dalliance, Stephen dismisses her as a shallow flirt. 

But when the two find themselves pretending courtship to win a wager, Stephen is fascinated by glimpses of the vulnerable woman beneath the mask, destroying preconceptions and prejudices…and threatening to steal his heavily guarded heart. 

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THE CARRIAGE JERKED OVER a bump in the road. Righting herself, Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell laced her fingers and stared straight ahead, her mind ticking over every step she would take that night.

She had no cause for nerves. This ball would be no different from any of the hundreds of balls she’d attended before. Indeed, she arranged each to her satisfaction, ensuring all would progress as it ought.

She would alight from her carriage and make her way to the entrance hall where she would be announced by the Pruitt’s majordomo. Maria and Elizabeth would then attend her, having arrived at the ball prior to her as instructed. They would proceed to the southwest corner of the ballroom, which had the best aspect, and she would set up court, selectively choosing from those in attendance to provide amusement. She would bestow ten of the fourteen dances on six suitors of her choosing, forgoing four to instead observe and comment, and she would allow another suitor to bring her delicacies and punch. Elizabeth and Maria would relay the latest gossip, and from those in attendance she would determine on whom she would focus her efforts and her condescension. She had her strategy for a successful ball attendance and it would work, as it always did.

The carriage shuddered to a stop. The door opened and Jim appeared, the footman holding out his hand. “Good luck tonight, my lady.”

Sera placed her hand in his, gathering her skirts in the other. “I don’t need luck, Jim. I have a plan.”

His lips twitched as he helped her descend. “Of course, my lady.”

Setting her foot on the gravel, she sniffed. “Don’t be impertinent, Jim. I should hate to have to terminate your employment, and it will do you no favours at this time of year. It would be next to impossible to find another position at this late stage, you know.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said mildly, as one who was often threatened with such and knew the threat to be completely toothless. Jim had been in her employ these eight years past, and she threatened to disengage him at least once a week.

To keep up the façade, she sniffed and then sailed into Pruitt House.

She had arrived almost two hours after the stated time on the invitation, as she had always intended, and thus the event was now a crush. Anyone who was anyone knew to arrive late was an absolute must, and she always added an extra half hour to ensure she was one of the last to arrive. People spilled from the ballroom into the entrance hall, down the corridors towards the cards and retiring rooms. Already the din was excruciating, the noise of hundreds in too small a place overwhelming.

Excitement stole the breath from her lungs. Finally, apprehension waned and she let the ball wash over her.

The majordomo stationed at the threshold to the ballroom nodded as she approached. “Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell,” he announced.

His proclamation drew little notice from the crowd. Lifting her chin, she swept into the throng. It did not matter that she did not draw notice. She would, as always, make them notice.

Conversation and laughter melded into a cacophony, accompanied by the strains of the orchestra. The dancing had not yet commenced, ladies gossiping behind their fans while gentlemen pretended they did not listen in earnest. Lady Pruitt had chosen a Greek theme for her ball, with marble columns and drapery. Grottos had been created from columns and greenery, the most elaborate housing the orchestra. The grotto with the next best vantage stood on the other side of the ballroom and was already occupied. Four young girls, debutantes all, whispered and giggled where Sera had planned to be.

Annoyance drew her brows. Elizabeth and Maria had been under strict instructions to reserve the grotto with the best vantage. Stern words would be exchanged once she rectified the situation.

Arriving at the grotto that should be hers, Sera arranged a pretty smile on her features. “Good evening.”

The girls stopped talking. “Lady Seraphina,” one exclaimed.

Regally, she inclined her head. “My dears, I find myself confused as to why you have taken occupation of this area of the ballroom.”

They glanced amongst themselves. One of them said hesitantly, “Lady Seraphina, we thought—”

“This grotto is not to your best vantage,” she interrupted. “You would do well to remove to the eastern corner of the room, close to the orchestra. The gentlemen always gravitate that way.”

They glanced at each other excitedly. “Oh, thank you, Lady Seraphina, thank you.”

“Of course, my dears. Only too happy to help.”

Breathlessly talking amongst themselves of which gentleman would take note of them, who would have the first dance, and those things that thrilled debutantes at their first ball, the girls departed.

Slapping her fan in her hand, Sera dropped her smile. Now she had the best vantage.

