He led her into the waltz.

For a while the bitter memories of her wedding eve ball and the day that had followed it threatened to overwhelm her. She calmed herself by deliberately counting her steps and concentrating on the rhythm of the music and the movement of her feet. But it did not take long to realize that she was partnered by a man who was an accomplished dancer. It was easy—it felt almost like second nature—to fit her steps to his lead and to follow the graceful, twirling pattern he set about the perimeter of the ballroom floor. It was easy to feel comfortable with his height, to appreciate the fact that she could look over his shoulder and see her surroundings.

She had not enjoyed the evening so far—and that was an understatement. But she had consoled herself with the knowledge that her appearance at such a squeeze had served a useful function. Now, suddenly, unexpectedly, she was enjoying herself. The lavish floral displays and the gowns of the other lady guests all merged into a glorious kaleidoscope of color. The candles in the chandeliers became swirling bands of light. And there was something undeniably exhilarating about waltzing with a man who not only knew the steps but also surely felt the magic of the dance as she did.

But that thought brought Lauren firmly back to reality after several minutes. She was dancing about Lady Mannering’s ballroom in the arms of a stranger whom she had first seen just a week ago in shocking, scandalous circumstances. Joseph had tried to prevent her from dancing with him this evening. Was the viscount not respectable, then, despite his title and his presence at a ton ball? Had her first instinct about him been correct? Was he a rake?

Part of her did not care, was even surprisingly titillated by the possibility, in fact. But it was a part of herself with which she was thoroughly unfamiliar, a part of herself that must be reined in.

“Do you attend many balls, my lord?” She concentrated her mind upon making polite conversation and setting some sort of safe social distance between them. “I must confess this is my first this year.”

“No, I do not,” he replied. “And yes, I know.”

She was indignant at the brevity of his answer. Did he know nothing about polite conversation? And then she was struck by its oddity. What did he mean— yes, I know. If he did not attend many balls himself, how did he know that she had attended none?

“It is a grand squeeze,” she said, trying again, clinging to clichй. “Lady Mannering must be well pleased with the success of all her efforts.”

“Successful indeed.” His laughing eyes did not waver from hers.

“The flowers and other decorations are both lovely and tasteful,” she said, laboring onward. “Do you not agree, my lord?”

“I have not looked to see, but I will take your word for it.”

He was flirting with her, she realized in sudden shock. He was implying that he had eyes for no one but her. And indeed, he was matching action to implication. She felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness—and then indignation again.

“Now it is your turn to choose a topic of conversation,” she said, her voice deliberately disdainful to mask her discomfort.

He laughed softly. “A man does not need to converse when he is dancing with a beautiful woman,” he said. “He can be content merely to feel. To indulge all his five senses to the full. Conversation is a mere distraction.”

It was not just the outrageous words that made her heart beat faster. It was the way they were spoken. Softly. In a low, velvet voice that wrapped itself about her as if she were somehow naked to its touch. As if the two of them were alone together in the ballroom—or perhaps somewhere altogether more private.

And then suddenly they were alone and in relative darkness. She had not noticed that they were dancing close to the French windows until he had twirled her right through them and they were alone—or almost so—on the balcony beyond the candlelight.

Lauren was shocked to the depths of her soul.

“And light can be a distraction too,” he said, tightening his hand at her waist so that for a moment she became even more aware of his nearness and feared that her bosom would brush against his chest. His head dipped closer to her own as he spoke so that she felt the warmth of his breath kiss her cheek. “As can crowds of people.”

How dared he! She had been quite right to suspect . . . No gentleman . . .

But he had not stopped dancing, and with one more twirl they were back in the ballroom, having entered it through the other French windows less than a minute after leaving it. The withering setdown that was forming on her lips died unspoken as she met his laughing eyes and was once more caught up in the magic of the dance with a virile, attractive partner. Her little rebellion was proving undeniably enjoyable, she admitted ruefully to herself. He was a practiced charmer, of course. Lauren Edgeworth was not the sort of person with whom men flirted. She never had been even when she had been young and happy.

