An eternity passed before the pattern reunited them. Toby dutifully twirled and promenaded, avoiding Lucy’s inquisitive glances by watching her instead. Within him, bitter envy twined with lust. Admiration glowed on her face as she regarded her partner. He despised Grayson more every moment.

When at last he rejoined the lady in green, it was with profound, bone-deep relief. As though he’d journeyed to the Holy Land and back to earn her favor, rather than circling a ballroom. If he’d tried, he couldn’t have explained the sense of purpose and destiny that gripped him. This jaunty reel had become a mission, more serious than any undertaking of his life. He kept up a low, seductive rush of words as they traced a tight spiral, denying her any opportunity to respond. “I am drawn to you. I haven’t taken my eyes from you all evening. I am enraptured.”

He was a liar.

Isabel Grayson trembled as she resumed her place in the line. Her heart pounded a wild rhythm, twice the tempo of the reel. Fortunately, the pattern now afforded her a few bars of rest. She ventured a furtive glance in the gentleman’s direction, only to encounter the disquieting appraisal in his eyes.

Blushing, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

I am drawn to you, he’d said. I haven’t taken my eyes from you all evening. A lie, a lie. His eyes had most definitely not followed her all evening. If they had, Bel would have noticed—for she’d been staring at him the whole time.

How could she not stare? He was, quite simply, the most handsome man she’d ever seen, despite the fact she’d grown up in the company of three exceedingly handsome men: her father and two brothers. But their rugged, roguish appeal drew as much from their imperfections as from their well-formed features. By contrast, this man—this man was an ideal. Sculpted profile, light brown hair threaded with gold, and a lean, confident grace to all his movements, grand or small.

She’d observed him since the moment he entered the room. While he’d circled the assembly with a lithe, easy step; as he’d chatted with their hosts. Even when courtesy forced her to direct her eyes elsewhere, she’d been aware of him, in some tingling notch at the base of her spine. And now, this dance. His bold glances, the stolen caresses, and those devastating murmured words: I am enraptured.

Her whole body hummed with a foreign, forbidden thrill: desire.

Oh, this was a disaster!

Bel did not want to be feeling desire. She did not want to be feeling anything. Any other young lady in her place might dream of just this—a divinely handsome man to sweep her away on a giddy tide of emotion.

But not her. She had come to this ball for one reason only: to select a husband from among the eligible lords. Her choice would be a wholly rational decision, made on the basis of reflection, prayer, and a well-informed portrait of the man’s moral character and sphere of influence. In aid of the process, she knew that a measure of physical attraction on the gentleman’s side would be beneficial; hence, this lavish, form-fitting gown. But for her part, Bel would not be influenced by capricious flutterings of sentiment, or worse—by sinful stirrings of desire. And it must be desire, this plague of sensation rendering her feverish and lightheaded. It certainly felt sinful. And stirring.

“You dizzy me.”

The words were a whisper as the pattern shifted and the handsome gentleman wove past. Reeling from an unwelcome frisson of pleasure, Bel missed a step.

Her brother gave her a look of concern. “Come now,” Gray said, guiding her back into the pattern. “Don’t trust me to lead. You know I’m just learning this country-dance nonsense myself.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t dare cease counting under my breath, or I’ll lose my place completely.”

Bel gave a nervous laugh and willed her molten-wax knees to solidify. Behave normally, she told herself. One, two, three. Dance, laugh, smile.

“For God’s sake, don’t smile.”

He’d passed behind her again, that seductive phantom, trailing his serpentine whispers that wormed in through her ears and coiled low in her belly. And here he came once more.

“When you smile, I can’t breathe.”

Oh dear. This was not good. Not good at all.

She knew, because she was good. She was. She was a good, good girl. Not at all the type of lady to be tempted by a golden-haired, silver-tongued devil in fitted broadcloth. Yes, she’d been raised by a degenerate father, a lunatic mother, and two brothers who had rebuilt the family fortune through violence and theft—but Bel refused to follow that path. She’d devoted her life to service and charity, although she’d grown frustrated with the limits of her good work on Tortola. Visiting the infirm, teaching children to read, even supporting the sugar cooperative—she was only sticking plasters on a rifle wound. She couldn’t decrease unfair tariffs; she couldn’t abolish slavery. The only people with the ability to effect meaningful change were here, in London: the lords, with their wealth and power and voices in government. Bel could not become one of them, but she could become one of the wealthy, powerful ladies at their sides.

It was a simple plan, really. She would marry a lord. She would become a lady of influence. And then she would make the world a better place. One, two, three. But first she must get through this dance without disgracing herself completely. The task was proving easier conceived than accomplished.

“Right,” the man whispered as they crossed paths again.

Right? What did he mean, right? Now irritation bubbled inside her. There was nothing right about his presumptive behavior. There was most certainly nothing right about the surreptitious touch that glanced off the base of her spine— there. A firm brush just above her left hip that had her startling, quivering, pivoting …

Turning to the right.

“Then left,” he murmured. “Mind the feathers.”