Taking their position framed by the grotto, she flicked her wrist and fanned herself absently as she surveyed the crowd. There was a shocking proliferation of bright colour: reds and blues, oranges and pinks. Lace and ruffles choked gowns, and after years of muslin and cotton, some had ventured into expensive silks. Her own gown lacked embellishment, but that would only make her stand out from the crowd. Should she also change her colour palette? Currently she wore a rather muted shade of blue, designed to bring out the chestnut highlights in her dark brown hair and the blue flecks in her grey eyes, but perhaps she should go bolder. Maybe this year her signature colour would be blue, but with shades ranging from robin’s egg and periwinkle to royal and navy.

From across the ballroom, a girl stared openly at her.

Sera frowned. Was the girl simple? There were ways to observe without being obvious about it. Tilting her head, she observed the girl from the corner of her eye. Clearly foreign with brown skin and dark hair, she was dressed in the very height of London fashion, the deep yellow of her gown complementing her skin and setting off her dark eyes. That appeared to be the sum total of her intrigue. She stood with no one of note, and she had attracted little notice from anyone who was anyone.

Dismissing her, Sera continued her perusal.

“Lady Seraphina, a delight as always.”

How very tiresome. “Your Grace,” she said flatly.

The Duke of Sutton offered her what no doubt would be termed a charming smirk, one that said he knew of his attractiveness—with his wealth and his title and his handsomeness—and he also knew one should be flattered he deigned to acknowledge you. “Come, my dear, surely we have a greater acquaintance than that? Last year, you called me Sutton.”

“That was last year,” she said dismissively.

“Last year, you also permitted…familiarities.”

Was he going to be tiresome about everything? “As I said, that was last year.”

“What has changed between then and now?” he asked silkily.

 “For one, the year.”

The slightest of frowns touched his forehead. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Annoyance began to swirl within her. He knew the rules of the game. They had enjoyed a flirtation, one that benefited them both and had always had an expiry. The Duke of Sutton was notorious for his flirtations and the trail of broken hearts he left behind; he was ruthless, unfeeling, and had made many a lady weep. Why was he attempting to prolong what had already died? “I am not difficult, Your Grace. I am bored. There is a difference.”

“Bored? Bored? With me?”

She exhaled. “I am no longer interested. You may leave.”

“You? Are dismissing me?”

With a snap of her wrist, she extended her fan and proceeded to ignore him.

“You will regret this,” he threatened.

She flicked him a glance. “Will I?”

He smiled tightly and then, finally, he let her be, disappearing into the crowd.

Ugh, now her stomach was twisted in knots. Why did the duke have to approach her? Her plan for the ball had not included his histrionics, and she hadn’t required his petty threats. Fanning herself rhythmically, she breathed in, and then out. In, out. Slowly, the churn in her stomach subsided.

Her gaze locked on two familiar faces amongst the crowd. Lady Elizabeth Harcourt and Miss Maria Spencer froze, their faces draining of colour as they noticed her glare. Quickly, they hurried to her side.

“Lady Seraphina,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You are early!”

“I? I am early?”

Elizabeth blanched. “We are late?” she offered.

“I told you both precisely when I would be here. Imagine my surprise upon arrival when I discovered not only were you absent, but the position I had chosen specifically for this first ball was occupied by first years.”

They glanced at each other. “We apologise,” Maria said. “However, you will not mind when we tell you what Margaret Williamson told us—”

“It does not matter what Margaret Williamson told you. I specifically instructed you reserve this grotto and you did not do so.”

“But Margaret Williamson told us—”

Sera held up her hand. Maria fell silent. “I do not care what you discovered.”

Maria opened her mouth. “But—”

Narrowing her eyes, Sera shot her a look.

“The Marchioness Demartine, Lady Alexandra Torrence, Lady Lydia Torrence,” the majordomo intoned.

Sera whipped around. Lips pressed together, she watched as Lady Demartine entered the ballroom flanked by her daughters.

“That’s what we were trying to tell you. Lydia Torrence is back.” Elizabeth said weakly.

Ignoring Elizabeth, Sera kept her gaze trained on the new arrivals. Lady Demartine was still a beauty, her dark brows a curious contrast with her pale hair. Neither of her daughters had inherited her colouring, with Lady Alexandra’s hair a more golden shade of blonde and Sera knew her eyes to be of a muddy sort. Lydia’s hair was red, her eyes bright blue-green hazel. Some seemed to think Lydia was beautiful.