Now for the first time in her life she was being flirted with. And it felt rather pleasant—provided she did not for a moment allow herself to be beguiled by it.

She did not attempt any further conversation. Neither did he.

When the waltz was over, Viscount Ravensberg offered his arm to escort her back to her own party.

“I will not suggest leading you to the refreshment room, Miss Edgeworth,” he said, the laughter in his voice now as well as his eyes, “even though I daresay you are very thirsty by now. Your family would not approve. They can scarce wait for you to return to their midst so that they can inform you that you have just risked your reputation by waltzing with London’s most notorious rakehell.”

“And have I?” she asked him.

“Waltzed with a rakehell? Oh, undoubtedly,” he murmured.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said politely when he had returned her to Aunt Sadie’s side. She regarded him with deliberate, cool hauteur. He was not even ashamed of his own reputation?

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Edgeworth,” he told her, and before she could realize his intent, he had possessed himself of the hand she had just removed from his sleeve and raised it to his lips. Her hand was gloved, but even so the gesture seemed starkly, shockingly intimate. She resisted the urge to snatch away her hand as if it had been scalded and so draw unwelcome attention to herself. There was nothing so very improper about such a gesture, after all.

And then he was gone—not just from her side, but from the ballroom itself. She watched him go with considerable relief—and with a strange, unwilling awareness that the rest of the evening was going to seem very flat indeed.

Perhaps even the rest of her life, she thought with uncharacteristic hyperbole.

Chapter 3

Despite the lateness of her return home from the ball, Lauren was up at her usual time the next morning to accompany Elizabeth on her daily walk in Hyde Park. The air was brisk and chill, though it promised fair for later in the day.

“Exercise does feel good,” the duchess said as they approached the house on their return. “I feel remarkably fit despite a growing ungainliness, and I am quite sure it is the walking and fresh air that does it, despite Lyndon’s anxieties.”

Marriage suited Elizabeth, Lauren reflected. She had wed for the first time just seven months before. Pregnancy suited her too. There was a new glow about her.

The footman who opened the door to their knock bowed deferentially as he stood aside to allow them in. “A bouquet has been delivered for Miss Edgeworth, your grace,” he said. “Mr. Powers had it carried into the salon.”

“For me?” Lauren asked in some astonishment.

But Elizabeth was laughing as she took Lauren’s arm and turned her in the direction of the visitors’ salon, which led off the hall. “A bouquet the morning after a ball?” she said. “Goodness me, Lauren, you have a beau.”

“Nonsense!” Lauren winced. “I daresay it is from Mr. Bartlett-Howe. He danced with me twice last evening and led me in to supper. But I did try not to encourage him. How very embarrassing.”

“A gentleman’s admiration need never embarrass you, Lauren,” Elizabeth said, “even if you cannot return it.”

Lauren bit her lip when she entered the salon and saw the handsome bouquet of at least two dozen red rosebuds amid lavish sprays of fern, already arranged in a crystal vase. She crossed the room and picked up the card that was propped against the vase. She hoped fervently he had not made a cake of himself with extravagant sentiments.

“They are quite lovely,” Elizabeth said from behind her. “Roses must have been difficult to find this early in the year. And exorbitantly expensive, I daresay. Poor Mr. Bartlett-Howe. He is so very earnest and worthy.” But there was a tremor of laughter in her voice.

“Alas,” the writing on the card said, “I could find no violets to do justice to your eyes.” The signature was scrawled in a bold, careless hand. “Ravensberg.”

His laughing gray eyes, his devil-may-care smile, his slender grace, his male vitality, the indefinable air of danger that clung about him—Lauren had seen them all behind her closed eyelids as she had tried to fall asleep after the ball. And she had pictured the same man half naked in his skin-tight breeches, uttering shocking profanities. And holding a young woman in his arms and kissing her with obvious enthusiasm.

“The flowers are not from Mr. Bartlett-Howe,” she said. “They are from Viscount Ravensberg. I waltzed with him last evening.”