Bel turned to her left, ducking to avoid a sudden onslaught of ostrich plumes as she circled a dour-faced matron. Her mind whirled. He was helping her through the dance. It wasn’t enough that he already had her intrigued, thrilled, angered, and just a little bit afraid. Now, to this stew of emotion inside her, he was adding gratitude.

He was making her like him.

“Now back,” he whispered. “Nicely done.”

Oh, this just became worse and worse. They stood at rest again, and Bel felt his gaze burning over her skin. In a desperate effort to discourage him, she lifted her chin and shot the handsome stranger a haughty, quelling look.

In return, the man winked. Winked!

More distressed than ever, she averted her eyes. She should have known it wouldn’t work. She had no talent whatever for haughtiness or quelling.

But she was an expert at following rules.

This dance had rules. A pattern. There was a right way to step, and a wrong way. The thought calmed her. If she adhered to the pattern, followed all the right steps, perhaps she could subdue this tempest of sensation within her—all these inconvenient feelings stirred by a gentleman whose name she did not even know and whose fine profile she would never forget, should she live to the age of ninety-four.

Bel squared her shoulders. I have a mission, she reminded herself as she took her brother’s hand and moved numbly through the pattern. Turning first left, then right, then releasing his hand to circle back round. I have a purpose, a cause.

“You have me utterly bewitched.”

The words set her trembling anew. How did the man keep passing so close to her, so indecently near, without drawing attention?

Bel looked to her brother, whose forehead was wrinkled with concentration. As Gray danced, his lips moved ever so slightly. One, two, three … He was too absorbed in the pattern to notice a thing.

Perhaps she ought to flee. Would it draw a great deal of attention, if she simply turned on her

heel and ran? She sighed. Of course it would. And as much as she hoped to draw society’s attention, she didn’t want to attract it that way. If she wanted to change the world, or even some small corner of it, these people must respect her and follow her example. Her comportment must be above reproach.

No, she could not flee. She must stay. She must follow the pattern of the dance. She must move toward this unnervingly handsome man and allow him to take her hand once again.

“Give me a word.” His hand slid up to clasp her arm just below the elbow. Just above her glove. His thumb stroked her bare flesh, and Bel quivered with exquisite fear. “One word.”

Together they halted in the center of the dance. His eyes held her captive, warm copper alloyed with insistent steel. His voice was low, for only her ears. “Forgive me, but there is something between us. Some force I can no better explain than resist. I am faint with it, feverish. Give me a word. Tell me you feel it, too.”

Bel made a feeble attempt to retract her arm, but his grip tightened, his thumb pressing against the racing pulse in the hollow of her elbow. She couldn’t think what to do. There were no more thoughts in her head, only riotous, mad sensation pounding in her blood.

“Do you? I beg of you, speak the truth.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. She was a good girl. A good, good girl.

She did not lie.

“Yes.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Then you belong with me.”

Toby slid one arm around his lady’s waist, grasped her other hand in his, and danced her right off the parquet, twirling her toward the row of glass-paned doors that opened onto the terrace. They were almost to the door when that oaf Grayson finally looked up from his feet and noticed his partner had gone missing. He scanned his immediate circle in vain. The dancers around him stopped, their bemusement certain to become amusement soon enough. With a laugh, Toby swept his temptress and her yards of green silk straight out into the night. Now there was a story the ton would remember, when the names Sir Toby Aldridge and Sir Benedict Grayson bumped against one another in conversation. Grayson might have eloped with Toby’s intended bride, but now Toby had stolen an admirer straight from Grayson’s own arms.

He could not call it complete revenge, but he could call it a solid beginning. And now, he could turn his attention to the gorgeous creature he held in his arms. Could it possibly have been just minutes he’d been yearning for this embrace? It felt like years. A lifetime. Or here, in this Greek-styled colonnade, he could imagine it an eternity. It was as though an enchantment had been cast around them, binding them together with some primeval, pagan magic.

“Remarkable,” he whispered.

She froze in his arms, though she made no attempt to pull away. The rush of cool night air surrounding them only emphasized the heat building between their bodies.

“What, precisely, is remarkable?” Her voice was melodic, and flavored with some foreign spice.

“You,” he answered honestly. “Do you realize, your hair is actually a shade darker than the night sky?” He wound a jet-black tendril around his finger, enjoying the way her lower lip quivered in invitation. Oh yes, he was in fine form tonight. “And softer than moonlight. How is that possible?”

“It’s not,” she said. “Dear heavens. You do this often, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Sweep ladies onto secluded terraces and pay them nonsensical compliments.”

“Er … perhaps,” he said, chastened.

“Perhaps,” she echoed. Her look went from one of skepticism to one of dismay.

“Don’t fret, darling. With you, I actually mean them.” Toby gave her his most disarming grin—

that lopsided, mischievous boyish smile he’d honed on a mother and three older sisters, then polished to a seductive gleam. It was a grin that said, I know I’m impossible, but it’s useless to resist. We both know you can’t help but love me.

Except—evidently, this lady could. Her look of dismay became one of despair. She swallowed, then released a flurry of words. “Please tell me you are a lord.”