Sera gritted her teeth. Fine, Lydia was beautiful. Red-gold hair tumbled around her head, her features perfect, with a curvaceous figure just a shade on the right side of ladylike. The gentlemen would flock to her side, but if her affections remained as they had always been, they were doomed to disappointment.

Lady Alexandra was the same age as Sera but had made her debut the year after her. Sera smiled thinly. And what a disaster it had been. Lady Alexandra was…odd. She was fascinated by spirits and cared not who knew it. She was exuberant in everything she did—too bright, too eager, too much. It would bear her well if she was just…less.

Sera’s gaze slid again to Lydia. Lady Lydia Torrence, recently returned from an extended tour of the Continent. She seemed to have gained polish and poise, and an easy confidence that would draw others to her. That, coupled with her ridiculous beauty, would make her the hit of the Ton. No longer wide-eyed, her thoughts were disguised behind a faintly amused smile. Her smile brightened, however, when her gaze lit upon Lady Violet Crafers. With a quick word to her mother, she crossed the ballroom to join Lady Violet, her smile genuine as she reached her friend’s side.

“There is a rumour the Earl of Roxwaithe will be in attendance as well.”

“Hmm?” She glanced at Elizabeth.

“Alice Stamford said she heard it from Georgina Parkerson, who heard it from Caroline Bennett, and you know Caroline Bennett knows everything,” Elizabeth continued.

“He never attends balls,” Maria breathed.

“He sometimes attends,” Sera said absently. Her mind raced. That would not be why, though. It wasn’t a coincidence the earl chose to attend just as Lydia Torrence made her return.

Once, forever ago, she’d been friendly with Lydia Torrence and the girl had taken her in confidence, telling her of her life-long crush on the earl. The earl, though, was fourteen years Lydia’s elder and clearly would not be interested in a girl barely seventeen who he no doubt regarded as a much younger sister. Sera, helpfully, had informed Lydia of this and had attempted to turn her from such a fruitless affection. She had, quite helpfully, told others of Lydia’s crush, to show the girl how ridiculous it was. Lydia, though, had overreacted to her kind action, screaming and crying and declaring Sera a terrible fiend.

Their friendship had soured after that.

“The earl is in attendance,” Maria breathed.

“Where?” Sera searched the ballroom.

“There.” Maria pointed.

Sure enough, the Earl of Roxwaithe had entered the ballroom. Sera frowned over his appearance. He was so…hairy. Long golden-brown hair was tied back in a knot at the nape of his neck, while his jaw was covered by a beard. He was so…unusual. Few gentlemen of her acquaintance had hair of his length, and none sported a beard

His gaze immediately sought out Lydia Torrence. She had not yet seen him, and he seemed to drink her in. Possibly it was the first time he had seen her since her return, but in any event he displayed his emotion as clearly as if he had shouted.

Some years after the incident with Lydia, it had become apparent Sera had been mistaken in her assessment of the earl. He clearly returned Lydia’s affections, and that gave Sera all the ammunition she needed to taunt Lydia—who just as clearly had no clue—at every turn.

She smiled thinly. One did not spurn Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell and not live to regret it.

Unaware of Sera’s thoughts, Elizabeth asked, “Will you choose a gentleman this year?

“Don’t I always?” Every year it amused her to choose a gentleman to flirt with and beguile. Last year it had been the Duke of Sutton. This year… Her gaze drifted to Lydia Torrence. “Perhaps I will entertain myself with an earl this season.”

“An earl?” Maria asked in confusion.

“The Earl of Roxwaithe, Maria. Honestly.” Sometimes she questioned why she associated with them.

Elizabeth frowned. “But he is never in society, Sera. There is no point.”

“He will attend enough this season,” she said dismissively.

“How do you know?”

Lydia Torrence was here and it followed the Earl of Roxwaithe would be where she is. “It is a feeling. Do not distract me.” She levelled her gaze on the earl.

