When Joseph arrived at the Kingston ball later that evening, the first set was already in progress. He had been delayed by Lizzie’s request for one more story and then just one more before she went to sleep. Her need for him was greater now that Miss Edwards was gone. He stood in the ballroom doorway, looking about him for familiar faces after greeting his hostess. He could see Elizabeth, the Duchess of Portfrey, off to one side, not dancing. He would have joined her, but she was in conversation with Miss Martin. In a craven moment quite unlike him, he pretended not to see them even though Elizabeth had smiled and half raised a hand. He strolled in the opposite direction instead to join Neville, who was watching Lily dance with Portfrey, her father. “You are scowling, Joe,” Neville said, raising his quizzing glass to his eye. “Am I?” Joseph offered him an exaggerated smile. “You are still scowling,” Neville said. “I know you, remember? You were not supposed to dance the opening set with Miss Hunt, by any chance, were you?” “Good Lord, no,” Joseph said. “I would not have been late if I were. I have been with Lizzie. I looked in at Wilma’s this afternoon, almost at the end of her weekly tea. All the other guests were leaving—and so I was fair game for one of her lectures.” “I suppose,” Neville said, “she thinks you ought to have secured the opening set with Miss Hunt. I have always been glad, Joe, that Wilma is your sister and Gwen mine and not the other way around.” “Thank you,” Joseph said dryly. “It was not just that, though. It was my behavior last evening.” “Last evening? At Vauxhall?” Neville raised his eyebrows. “It seems I neglected Miss Hunt in order to show a misguided kindness to the dowdy schoolteacher,” Joseph said. “Dowdy? Miss Martin?” Neville turned to look toward her. “Oh, I would not say so, Joe. She has a certain understated elegance even if she is not in the first stare of fashion or the first blush of youth. And she is dashed intelligent and well informed. Lily likes her. So does Elizabeth. And so do I. Miss Hunt said much the same as Wilma last evening, though, in Lily’s hearing. A trifle insulting to Lauren, who had invited Miss Martin to join the party, Lily thought—and so did I. But I ought not to be saying so to you, I suppose.” Joseph frowned. He had just spotted Miss Hunt. She was dancing with Fitzharris. She was wearing gold net over white silk, and the underdress draped her perfect form to give the look of a Greek goddess. The gown was cut low at the bosom to show off her main assets. Her blond curls were threaded with gold. “She is going to be at Alvesley,” he said. “Wilma wangled an invitation from La uren in Miss Hunt’s hearing, and Lauren, I suppose, had no choice at all. You know how Wilma goes about getting her own way.” “At Alvesley?” Neville said. “I suppose Lauren would have invited her anyway after your betrothal, though. That is imminent, I suppose?” “I daresay,” Joseph agreed. Neville looked at him sharply. “The funny thing was,” Joseph said, “that Wilma’s lecture included the detail that while I was entertaining Miss Martin, McLeith was charming Miss Hunt. Wilma was warning me that I might lose her if I am not careful. Apparently they looked very pleased with each other.” “Ha,” Neville said. “About to be jilted, are you, Joe? Do you want me to see if I can hasten the process?” Joseph raised his eyebrows. “Whyever would you think I might want any such thing?” he asked. Neville shrugged. “Perhaps I just know you too well, Joe,” he said. “Lady Balderston is waving this way, and I do not suppose it is at me.” “The dance is ending,” Joseph said. “I had better go and join her and ask Miss Hunt for the next set. And what the devil do you mean by saying you know me too well?” “Let me just say,” Neville said, “that I don’t think Uncle Webster does. Or Wilma. They both think you ought to marry Miss Hunt. Lily thinks just the opposite. I usually trust Lily’s instincts. Ah, the dance has ended. Off you go, then.” Nev might have kept his—and Lily’s—opinion to himself, Joseph thought irritably as he crossed the floor. It was too late not to offer for Miss Hunt even if he so desired. He proceeded to dance with her, trying not to be distracted by Miss Martin, who stood in the line of ladies just two places down the set, smiling across at McLeith, her partner. He had the feeling, though, that she was trying just as hard not to look at him. And yet again, as he had been doing at frequent intervals throughout the day, he looked back upon last evening with some incredulity and wondered if it could possibly have happened. Not only had he kissed the woman, but he had wanted her with a lust that had almost overpowered all caution and common sense. It was a good thing they had been in an almost public place or there was no knowing where their embrace might have led. He danced with Miss Holland next, as he often did at balls this spring because she was so frequently a wallflower, and her mother was too indolent to ensure that she had partners. And then, after introducing her to a blushing Falweth, who could never summon up the courage to choose his own partners, he stood with a group of male acquaintances, chatting genially and watching another vigorous country dance. As the music drew to a close, he agreed to step into the card room to play a hand or two with a few of his companions. But it struck him that he could not see Miss Martin dancing. She had not danced the first set either. He would hate to see her be a wallflower, though she was not, of course, a young girl in search of a husband. She was sitting on a love seat close to the door, he could see when he looked around, in conversation with McLeith. He was smiling and animated, she paying him close attention. Perhaps, Joseph thought, she was happy after all that she had met her old lover again. Perhaps their long-aborted romance was in the process of being rekindled. And then she glanced up and looked directly at Joseph in such a way that he realized she had known he was standing there. She looked away hastily. This was ridiculous, he thought. They were like a couple of pubescent children who had sneaked a kiss behind the stable one day and were consumed with embarrassment about it forever after. They were adults, he and Miss Martin. What they had done last evening had been by mutual consent, and they had both agreed not to be sorry. And when all was said and done, all that had happened was a kiss. A rather hot kiss, it was true, but even so… “You go on without me,” he told the other men. “There is someone I need to talk to.” And before he could think of an excuse to stay away from her, he strode across the room toward the love seat. “McLeith? Miss Martin?” he said, nodding genially to them both. “How do you do? Miss Martin, are you free for the next set? Will you dance it with me?” And then he remembered something. “It is a waltz.”

