But her mouth moved before she realized what she meant to say, and instead this came out: “Dance card? I do believe mine has gone missing, my lord.” She shrugged delicately, her little reticule with its two gold crowns and crumpled dance card dangling from her wrist. “And I cannot recall to whom I’ve promised this next selection.”

“As I said,” he replied, his green-gold eyes narrowing with humor, “how serendipitous that I should have come upon you. It would be a shame, to say the least, if you were resigned to standing against the wall because you had lost your card. Instead I shall rescue you from such a fate.”

He offered his arm, and Angelica, who was no stranger to curling her fingers around a man’s coat sleeve, stepped closer as she did so. At once, she became fully aware of not only his height and breadth, but also how terribly handsome he was. All bronze and honey-colored in hair and skin, but with bright emerald glints sharpening his golden eyes. He had thick brows and lashes, and full lips that made her mouth go dry when she looked at it. As he looked down at her, with a bit of a smile on those mobile lips and his eyes warmly considering her, Angelica’s breath became unsteady and her cheeks even a bit warmer.

Shaking off the momentary paralysis, she started toward the revelry. After the merest of hesitations, he came along with her…almost as if he’d been expecting her to go in a different direction. Away from the party.

As if Angelica Woodmore was foolish enough to slip away with a strange gentleman. If she were Maia, she’d sniff in annoyance at the insult—whether it was real or imagined. She wasn’t about to make the foolish mistake that Eliza Billingsly had made last Season, getting caught in a compromising position with that stoop-shouldered Mr. Deetson-Waring. They were now wed, and Eliza had never looked unhappier.

“I do hope Corvindale will allow you to waltz,” Dewhurst said as they approached the ballroom.

Angelica had a little stumble. “A waltz?” The forbidden dance had recently become popular in Paris after being common for more than a decade in Vienna, but its music was rarely played in London. And even rarer were the young debutantes who were allowed to partake in the scandalous moves.

Then she realized what else he’d said. “Corvindale? He’s given little attention to us thus far, my lord. I hardly fear he’ll impose his sanctions on me for a simple dance.” It occurred to Angelica that, with Chas gone and the earl reluctant to take on the responsibility of her guardianship, she might attain a certain, albeit temporary, latitude in her actions. Not that she would do anything foolish…but a young woman could do with a bit of adventure now and again.

Unless she were Maia Woodmore, then she would sit primly and properly and wonder when her fiancé was going to return from the Continent.

Dewhurst was looking down at Angelica with a smile. “My dear Miss Woodmore, I greatly fear you are wrong about that.”

“About the earl?”

“No,” he said, the slow smile sending a bolt of warmth into her belly, “about the waltz being a simple dance.” His eyes narrowed again as humor lit them. “The waltz is sensual and graceful and smooth…and the steps might be considered simple by one who’s never executed them before. But the dance itself…it is quite an experience.”

Angelica felt, again, that sort of breathlessness. Yet, she managed to keep her voice even and bright. Mildly flirtatious. “Indeed?”

“And if one is partnered by a good dancer, then, my dear Miss Woodmore, the experience is even more enjoyable. And I must confess…I am an excellent dancer.”

“Then I shall count myself fortunate that you have deigned to partner me for my first waltz.”

“Your good fortune, but my infinite pleasure.”

All at once, Angelica remembered their initial conversation, the one which they’d shared with Brickbank. And at the same moment, something flashed into her memory—a detail from the dream. The bridge. She recognized it, and had just remembered.

Compelled by a flood of guilt and determination, she paused just at the juncture of their corridor with another hallway and the foyer leading to the ballroom. Voices and laughter, along with the music, had become loud enough that she needed to turn to fully face Dewhurst in order to ensure he’d hear her.

“My lord,” she said, releasing his arm and looking up at him. He’d halted, of course, and now looked down at her with a bemused expression. That wide, squared-off jaw with its cleft and smooth, golden skin, complemented by full lips and unruly hair, combined to create a most attractive image. And it was clear he knew just what sort of effect he had on women.

“Feeling a bit apprehensive about dancing the waltz now, my dear miss?” he asked. “We could always take a stroll on the patio until the next quadrille.” Those eyes glinted wickedly.

She drew herself up, even crossing her arms in front of her. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s about your friend, Lord Brickbank.”

