“Ah,” he said, “you danced with Prince Alexei. Don’t mind him. He has a very thick accent.”

Louisa giggled.

Annabel fought the urge to shoot her a dirty look. “No one says what they actually mean,” she said to Mr. Grey.

He regarded her with a remarkably blank expression, then said, “Did you expect it to be otherwise?”

Another snort emerged from the general vicinity of Louisa’s mouth. Followed by several discreet and delicate coughs, since Louisa would never be so bold as to laugh loudly in public.

“I rather enjoy speaking in riddles,” Mr. Grey said.

Annabel felt something pulse in her chest. It might have been surprise. Or maybe disappointment. She looked at him, quite unable to mask her expression, and said, “You do?”

His eyes held hers for a breathlessly long moment, and he said, sounding almost baffled, “No.”

Annabel’s lips parted, but she did not speak. She did not breathe. Something unusual had just passed between them, something remarkable.

“I think…” he said slowly. “I think I should ask you to dance.”

Annabel nodded, almost dazed.

He held out his hand, then drew it back, signaling for her to wait where she was. “Don’t move,” he said. “I will be right back.”

They were standing near to the orchestra, and Annabel watched as he made his way to the conductor.

“Annabel!” Louisa hissed.

Annabel started. She’d forgot that her cousin was there. She’d forgot that anyone was there. For a few perfect moments, the room had been empty. There had been nothing but her, him, and the soft whoosh of their breath.

“You’ve already danced with him,” Louisa said.

Annabel nodded. “I know.”

“People will talk.”

Annabel turned and blinked, trying to set her cousin’s face into focus. “People are already talking,” she said.

Louisa opened her mouth as if she planned to say more, but then she just smiled. “Annabel Winslow,” she said softly, “I do believe you are falling in love.”

That snapped Annabel right out of her daze. “I am not.”

“Oh, you are.”

“I hardly know him.”

“Apparently you know enough.”

Annabel saw that he was making his way back, and something akin to panic rose in her chest. “Louisa, you hush your mouth. This is all for show. He is doing me a favor.”

Louisa gave an uncharacteristically cavalier shrug. “If you say so.”

“Louisa,” Annabel hissed, but her cousin was stepping aside for Mr. Grey, who had returned.

“It is a waltz,” he announced, as if he hadn’t just asked the conductor to play one.

He held out his hand.

She almost took it. “Louisa,” she said. “You should dance with Louisa.”

He searched her face.

“And then with me,” she said softly. “Please.”

He bowed, then turned to Louisa, but she murmured her regrets, tilting her head gently in Annabel’s direction.

“It has to be you, Miss Winslow,” he said softly.

She nodded and stepped forward, allowing him to take her hand in his. Around her she heard whispers, and she felt stares, but when she looked up and saw him gazing down at her, his eyes so clear and gray, it all melted away. His uncle…the gossip…none of it mattered. She would not let it.

They walked to the center of the ballroom, and she turned to face him, trying to ignore the shiver of anticipation that slid through her when he placed his other hand at the small of her back. Annabel had never understood why the waltz had once been considered so scandalous.

Now she knew.

He was holding her properly, a full twelve inches between them. No one could have found fault with their behavior. And yet Annabel felt as if the air around them had been heated, as if her skin had been rubbed with some strange, shimmering magic. Each breath seemed to fill her lungs differently, and she was acutely aware of her own body, of how it felt to be inside of it, of how each curve moved and flowed with the music.

She felt like a siren. A goddess. And when she looked up at him, he was staring down at her with a raw, hungry expression. He was aware of her body, too, she realized, and this made her even more tight and taut inside.

For one brief moment she closed her eyes, reminding herself that this was all a sham. They were playacting, rehabilitating her in the eyes of society. Merely by dancing with her, Mr. Grey was making her desirable. And if she felt desired-by him-then she needed to gain a clearer head. He was an honorable man, a generous one, but he was also a consummate actor on the societal stage. He knew exactly how to look at her, smile at her, so that everyone would think he was smitten.

“Why did you ask me to dance with your cousin?” he asked, but his voice sounded odd. Almost a little strangled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. And she didn’t. Or maybe she simply did not want to admit to herself that she had been scared. “She hadn’t waltzed yet.”

