Alicia smiled easily; she let Lady Hertford’s chatter wash over her, nodding here and there. Eventually, her ladyship departed, leaving Miss Tiverton along with Adriana under Alicia’s watchful eye.

She did keep her gaze on her sister’s circle, some yards away, but the instant Lady Hertford’s distraction disappeared, Alicia’s thoughts focused on her own distraction.

Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington.

Her reaction to his practiced seduction surprised her; she’d assumed she’d be uninterested, disinterested, that repulsing any gentleman’s advances, especially those of a predatory nobleman, would be instinctive, a natural response she wouldn’t have to pause to consider, let alone battle to achieve.

It was a battle she was losing; she’d already lost significant ground. Quite why, she didn’t understand.

When she was with him, in his arms or even simply alone with him, the world seemed to shift, the frame of reference by which she’d lived her life thus far to alter. It swung to focus on him, to accommodate him, to center, not just on him, not just on his wishes, but on hers—those wishes she hadn’t known she had.

When with him, her attention shifted to a different landscape, one encompassing all that was growing between them. That change was unprecedented, unsettling, yet fascinating. Even addictive.

Something in him called to something in her; from the coalescing of those somethings grew the power she sensed, the power that was strong enough to suborn her wits, shackle her senses… and seduce her.

She shivered, and refocused on Adriana’s circle, and saw Sir Freddie successfully solicit her sister’s hand for a waltz. Noting Geoffrey Manningham’s studiously impassive countenance, she smiled.

Hard fingers, a hard palm, closed about her hand.

She turned as Tony—Torrington!—raised it; eyes capturing hers, he pressed a kiss to her fingers. Faintly smiled.

“Come and dance.”

Within seconds, she was whirling down the floor. She didn’t bother trying to resist; instead, she turned her mind to her most urgent need—trying to understand what was going on.

He seemed content simply to dance, to hold her in his arms and revolve about the ballroom, his gaze resting on her face, on her eyes.

Drinking her in.

She lowered her lids, screening her eyes, shifted her gaze to look over his shoulder. Smoothly, he drew her closer as they went through the turns, and didn’t ease his hold; abruptly she was aware of their bodies, the subtle brushing of their hips, of his thigh parting hers as they turned…as if he’d reached for her and enveloped her in a flagrantly intimate embrace. The memory leapt to her mind, instantly impinged on her wanton senses.

Instantly stirred her hunger.

She looked up, met his gaze. “This is madness.”

The words were low, breathy. He smiled, but his eyes remained on hers, his gaze intent. “If it is, we’re both infected.”

Beyond recall. She drew breath, read his eyes; their expression was openly predatory—his intent could not have been clearer. Realization, as inescapable as the dawn, burst upon her.

Deep within her, something quivered.

Tony looked up, over her head, wishing for once that she possessed a more definite mask, a countenance less easy to read. One long look into her eyes, and he was aching. If Cranbourne House had boasted any suitable room, he’d have whisked her off to it, there to pursue, however impulsively, the connection growing between them. Unfortunately, Cranbourne House was small, pokey, a totally unsuitable venue. Added to that, her sister was present, which meant she’d be distracted. When he finally had her beneath him, he didn’t want her thinking of anything else.

He noticed Geoffrey standing by the side of the room, not exactly scowling, yet clearly not happy. A quick glance about the floor located Adriana waltzing in the arms of a somewhat older man.

“The gentleman waltzing with your sister—who is he?”

Alicia had been studying his face; she answered evenly, “Sir Freddie Caudel.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you know him?”

One distraction was as good as another. Resigning himself to yet another night of escalating frustration, he glanced down at her. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Very old family. Why? Is he interested in your sister?”

Alicia nodded. “How interested, I’m not sure, and I doubt his interest, at whatever level, will be reciprocated, nevertheless…”

His lips quirked; he glanced again at Geoffrey. “Another iron in the fire?”

Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Precisely.” One with which she might prod things along.

“I take it the footman met with your approval?”