Still he watched Lydia Torrence. They both couldn’t be more obvious if they tried. It would be pointless to attempt to attract his attention. While she enjoyed a challenge, she did not enjoy failure and that way lay nothing but frustration. However, if she remembered correctly, the earl had a brother. “What is the name of the younger brother to the Earl of Roxwaithe?”

Maria blinked. “The one who is dead?” she asked hesitantly.

“No.” She remembered his name, of course. Everyone remembered that tragedy. Lord Maxim Farlisle, the youngest of the brothers, lost at sea these eight years past. What he had been doing on a ship to the Americas to begin with had caused furious speculation amongst the Ton at the time, though none could determine exactly why he had sought that passage. “The one who is alive.”

Elizabeth and Maria exchanged glances and then gave her blank looks.

Impatience made her tone harsh. “Well?”

“I do not know, Seraphina,” Elizabeth said hastily.

“He plays football on a heath outside the city,” Maria offered.

Sera’s brows shot up. “The brother of an earl? Playing football? In public? How do you know this?”

Maria blanched. “I—I don’t know. I just do.”

“But you do not know his name?”

“Stephen!” Triumph lit Maria’s expression. “It is Stephen!”

Lord Stephen Farlisle. “Is he in attendance this evening?”

Maria opened her mouth but uttered no sound. Elizabeth bit her lip.

Honestly, did she have to do everything herself? “Lady Asterd knows everyone and everything. Go find her.”

They scurried to do her bidding. Sera returned her contemplation to the earl pretending he did not watch Lady Lydia while she pretended she took no notice of him at all.

In short order, Maria returned, breathless. “Lady Asterd said he attends this evening. He is in the ballroom.”

Sera immediately turned her gaze to the throng. “Where?”

Maria searched. “There,” she said, pointing.

On the opposite side of the ballroom, a lone gentleman stood, seemingly disinclined to change that state. He was unimpressive, for all he was tall, and though his shoulders were broad he was far too slender for her liking. His clothing was sombre and did not mould to his form, and his unsmiling face was not handsome: his brow too high, his nose too bold, his jaw too strong. His mouth, however, was full and sensual, his lips plush and sulky and the only softness in that harsh face. Blond hair did not riot in a tumble of curls as other gentlemen’s did, the short, straight strands pomaded close to his skull. She could not determine his eye colour from this distance, but she would wager a guinea it was some shade of brown. What shade she would determine that upon engineering their acquaintance.

She frowned. From the depths of her memory, she recalled him from her first—or was it her second?—season. He had been merry and dashing and wicked, and he and his friends had delighted in thumbing their noses at the strictures of society. His clothing had been the pip of fashion, his hair the careless tumble of curls one could only achieve with hours of styling. Then he had disappeared for some time, and talk of scandal had emerged, something about carriages and duels and maybe even a death? The gossip had died down, as it always did, and she had promptly forgotten about him.

Until now. Now, he served a purpose. Now, he would facilitate her irritating Lydia Torrence.

Dismissing those barely recalled memories, she focused instead on the present. No doubt she would discover more as their acquaintance progressed and, if it was relevant, she would address it then.

“Where did you find Lady Asterd?” she asked.

“With the other matrons in the retiring room. Why?”

“I require an introduction and, as I said, Lady Asterd knows everyone.”

Maria frowned. “But Sera, Lady Asterd does not like you.”

“I know.”  Affecting a dazzling smile, she asked, “I am put together?”

Still frowning, Maria replied, “Of course.”

“Make sure we retain the grotto,” Sera instructed and then she swept away to find Lady Asterd.

She had a man to beguile.

What’s in a name?
Stealing Lord Stephen, as did all the Lost Lords books, has the very unimaginative nick name of ‘SLS’ or, when I was writing it, ‘Stephen and Sera’. I wish it was more interesting but it really, really wasn’t.

The Story Behind the Story
In Stealing Lord Stephen, Stephen loves a bit of football, or soccer to those of us who are subject to other foot and ball related sport. I wanted Stephen to be naturally good at all sports, which would help with the life-long rehab and maintenance he has to undertake to manage the damage caused to his body by the tragic carriage accident that killed his friend.
Football also bridged the class divide for Stephen and helped him connect with people less fortunate than himself. Further, I based the charitable program on one my own AFL footy club administers to encourage young people to stay in school. So thank you Port Adelaide Football Club for being inspirational in so may ways.

Bonus Epilogue