For the first time since he had announced to Constance his intention of holding a ball to present Noelle formally, he regretted his decision. She was so breathtakingly beautiful, every man attending would covet her. If she were to fall in love with one of them, he would have no one to blame but himself.

"I thought this was to be a ball, not a funeral. How can you look so solemn, Simon? Is there something about my appearance that displeases you?" She smiled mischievously up at him through thick, dark lashes.

"You little scamp," Simon growled. "You know damned well that you've never looked more beautiful. It seems to me you're trying to weasel a compliment."

"You're absolutely right." Noelle giggled and turned in a graceful pirouette, swirling alabaster against the black marble of the foyer. "Did you ever see anything as exquisite as this gown? It could even make an old stick look beautiful."

Simon's eyes strayed briefly to the lovely breasts rising from their lacy nest. "No one could ever confuse you with a stick."

Disturbed, Constance watched them from the doorway of the ballroom, where she had been supervising the final preparations. Simon was no more immune to Noelle's beauty than any other man. It seemed that all women were destined to fade into insignificance beside her, especially one to whom he had been as unfailingly polite as herself. She yearned for their old relationship, having him growl at her, call her Connie.

"Constance, you look magnificent!" Noelle cried as she spotted her friend. "Look at her, Simon. There's not another woman in London who could carry off that gown."

Constance was wearing layers of fuchsia silk. The vibrant color of the garment should have clashed with her flaming locks but somehow didn't.

"The two of you together look like dessert." Simon laughed admiringly. "Raspberries and Devonshire cream."

"Faith, Simon, I did not realize you had so poetic a nature."

"You know that every shipbuilder has to be a poet at heart, Constance. How else could he build beautiful ships?"

A knock resounded at the front door, and Simon's guests began to arrive. Noelle stood next to him for almost an hour as he welcomed each one warmly and then presented her. Some she had already met, but most were strangers anxious to judge for themselves if the rumors they had heard of Dorian Pope's beauty were overstated. It was obvious from the open admiration written on the faces of the men that they did not find the gossips had exaggerated. As for the women, those content with their own lives silently wished her well. The others scrutinized her minutely and, unable to find fault, whispered to each other that, for all her beauty, it was a pity she was said to be so high-spirited. Too lively a manner was unbecoming in one so young.

The ballroom was dazzling. Hundreds of crystal prisms suspended from three magnificent chandeliers shone down on the polished floor and gilded moldings of the room. Set in gleaming brass pots, clusters of potted palms rustled gently in the cool October breeze from the open doors, their vivid green fronds challenging the white walls behind. Backless brocade sofas of the

First Empire were placed strategically along the sides of the room, inviting the grandly coififed and elegantly appareled to lean against their rolled pillows and chat, expound, reminisce in comfort.

As soon as Noelle entered she felt the intoxicating tension of the room. Tonight she was going to dance, laugh, be gay, with no thought of anything but the present. A great burst of joyous laughter escaped her as Simon caught her in his arms and whirled her into the first dance.

The evening sped by. She flew from one set of masculine arms to another. The men, some famous, some talented, some ordinary, all vied for her attention. She smiled enchantingly at each one, laughed at his stories, and forgot him the instant another partner claimed her. Only the patterns of the dance mattered. The blood of kings rushed through her veins. Life was suddenly wonderful.

Simon watched her. She was a temptress, the Lorelei ensnaring with her dancing instead of her singing. Suddenly he found himself wanting to forget she was his son's wife.

He approached her just as Lord Alfred Haverby took her arm to lead her to the floor. "I believe you promised me this dance, Dorian. Did you forget?" asked Simon.

Although Noelle knew she had done no such thing, she excused herself prettily and went to Simon. "Thank you for rescuing me," she whispered as soon as Lord Haverby was out of earshot. "I fear his lordship is in his cups. He reeks of port."