“Maggs?” Bearing a written introduction, the man had presented himself at the back door in Waverton Street. She met Torrington’s gaze, let a moment pass; Maggs, as he had to be aware, was the most unprepossessing specimen. His features were irregular, his face appeared pushed in, yet he seemed possessed of an easy disposition and had already, in just a few hours, gained acceptance from Cook, Fitchett, and, most importantly, Jenkins. For which she was grateful. “I daresay he’ll suit well enough. As I pointed out, we really have little use for a footman.”

“Nevertheless.” Torrington’s black eyes quizzed her.

“Just so that I can rest easy.”

She suppressed a humph.

The waltz ended. Without instruction, Torrington led her back to her position not far from Adriana’s court. He remained by her side, chatting inconsequentially on this and that, the customary exchanges of tonnish life. Others joined them, remained for a time, then moved on; she tried not to dwell on the fact that she preferred having him near, that his easy, in many ways undemanding presence made her evening distinctly more enjoyable.

More relaxing on one level, more unnerving on another.

It was the minor moments that tripped her up, that set her nerves jangling. That brought what was between them flooding back into her mind, blocking out all else, even Adriana.

Like the moment when having remained by her side, her cavalier through the rest of the evening, Torrington parted from them in the Cranbournes’ front hall. They were among a small crowd of departing guests; to gain her attention, he touched her shoulder.

His fingertips brushed lightly. Despite being decently sheathed in ruby silk, her skin reacted. Goosebumps rose and spread in a wave; her nipples tightened.

Her eyes flew to his, wide, aware; he read them, his lips thinned, and she knew he knew, too.

Then he met her gaze fully. The expression in his eyes nearly slew her; the heat was so open, so intense, it was a wonder it didn’t melt her bones.

His lashes swept down; he grasped her hand and very correctly took his leave of her.

She mumbled some response, then watched his back as he walked away through the crowd; only when he disappeared through the front door did she manage to breathe again. Manage to give her attention to the footman waiting to be told which carriage to summon. Thankfully, Adriana hadn’t noticed; her sister seemed as distracted as she.

The journey back through the night-shrouded streets provided a welcome respite, a quiet moment all but alone when she could gather her wits, review what had happened, all she’d felt, how she’d reacted, without worrying about her betraying blush.

Finally to make some attempt at defining where she stood. And whither she was heading.

The first seemed all too clear; she stood teetering on the horns of a dilemma. As for the second, the possibilities were varied but uniformly unsettling.

Her dilemma was clear enough. She had to play the part of a tonnish widow, an experienced lady aware of, indeed personally acquainted with, all aspects of intimacy. The question now facing her was simple: how far should she go in preserving her charade?

To her perturbation, the answer was not at all simple.

Dedication to their cause argued the answer should be as far as she needed to go to see Adriana through her Season and secure their family’s relief. But that immediately raised another highly pertinent question: how far could she go without Torrington realizing?

He was not just experienced; he was an expert. She’d been scrambling to keep up with him thus far; at some point she would falter, and he’d realize….

The social strictures at least were clear. Regardless of her charade, she wasn’t a widow, but a virtuous spinster—she shouldn’t permit him even the liberties he’d already taken. Unfortunately, her inner voice was quick to argue, to speak in support of those wishes and needs she was only just realizing she possessed; where, that inner voice asked, was the harm?

She’d accepted over a year ago that she’d missed her chance at marriage; she was twenty-four—not unmarriageable by ton standards, yet in reality the likelihood had faded. Once Adriana was established, she, Alicia, would disappear from society; she’d imagined she’d retire to the country to watch over the boys, to keep home for them whether with Adriana and her husband or otherwise.

That plan still stood; nothing had happened to alter her path. Any liaison with Torrington would be, as such things generally were, temporary, fleeting. A liaison with him might, however, be her only chance to experience all she was presently pretending to know.

He was the only gentleman who had ever engaged her on that level; even now, she wasn’t sure how he’d done it, how it had happened. Yet it had; the possibility now existed where it hadn’t before. If she wanted to know more, wanted to experience all that could be between a man and a woman, all she had to do was let Torrington teach her.