Her misstep had reaffirmed his suspicions. She was just what she seemed-a typical, most probably spoiled, society miss. Perhaps a bit nosier than average. Certainly more attractive than average. The distance-not to mention the two panes of glass between them-had not done her justice. He’d not been able to see her face, not really. He’d known the shape, a bit like a heart, a bit like an oval. But he hadn’t known the features, that her eyes were spaced the tiniest bit wider than was usual, or that her eyelashes were three shades darker than her brows.

Her hair he’d seen quite well-soft, buttery blond, with more than a hint of curl. It ought not have seemed more seductive than it had loose around her shoulders, but somehow, in the candlelight, with one curl resting along the side of her neck…

He’d wanted to touch her. He’d wanted to tug gently on the curl, just to see if it would bounce right back into place when he let go, and then he’d wanted to pull out the hairpins, one by one, and watch each lock fall from her coiffure, slowly transforming her from icy perfection to tumultuous goddess.

Dear God.

And now he was officially disgusted with himself. He knew he shouldn’t have read that book of poetry before he’d gone out for the evening. And in French, too. Damn language always made him randy.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had such a reaction to a woman. In his defense, he’d been holed up in his office so much lately that he had met precious few women to whom he might react. He’d been in London for several months now, but it seemed the War Office was always dropping off some document or another, and the translations were always needed with all possible haste. And if by some miracle he managed to clear his desk of work, that was when Edward decided to get himself in a bloody heap of trouble-debts, drunkenness, unsuitable women-Edward was not picky about his vices, and Harry could not summon enough heartlessness to let his brother wallow in his own mistakes.

Which meant that Harry rarely had time to make mistakes of his own-mistakes of the female persuasion, that was. Harry was not in the habit of living like a monk, but really, how long had it been…?

Having never been in love, he had no idea if absence made the heart grow fonder, but after tonight, he was quite certain that abstinence made the rest of a man rather surly indeed.

He needed to find Sebastian. His cousin’s social agenda was never limited to one event per evening. Wherever he was going after this, it would surely include women of questionable morals. And Harry was going with him.

Harry headed toward the far side of the room, intending to find something to drink, but as he stepped forth, he heard about half a dozen gasps, followed by, “This wasn’t on the program!”

Harry glanced this way and that, then followed the general direction of stares toward the stage. One of the Smythe-Smith girls had retaken her position and appeared to be preparing an impromptu (but please, God, not improvised) solo.

“Sweet merciful Jesus,” Harry heard, and there was Sebastian, standing next to him, regarding the stage with something that was definitely more dread than amusement.

“You owe me,” Harry said, murmuring the words malevolently in Sebastian’s ear.

“I thought you’d stopped counting.”

“This is a debt that can never be repaid.”

The girl started her solo.

“You may be right,” Sebastian admitted.

Harry looked at the door. It was a lovely door, perfectly proportioned and leading out of the room. “Can we leave?”

“Not yet,” Sebastian said ruefully. “My grandmother.”

Harry looked over at the elderly Countess of Newbury, who sat with the other dowagers, smiling broadly and clapping her hands. He turned back to Sebastian, remembering. “Isn’t she deaf?”

“Nearly so,” Sebastian confirmed. “But not stupid. You’ll notice she put her cone away for the performance.” He turned to Harry with a gleam in his eye. “By the by, I saw you made the acquaintance of the lovely Lady Olivia Bevelstoke.”

Harry didn’t bother to respond, at least not with anything more than a slight tilt of his head.

Sebastian leaned toward him, his voice dropping into annoying registers. “Did she admit to everything? Her insatiable curiosity? Her overwhelming lust for you?”

Harry turned and regarded him squarely. “You’re an ass.”

“You tell me that a lot.”

“It never grows old.”

“And neither do I,” Sebastian said with a half smile. “I find it so convenient to be immature.”

The violin solo reached what seemed to be a crescendo, and the crowd held a collective breath, waiting for the ensuing flourish, followed by what had to be the finish.

Except it wasn’t.

“That was cruel,” Sebastian said.

Harry winced as the violin scraped into a higher octave. “I didn’t see your uncle,” he pointed out.

