Ella, in contrast, was wearing a pale pink georgette with a wide, plunging neckline that both highlighted her lovely hourglass figure and underscored Madame Fernaud’s distinct nod to her own French heritage. The pink fabric, the color of the palest of seashells, moved like gossamer and perfectly complemented Ella’s fair coloring—which was already the envy of every female member of the peerage.

Alex’s gown rounded out the trio, an ice-blue satin shot through with silver thread that shimmered in the light as though it were made of droplets of water just on the verge of freezing. It was a dress to be marveled at—her mother had ensured as much, claiming that the Worthington Ball was precisely where she expected Alex to ensnare her future husband. At the time, Alex had been too deeply engrossed in her third reading of Pride and Prejudice to care at all about the dress, but now, as she was thinking about impressing Blackmoor, she wanted to kiss her mother for making such remarkable decisions regarding the construction of the beautiful garment.

As they descended the center stairway of Worthington House, noticing clusters of guests turning to watch their entrance, Vivi turned to her friends with a brilliant smile and spoke through her teeth, “I simply do not understand the appeal of the turban. Lady Barrington looks as if a feather pillow has attached itself to her head.”

Unable to miss the headwear in question, Alex adopted the same method of conversation and replied, “Indeed. Although considering the enormous peacock feather protruding from the thing, it appears as though there may be some kind of exotic bird trapped under there.”

“Should we attempt a rescue?” Ella asked casually, sending all three girls into bright laughter.

As they reached the ground floor, Alex leaned toward Ella and spoke just loudly enough for her friend to hear, “Do try not to let your overactive imagination whisk you into the gardens tonight.”

Ella flashed a bright smile and replied teasingly, “Certainly not! Although I was thinking that the strange conversation I overheard the other night might well have had something to do with the excitement with Blackmoor.” She paused, then continued with a laugh, “Well…the earlier excitement with Blackmoor, at least.”

Alex laughed again. “No such thing as a coincidence in your mind, is there?”

“Never. Coincidence eliminates the entertainment of speculation!”

“Indeed.”

And, with that, they were caught up in the swirl of the evening. They entered the ballroom just minutes before the first dance, a minuet, began and they were enveloped by a crowd of young aristocrats all angling for a place on their dance cards. Alex found herself in the dance with Lord St. Marks, a sweet but small marquess whom she’d always quite liked. She was finding the dance quite enjoyable, until she noticed Blackmoor over the top of her partner’s head. He was having a wonderful time, smiling and laughing with the lady in his arms—who happened to be Penelope Grayson. Alex was overcome by a flash of jealousy. How could he be dancing with her after he kissed me?

“She’s got the nature of an asp,” Alex muttered to herself.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

She looked down at St. Marks with a smile and said, “Uh…I am reading Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, my lord, and I cannot seem to shake the horrid vision of the queen’s death. Death by asp. Quite dreadful, you know.”

From the look of obvious confusion on St. Marks’s face, she was certain he’d never had such an odd conversation during a ball before and, had she been in any other frame of mind, she would have found a great deal of humor in his drawn-out “Rather,” clearly the only response he could conjure.

They had turned in such a manner that Alex was no longer able to see Penelope and Blackmoor without craning her neck indelicately, so, instead, she simply counted steps until the dance was over. Two hundred and forty-three steps, to be exact. St. Marks promenaded her the customary halfway around the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell—a farewell she rather thought he was looking forward to—and Alex went searching for someone to entertain her and distract her from her own preoccupations.

In less than a half a minute, she came face-to-face with Blackmoor himself, all crisp cravat and broad shoulders and bright smile, and Alex’s mood grew darker. How could he be enjoying himself to such an impressive degree?

“Lady Alexandra,” he said, offering her a devastating smile and a short bow.

“Lord Blackmoor,” she said, unable to keep a tinge of churlishness from her tone, “I thought you were with Penelope.”

“I was,” he answered amiably, “but she met up with some friends and I decided to make my rounds. Are your brothers here?” He looked out at the crowd, searching for the Stafford boys.

Irrationally, she wanted to stomp on his foot. Instead, she said sarcastically, “I’m certain they are, considering this is their ancestral home.”

“Ah, well, I expect they’ll turn up.” He lifted her gloved hand and took the ribboned pencil there in hand. Looking down at her dance card, a lock of blond hair fell across his forehead as he observed, “I see you have the next waltz free. May I?”

Distracted by his hair, her overwhelming desire to push it back from his forehead, and his clear, questioning gaze, she forgot to remain aloof. “Yes, of course.” She watched as he slashed Blackmoor across the card, noticing the strength of his script before shaking herself and silently admonishing her inner lunatic.

“Shall we?” He offered her an arm and escorted her to the center of the crowded ballroom just in time for the waltz to begin. When it did, she felt immediately and unexplainably disoriented, uncertain of whether the feeling sprang from the spinning steps of the dance or the fact that she was keenly aware of the heat of his palm even through the twin fabrics of their gloves. She couldn’t stop herself from focusing on that heat, on the weight of his other hand on the small of her back, on the way his hair curled over the edge of his formal jacket, on the space where the angle of his jaw met the sleek line of his neck. She wondered if that skin was as soft as it looked. Shaking her head in a desperate attempt to ignore the feelings she was having, she closed her eyes and let him guide her in swaying circles, willing herself to think of him not as the man who had kissed her a week ago, but as the man who had infuriated her more often than not of late. She inhaled deeply.