  A waltz! Claudia had never danced it though she had watched the steps performed any number of times and had once or twice—well, perhaps more than twice—waltzed about her private sitting room with an imaginary partner. Now she was being asked to waltz at a ton ball? With the Marquess of Attingsborough? “I will,” she said. “Thank you.” She nodded at Charlie, with whom she had been sitting and conversing for the past half hour after dancing with him earlier. The marquess was holding out a hand for hers, and she set her own in it and got to her feet. She could instantly smell his cologne and was just as instantly engulfed in embarrassment again. Just last evening… She squared her shoulders and unconsciously pressed her lips into a tight line as he led her out onto the dance floor. “I hope I do not make an utter cake of myself,” she said briskly as he turned to face her. “I have never waltzed before.” “Never?” She looked up into his eyes just as they filled with laughter. “I know how to perform the steps,” she assured him, feeling heat in her cheeks, “but I have never actually waltzed.” He said nothing and his expression did not change. She laughed out loud suddenly and he tipped his head slightly to one side and looked at her more closely, though what his thoughts might be she could not fathom. “You may be sorry you asked me,” she said. “As you remarked when you agreed to allow me to escort you to London,” he said. “I am still not sorry about that.” “This is different,” she said as more couples gathered around them. “I shall try not to disgrace you. Gallantry forbids you to back out now, does it not?” “I suppose,” he said, “I could be overcome by a sudden fit of the vapors or something even more irrefutable, like a heart seizure. But I will not. I confess to a curiosity to see how you acquit yourself during your first waltz.” She laughed again—and then stopped abruptly as he set one hand behind her waist and took her right hand in the other. She raised her free hand to his shoulder. Oh, my! Memories of the night before came flooding in, bringing with them more heat to her cheeks. She determinedly thought of something different. “I need to talk with you.” “Do I owe you an apology?” They spoke simultaneously. She realized what he had said. “Absolutely not.” “Do you?” They spoke together again and then silently smiled at each other. Any conversation would have to wait. The music was beginning. There was a minute or so of desperate fright as her mind blanked to the steps she had never danced with a partner. But he was a good leader, she realized when her mind was capable of rational thought again. She knew that he was using the most basic of steps, and by some miracle she was following along without making any ghastly errors. She was also, she realized, counting in her head, though she suspected that her lips might have been moving. She stilled them. “I do believe,” he said, “you are doomed to oblivion, Miss Martin. You will not make a cake of yourself and no one will notice us.” He gave her a mournful look, and she smiled back at him. “And anyone who does will soon expire of boredom,” she said. “We are the least noteworthy couple on the floor.” “Now that,” he said, “sounds like a challenge to my male pride.” And he tightened his hold on her waist slightly and swung her into a sweeping twirl as they turned one corner of the room. Claudia only just stopped herself from shrieking. She laughed instead. “Oh,” she cried, “that was wonderful. Do let’s try it again. Or is that tempting fate? However did I keep my slippers from beneath your feet?” “Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “I believe it had something to do with my skill, ma’am.” And he twirled her again. She laughed once more at the exhilaration of the dance and at the wonderful novelty of actually joking with a man. She liked him exceedingly. She looked into his eyes to share her pleasure. And then somehow there was more. More than exhilaration, more than pleasure. There was… Ah, there were no words. It was a moment upon which she would live and dream for the rest of her life. She was quite sure of that. The music played on, the dancers twirled, she and the Marquess of Attingsborough among them, and the world was a wonderful place to be. “Oh,” she said when the music finally slowed, a sure sign that it was about to stop altogether, “is it over already?” Her first waltz. And doubtless her last. “Your first waltz is about to become history, alas,” he said, echoing her thoughts. And then she remembered that she needed to speak to him, that apart from a little light banter at the beginning of the waltz they had danced in silence. “Oh,” she said, “I need to talk with you, Lord Attingsborough. Perhaps sometime tomorrow?” “Even before the waltz began,” he said, “I was eyeing those open French windows with some wistfulness. Now it has become a downright longing. There is a balcony beyond them. And, more important, there is cool air. Shall we stroll out there if you have not promised the next set?” “I have not,” she said, looking toward the open doors and the lamplit darkness beyond. Perhaps after last evening it would not be wise… But he was offering his arm, and she took it. He steered her through the crowds until they stepped out onto the balcony. Tonight would be different. Tonight they had business to discuss. 12