Sebastian’s lips tightened, and tiny white lines formed at the corners of his mouth. “He sent his regrets just this afternoon. It almost makes me wonder if he set me up. Except he’s just not that clever.”

“Did you know?”

“About the music?”

“It’s a brutal use of the word.”

“I’d heard rumors,” Sebastian admitted. “But nothing could have prepared me for…”

“This?” Harry murmured, somehow unable to take his eyes off the girl on the stage. She held her violin lovingly, and her absorption in the music was unfeigned. She looked as if she was enjoying herself, as if she were hearing something quite different than everyone else in the room. And maybe she was, lucky girl.

What must it be like, to live in one’s own world? To see things as they ought to be, and not as they were? Certainly the violin player ought to be good. She had the passion, and if what the Smythe-Smith matrons had said earlier in the evening was true, she practiced every day.

What ought his life be?

He ought not have had a father who drank more than he breathed.

He ought not have a brother who was determined to follow the same path.

He ought…

He grit his teeth. He ought not fall into fits of self-pity. He was a better man than that. A stronger man, and-

A sudden shiver of awareness tingled through him, and, as was his habit whenever something did not feel right, he looked to the door.

Lady Olivia Bevelstoke. She was standing alone, watching the Smythe-Smith girl with an inscrutably blank expression. Except…

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t be positive, but from this angle, it almost looked as if she were staring at the Grecian urn behind the Smythe-Smith girl.

What was she doing?

“You’re staring,” came Sebastian’s ever-grating voice in his ear.

Harry ignored him.

“She is beautiful.”

Harry ignored him.

“Engaging, as well. But not engaged.”

Harry ignored him.

“It’s not for a lack of trying on the part of the good bachelors of Great Britain,” Sebastian continued, unperturbed as always by Harry’s lack of response. “They keep asking. Alas, she keeps refusing. I heard that the elder Winterhoe even-”

“She’s cold,” Harry cut in, with a bit more bite to his voice than he’d intended.

Sebastian’s voice was filled with delighted amusement as he said, “I beg your pardon?”

“She’s cold,” Harry repeated, recalling their brief exchange. She’d held herself like a bloody queen. Every word had crackled with frost, and now she did not even deign to look at the poor girl playing the violin.

He was surprised she’d come tonight, to be honest. It did not seem the most likely venue for icy diamonds of the first water. Someone had most likely forced her to attend.

“And here I had such high hopes for your future together,” Sebastian murmured.

Harry turned to offer a scathing retort, or at least one with all the sarcasm he could muster, but the music took a turn, and the violinist once again reached a crescendo. This time it had to be the end, but the crowd was taking no chances, and a rousing round of applause erupted before she’d even completed the final note.

Harry walked alongside Sebastian as he made his way toward his grandmother. She’d come in her own carriage, Sebastian had told him, and therefore they need not wait until she was ready to depart. Still, he did need to say good-bye, and although Harry was no direct relation, he ought to make his greeting as well.

But before they could make it across the room, they were accosted by one of the Smythe-Smith mothers, calling, “Mr. Grey! Mr. Grey!”

From the intensity in her voice, Harry judged, the Earl of Newbury must be meeting with difficulties in his quest for a fertile wife.

Sebastian, to his credit, showed none of his haste to depart as he turned and said, “Mrs. Smythe-Smith, it has been such a delightful evening.”

“I am so pleased you were able to attend,” she gushed.

Sebastian smiled in return, the sort that said he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. And then he did what he always did when he wanted to get out of a conversation. He said:

“May I present my cousin, Sir Harry Valentine.”

Harry nodded politely, murmuring her name. That Mrs. Smythe-Smith thought Sebastian the bigger prize was evident; she looked directly at him as she asked, “What did you think of my Viola? Wasn’t she just splendid?”

Harry was not quite able to mask his surprise. Her daughter was named Viola?

“She plays the violin,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith explained.

“What is the violist called?” Harry could not help asking.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith glanced at him with some impatience. “Marianne.” Then back to Sebastian: “Viola was the soloist.”

“Ah,” Sebastian replied. “It was a rare treat.”

“Indeed. We are so very proud of her. We shall have to plan for solos for next year.”