She had known him from his voice, a slow drawl flavored with the arrogance of the last century. It was the sort of voice that had known duels and red-heeled shoes, that was as comfortable with a rapier as a powder box.

Behind him, the half-drawn velvet curtain looked as though it had been designed merely as backdrop for his presence. He stood with one foot set carelessly in front of the other, one hand resting lightly on the silver head of his cane. The cane had been cunningly fashioned in the shape of a serpent, the long silver tail writhing in spirals down the ebony shaft. At the top, the snake's mouth yawned open, bored after a long day of tempting souls away from paradise. The heavy-lidded eyes looked uncannily like those of its owner.

"Lord Vaughn." Through her prolonged ascension, he hadn't said anything at all. He just stood there watching her with detached interest, as though she were a new entr'acte at Drury Lane presented for his delectation. "I didn't hear your approach."

"Next time I shall contrive to tread more heavily." Instead of removing himself, he strolled towards her, glancing over her shoulder at the dark carapace of the window. The sleeve of his jacket skimmed again the unprotected skin above her glove. "You show a curious taste in landscapes."

"I call it A Study in Solitude." Mary leaned heavily on the last word.

Vaughn dismissed both the hint and the landscape with a wave of one ringed hand. "Better to label it Ennui."

Mary tilted her head, and found herself in far too intimate proximity with the clean line of his jaw. For a dark-haired man, he was ruthlessly well-shaven, without any of the distressing stubble one often found on other men. She hastily turned her attention back to the window.

"You don't find the party amusing, my lord?" she inquired of his reflection.

Vaughn's eyes glinted silver in the window. "I haven't — until now."

That was an invitation to a flirtation if Mary had ever heard one. What she couldn't understand was why.

Vaughn had never shown himself susceptible to her charms before, and it wasn't for want of trying. Vaughn certainly wasn't perfect — there were rumors that he had murdered his first wife — but ghosts were insubstantial things compared with three estates, one of the finest mansions in Mayfair, and the famous Vaughn rubies. He was wearing one now, buried deep in the snowy folds of his cravat, the one touch of color in his otherwise midnight-hued ensemble. Even the buckles of his shoes reflected the cold glint of diamonds, like flecks of distilled moonlight. The ruby smoldered against the white linen, pinned a hand's breadth away from the heart.

If Vaughn did have a heart, Mary hadn't been able to get anywhere near it.

Oh, she had laid her snares very delicately, very discreetly. It was simply a matter of conveniently dispatching her admirers on errands as Lord Vaughn happened by; of finding herself in his vicinity just before the supper dance; of declaring, in her most carrying tones, that she simply must have some fresh air — and making sure the balcony door remained open. These methods had all worked for her in the past. Vaughn, fresh from years of dissipation on the Continent, undoubtedly in want of a wife to perpetuate his ancient (and wealthy) line, was sure to be easy prey. Older men were always flattered by the attention of a pretty young thing. Mary wasn't as young as some, but she was still younger than Vaughn. Bat your lashes a few times, ask breathless stories about the triumphs of their youth, and they were yours.

Vaughn ignored every single lure. He had continued walking as she sent her other suitors running off for lemonade and fans and he left her to cool her heels through the supper dance. Oh, he had gone out onto the balcony — but it had been the balcony on the other side of the ballroom. Alone.

If he had deliberately followed her out of the Great Chamber, his ennui must be quite overwhelming indeed. Well, he was just going to have to find other entertainment. She was not for hire. Not by him, at any rate.

"You might beguile the time with contemplation of art," she suggested primly. "There is a great deal in the gallery of interest to the educated eye."

"How very true." Vaughn's quizzing glass traveled the sweeping circumference of her neckline. "I consider myself something of a connoisseur."

Mary rather doubted they were discussing the same type of art. "My brother-in-law informs me there are several fine works by Mytens, as well as the Holbein portrait of the first Baron Pinchingdale."

Vaughn rolled the head of his cane idly between his fingers. "I was seeking something a bit more modern. Perhaps you might be able to assist me."

Mary seized the opportunity to drift away from the confines of the window embrasure. With Vaughn standing next to her, the arch felt uncomfortably close. She waved a graceful hand at the portrait of Spotte, liberally spotted with dust. "Sibley Court tends to the antique."