He nodded.

“And wouldn’t it be good for the charade,” she said, trying to think on her feet, “for you to dance with my cousin? You wouldn’t bother with that if you intended only…”

“Only what?” he asked.

She licked her lips. They’d gone dry. “Seduction.”

“Annabel,” he said, surprising her with the use of her given name. “No man looks at you and thinks of anything but seduction.”

She looked up at him, startled by the stab of pain his statement had brought. Lord Newbury had wanted her for her curves, for her generous breasts and wide, childbearing hips. And heaven knew she’d never quite got used to the lascivious looks she attracted from all but the most proper of gentlemen. But Mr. Grey…She’d thought, somehow, that he was different.

“What matters,” he said quietly, “is whether they think of anything in addition to that.”

“Do you?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. But then he said, almost as if he were figuring it out for himself, too, “I think I might.”

Her breath caught, and she searched his face, trying to translate his statement into something she might understand. It did not occur to her that perhaps he didn’t understand, either, that he might be just as mystified as she by this strange pull between them.

Or maybe he meant nothing at all. He was that rare kind of man who knew how to be friends with a woman. Perhaps that was all he meant, that he found her company amusing, that she was good for a laugh and a smile, and maybe even worth getting punched in the face.

Maybe that was all it was.

And then just like that, the dance was over. He was bowing, and she was curtsying, and they were walking back to the edge of the room, toward the lemonade table, for which Annabel was inordinately thankful. She was thirsty, but what she really needed was something in her hands, something to distract her, to keep her from fidgeting. Because her skin still felt hot, and her belly was jumping, and if she didn’t have something to hold on to, she did not think she would be able to keep herself still.

He handed her a glass, and Annabel had just taken her first grateful sip when she heard someone calling his name. She turned and saw a matron of perhaps forty years moving toward them, waving her hand and trilling, “Oh, Mr. Grey! Mr. Grey!”

“Mrs. Carruthers,” he said, giving her a respectful nod. “How lovely to see you.”

“I just heard the most amazing bit of news,” Mrs. Carruthers said.

Annabel braced herself for something dreadful, probably involving her, but Mrs. Carruthers focused all of her breathless attention on Mr. Grey and said, “Lady Cosgrove tells me you are in possession of autographed books by Mrs. Gorely.”

That was all? Annabel was almost disappointed.

“I am,” Mr. Grey confirmed.

“You must tell me where you got them. I am a devoted fan, and I could not consider my library complete if I did not have her signature.”

“Er, it was in a bookshop in, ah, Oxford, actually, I think.”

“Oxford,” Mrs. Carruthers said, visibly disappointed.

“I don’t think it would be worth a trip to look for more,” he said. “There was only the one set of autographed copies, and the bookseller told me that he had never seen others.”

Mrs. Carruthers brought the knuckle of her index finger to her mouth, pursing her lips in thought. “It is so intriguing,” she said. “I wonder if she is from Oxford. Perhaps she is married to a professor.”

“Is there a professor there by the name of Gorely?” Annabel asked.

Mrs. Carruthers turned to her and blinked, as if only just then realizing she was there, standing beside Mr. Grey.

“So sorry,” he murmured, and made the introductions.

“Is there?” Annabel asked again. “It would seem to me that that would be the most efficient way of determining if she is a professor’s wife.”

“It is unlikely that Gorely is her real name,” Mrs. Carruthers explained officiously. “I cannot think of a lady who would allow her name to be put on a novel.”

“If it’s not her real name,” Annabel wondered, “does the autograph even have value?”

This was met with silence.

“Furthermore,” Annabel continued, “how do you even know it’s her signature? I could have signed her name on the title page.”

Mrs. Carruthers stared at her. Annabel could not tell if she was aghast at her questions or merely annoyed. After a moment the older woman turned determinedly back to Mr. Grey and said, “Should you ever come across another autographed set, or even a single book, please purchase it and know that I will reimburse you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he murmured.

Mrs. Carruthers nodded and walked away. Annabel watched her depart, then said, “I don’t think I endeared myself to her.”

“No,” he agreed.

“I thought my question about the value of the signature was pertinent,” she said with a shrug.