"Purely medicinal. His mother is a nasty old curmudgeon who rules him with an iron fist. She still calls him 'Sonny.' "

Noelle laughed. Then the music started, and she forgot the unfortunate Lord Haverby as she and Simon began to dance. The tune was a spirited polka. With each bar, its speed increased until, finally, the pace was frenzied. She twirled faster and faster, the room and its occupants becoming a blur. Faces sped by, their features indistinguishable. Colors blended one into the other. Each beat pounded louder, faster. She turned, she swirled, she flew. Lighter. Quicker. Higher.

The music climaxed with a thundering crescendo, and she and Simon fell, exhausted, into each other's arms. The other dancers began to leave the floor, but Noelle and Simon did not move. Then she thought she felt the faint brush of his lips against her temple. Startled, her eyes flew up, but they never reached his, for, over his shoulder, she saw watching them the face that had haunted her nightmares for so long!

If possible, he was more dangerously handsome than she remembered. His jet-black hair was longer than it had been, casually tousled, a front lock falling carelessly across his forehead. His jaw, square and proud, was hard, masculine. As he surveyed her a lazy speculative grin played at the corners of his mouth, emphasizing the firm planes of his face. But it was the reckless glitter of his eyes that chilled her. Those eyes saw through mere flesh; they could sear the soul. Did they recognize her as the ragged little pickpocket he had married?

As Noelle stiffened in his arms Simon released her and followed the direction of her horrified gaze until his eyes, too, came to rest on his son.

"Quinn," he said softly.

Alone on the ballroom floor, the three of them were caught in a motionless tableau, frozen sculptures entombed in time.

Then, slowly, Quinn started toward them, his carelessly open tailcoat revealing an elegant evening waistcoat of black cut velvet. He moved with a barbaric swagger, self-disciplined yet ruthless, and, as he approached, his eyes raked Noelle.

The insolence of his inspection sent angry flames coursing through her blood. How dare he look at her like that!

Every nerve, every fiber of her slim body went taut as fury drove out her fear, and an astonishing rush of anticipation filled her. It was as if everything she had learned, absorbed, performed, up until this moment of time had all been to prepare her to do battle with this man.

Confidence surged through her. She would choose every word, every glance with expert care. She had been given the weapons she needed to fight him, and she was determined to emerge the victor.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her chin. Their eyes locked, and the recoil from the joining was palpable in the air.

He stopped in front of her and then, unexpectedly, took her hand to kiss, turning it over at the last instant so that it was the soft palm that met his lips. "Your beauty has not been exaggerated."

"Nor has your arrogance," she replied coolly, keeping her anger at the audaciousness of his gesture well in check as she firmly removed her hand from his intimate grasp.

A crooked smile of appreciation crossed his features before he turned his attention to his father. "You're looking well, Simon."

His American drawl was stronger than his father's, somehow alien.

"So you've come back."

"Don't worry. It's not permanent. I'm on my way back to America. I stopped by to meet my new cousin."

Noelle did not miss his slight, ironic emphasis on the last word. Constance had told her Simon had no brother, so Quinn knew she was a fraud. But did he know her true identity? Her heart was thudding painfully in her chest, but she forced herself to remain composed as, once again, she came under his scrutiny.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your niece?"

Noelle spoke before Simon had a chance to comply. "I am Dorian Pope, Mr. Copeland." She waited to see if he would react to the name "Dorian." When he didn't, she went on more confidently, "Surely there is no need for a formal introduction between cousins?"

Brazenly she had challenged him to dispute her claim. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

"I agree. Formality between cousins does seem unnecessary." And then, with feigned innocence, "Let's make a bargain right now to have an intimate relationship."

She clenched her fist in the fold of her gown at his arrogance. All the loathing she had ever felt for him magnified. Still, years of painful self-discipline kept her voice even.

"I am afraid it would be most inappropriate for us to make such a pact. After all, we are not related by blood, since your uncle was merely my stepfather."

Arching his eyebrow, he awarded her an unspoken touché. "I'd forgotten that. Kind of you to remind me."

At that moment Constance descended on them in a flutter of fuchsia ruffles. "You horrid boy! How utterly impossible of you not to have told us you were coming. Will you never observe the most elementary conventions of polite society? I vow, I'm surprised you even bothered to arrive in evening dress." Although her manner was affectionate, Noelle could sense the tension behind her words.