The levity evaporated from his expression, and for the first time since he’d approached her after she’d left Miss Yarmouth, Angelica saw that he was grave. “Your warning was quite startling, indeed.”

“A warning that I am certain he intends to disregard.”

She was pleased when he gave an acknowledging incline of his head. At least he didn’t intend to pretend. “I’m certain you can understand his skepticism. Do you often make such warnings to gentlemen you’ve never met?”

“No, in fact I do not. That is why I am certain that the warning must be heeded. I—” She clamped her lips together. Not necessarily prudent to divulge her secret at this point. But how else to explain it, to make him understand that she wasn’t a novice at this sort of thing?

Except that she was a bit of a novice when it came to interpreting dreams. She’d never had one with such shocking clarity…such graphic images.

Angelica shook her head to clear it, to try to pare through the frustration. “I have had dreams before,” she said. “But I’ve never met the person afterward.”

“So you truly have no way of knowing whether your dream is a true portent?”

She uncrossed her arms, unable to keep her hands stationary when trying to explain. “My great-grandmother had some of what they call the Sight. After hearing stories about her, I’ve learned to never disregard anything unusual, despite whether it’s unprovable or not.”

Her hands gesticulated more wildly than was proper, but she was bent on impressing upon him the seriousness of the situation. “Please, my lord. I feel very strongly that you must ensure that he take my warning seriously. And, as absurd as it might seem, I must beg of you to keep him away from Blackfriars Bridge. Especially tonight. It was that bridge, and his exact attire, that I saw in my dream.”

Lord Dewhurst seemed to relax a bit. “Miss Woodmore, if only every person were so intent on protecting one’s fellow man.” His words seemed not the least bit condescending. “What if I were to tell you that it would be impossible—as improbable as that might sound—for Lord Brickbank to die by falling off a bridge? Would that make you feel any better? And would you then agree to hasten out to the dance floor with me before our waltz is finished?”

“Miss Woodmore will not be hastening anywhere with you, Voss. Most especially not to a waltz.”

Angelica swallowed a gasp at the sudden appearance of Lord Corvindale, who looked absolutely thunderous. He was taller than Dewhurst—Voss?—and with his dark hair and clothing, and olive skin, he seemed more imposing and arrogant.

“Angelica,” came that familiar sharp whisper.

Relieved to have somewhere to focus her attention other than the furious earl, Angelica found her sister storming up to them as quickly as she would allow herself to storm, clearly following in Corvindale’s wake. It was obvious the earl had rudely left her behind in his haste to get to them.

And she truly wished Maia would not say her name with that particular inflection. It was highly annoying, and even more so that, since her sister’s name had only two syllables, Angelica couldn’t repay her in kind.

“Maia,” she replied in a matching tone as her sister continued her reprimand in a low voice.

“Were you truly going to waltz with Viscount Dewhurst? That dance is simply scandalous! Chas would never allow it if he were here, and you know it.” Her fingers had curved around Angelica’s arm and were digging into its soft underside as she tugged her away from the two men, who were speaking sharply and in short bursts, but too low to be discernable. “The matrons would buzz about it for weeks, Angelica. You simply cannot—”

“Perhaps if Alexander ever returned from the Continent and you actually married him, Chas would allow me to,” Angelica said, lifting her nose.

To her surprise, Maia’s eyes dampened and the tip of her nose turned pink. “That’s just like you, Angelica. We don’t even know if Chas is all right and you’re making horrible jokes.”

Immediately, Angelica felt guilty and bumped gently against her sister, nudging her in a sort of armless embrace. She wasn’t certain if the mistiness was over worry for Chas or Alexander’s absence, but it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry. You’re right. But…I’m just so sure that Chas is fine. He’ll be back.”

“Really? Do you know that?” Maia had stopped just into the ballroom, and they were back near that same lemon tree from earlier in the evening. She looked sharply into Angelica’s eyes, her dark blue ones penetrating and hopeful. Then she sagged, hope fading. “But I know you can’t. Not for us, not for people you’re close to. I only wish you could…just this once.”

Angelica squirmed—literally and figuratively. She did not want to open that box. But Maia didn’t understand why she wasn’t worried about Chas, and perhaps she could give her something that would alleviate her stress…without opening the whole mess. “I just don’t feel like he’s in danger, Maia. Maybe it’s wrong of me not to worry, but I just have a feeling I’d sense it if he were gone.”