"You mean the antiquated." Vaughn strolled easily in her wake. Mary felt as though she were being stalked by a particularly graceful beast of prey. "I find that being surrounded by decay generally renders one all the more eager to gather one's rosebuds."

Mary paused in front of a painting of a sour-faced dowager holding a sullen pug. "You've come at an inauspicious time for rosebuds. I'm afraid in winter we must be satisfied with the memory of summer's bounty."

Vaughn moved to stand directly behind her, so close that she could feel the tickle of his cravat against her bare shoulder, the burr of his breath against the nape of her neck.

"But my dear Miss Alsworthy," Vaughn's cultured vowels teased the edge of her ear, "it is not winter yet."

Mary's skin prickled with a heat that had nothing to do with the few sullenly smoldering torches that lined the unheated gallery. His posture echoed hers so closely that all it would take would be the merest whisper of movement to bring them into embrace. If she tilted her head just the slightest fraction, if she permitted her taut shoulders to relax…

She would be the greatest fool in all the West Country.

"I assure you, my lord," Mary said frostily, staring straight ahead at the dowager's bad-tempered pug, "there is a definite chill."

And so there was. One minute he was looming behind her, the next he had casually strolled away, as though they had been discussing the weather! Which, in fact, they had been. Mary's lips quirked in sour amusement.

"I could offer to warm you," Vaughn said meditatively, as though it were a matter of intellectual speculation, "but that would be far too commonplace."

Mary's sapphire eyes narrowed as she faced him across the width of the gallery, where he leaned casually against the plinth of a marble bust. "Not to mention unwise."

Vaughn wagged his quizzing glass approvingly, a miracle of urbane detachment. "I couldn't agree more."

Where was the man who had been oozing illicit intentions a moment before? At the moment, his demeanor was positively avuncular. Mary's head was beginning to ache in a way that had nothing to do with the smoke from the torches.

"Good," she said shortly. "I'm glad we agree."

"How agreeable," drawled Vaughn.

Mary felt rather disagreeable. Disgruntled, even. Had he never intended to seduce her? It wasn't that she wanted him to seduce her — of course not! — but it was very off-putting to be defending one's honor one moment and spiraling through empty space the next. She certainly hadn't welcomed his interest. A flirtation with Lord Vaughn was the very last thing she needed.

Mary had the uncomfortable feeling that the entire interlude, from that very first honeyed compliment, had been an extended joke. On her.

Pasting on her very best social smile, Mary gathered her skirts and swept past the painted faces of a censorious crowd of Parliamentarian Pinchingdales. She hoped all of them were preparing a particularly thorny berth in hell for one Sebastian, Lord Vaughn. "If you would be so kind as to excuse me, my lord, I should be getting back. My sister does fret so."

Vaughn's soft voice interrupted her just short of Praise-God-For-Your-Salvation Pinchingdale (Proggy, to his friends), a grim fellow in black chiefly famed for having even more warts than his friend Cromwell. "Before you go…"

It was said very quietly, but it carried all the authority of a command. Mary found herself pausing, her skirt drawn back over one white satin slipper. The toe, she noticed, was beginning to show signs of wear, the fabric rubbing thin over the stiffened frame.

"Before you go," Vaughn repeated, in that same, well-modulated tone, "you should know that I was, in fact, sent to seek you tonight."

"To seek me?" Vaughn, being dispatched, must have decided to amuse himself with a little spot of dalliance along the way. It was all beginning to make a certain amount of sense. Mary allowed herself the luxury of a small eye roll. "I suppose my sister sent you. She seems to think I ought to be fed."

"Does she?" Vaughn's gaze moved lazily over Mary's form in a way that suggested he found nothing whatever the matter with her proportions. "No. Your sister had nothing to do with it."

Mary looked at him quizzically. Her mother? Mary couldn't see Vaughn voluntarily playing lackey for her mother; he would more likely just shrug and walk away. As for the rest of the party, most of them were better pleased by her absence than her presence. She was under no illusions as to that.

"I don't understand," she said.

"I rather wish I didn't," murmured Vaughn. Bracing his cane on the ground between his knees, he looked at Mary over the silver serpent's head. "What do you know of the current blight of flower-named spies?"