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With what seemed almost a laugh, the earl took her arm and led her deeper into the gloom. The music was so faint, she almost could not hear it.

“There, now, you see, I have said it aloud, if that pleases you. And what, madam, is your excuse?”

“Excuse?” she echoed, feeling the prickles rise in her.

“Excuse, madam. Come now, you have admitted you do not hold men in high esteem, and place the prospect of remarriage considerably lower.”

“Purely a practical matter, Lord Vailmont. I simply do not wish to give away what is mine. Surely as a man of property, you can comprehend that. My property is not protected by trust, and if not for the fact that my husband preceded my father in death, it would now be in the hands of that worthless reprobate of an heir—”

Sylvia gasped and clamped her lips shut.

“Said too much, have you?” His voice had the soft quality of a cat’s purr, but so low and deep, it rumbled in her chest. “What did he do to you, Lady Ashbroughton?”

Sylvia locked her jaw tight, promising herself she would divulge no more secrets to this prying meddler.

“It is now your turn to give over, my dear. Whatever he did to you was worse than anything your husband did, wasn’t it?”

Shame rose up in her with such sudden ferocity, she thought it would overwhelm her and flood out in a rush of tears. She wanted to break and run away, but that would only betray her, perhaps even more than a spate of tears. She would do neither. She would not cry, nor run. She hardened herself as rigid as a tree—stiff, firm, unbending.

Lord Vailmont tugged on her arm, turning her, forcing her to face him, but Sylvia could not make herself look into his eyes and let the confounded moisture in her eyes give her away.

With a gentle fist, he lifted her chin. Fear coursed through her like a chill, fear that he would sense her pain, find her vulnerable spot as she had his.

“Never mind. The music is playing. Can you hear it? It’s a waltz. Dance with me.”

Her heart pounded. “Dance? Here? There is no room.” All she wanted to do was run, run all the way back to Laura Place and slam the door behind her.

“We shall confine our steps. Dance with me.” The hand he put to her waist seemed to burn all the way through the brown pelisse, her dress and shift, as if he touched bare skin as he tugged her closer into a proper dancing position.

Sylvia put her hand to his shoulder and tried to push him away, but her hand felt as weak as a starving kitten against his hard determination. It was dark. No one was around to protect her. Yet she felt something… It was not danger, for she felt far too safe with him, and if anything was dangerous, trusting in the untrustable was just that.

Sylvia leaned her brow against his lapel, knowing she should not, yet she bent to that hungering need within her, hearing his quiet humming, feeling the gentle, sensual rhythm swaying, not quite dancing.

“This is not at all a dance,” she protested, knowing her objection was futile. The wayward hand that could not push him away rested upon his shoulder, touching the longish hair that draped over the edge of his starched cravat.

“We shall contrive,” he replied in a husky whisper.

The tickle of his words grazed across her ear. Her body tensed, sensing danger as if she could smell it. He was danger itself. How could she think him otherwise? He made things happen within her, twisting and turning like ribbons writhing in the wind. Yet something felt so safe.

“I am his brother’s widow, for heaven’s sake.” Oh, why had she said that? He was so very good at picking out the truth from fragments. She didn’t want to tell him of the new Ashbroughton’s passes, leers, innuendoes, and finally, the threats, the wagers with his cupshot friends. How she packed for herself and Amalie through the night and slipped away before dawn while the brutes he called friends were sleeping off a night of drinking and carousing in the drawing room, their bodies spread over chairs and carpets like slop tossed into a pigsty.

“And he found you attractive? Perhaps he was as mesmerized by your unusual eyes as I am.” He went back to his humming, and she could feel it vibrating within her.

Sylvia’s stomach twisted. “That excuses nothing. And I am not attractive. You know very well—”

He chuckled and squeezed the hand he held, and his cheek rested atop her head. “Oh, madam, you may have a horror of a wardrobe, but it does not hide the most enchanting things about you. But you are quite right. It explains, perhaps, but does not excuse. Dance, Lady Ashbroughton.”

She had stopped. Lost in the moment with him. With a twist to her lips, she gave in again to the soothing motion, letting it eat away at the horrid memories. He had a scent of bay rum that clung to him, mingling with the strange sense of danger and excitement that was almost an aroma in itself. Yet he was warm and comforting, like a rough, wooly brown blanket on a stormy night, sitting before a fire.

“It is easy to see why the waltz is so scandalous,” she said, her words almost whispered. “It is so close. A hair’s breadth away from an embrace.”

“Or a kiss,” he said.

And he was so close, so very properly embracing her for the dance, yet their feet no longer moved. His eyes grew hazy in the moonlight, and a distant lantern lit the outline of his face. The deeply incised curves of his lips softened as if he meant to touch them to hers.

She could feel herself yielding to the subtle pressure of his hand behind her waist, and she let herself arch into his body, absorbing the feel of its hardness beneath the garments. The locket pressed between them, leaking its pungent tang of lavender that mingled with his bay rum, reminding her of the list within it. Unsettling dark eyes that were lost in the darkness of night. The overbearing tallness that seemed suddenly so protective. Oh, it was not working.

How would the kiss feel? A kiss with perhaps some meaning, some longing behind it. Did he mean to kiss her, or was he merely toying?

Only the slightest movement in the corner of his mouth spoke of something else as he licked his tongue along the lower lip, leaving a sheen barely traceable in the moonlight, and slowly his lips broadened to a gentle smile. So. He would not kiss her. And she could not help but wonder why.

“The music has stopped,” she said.

“Hmmm. So it has.” Yet he did not release the waltz embrace.

Confusion bunched up inside her chest, thick and stuffy, like a head cold. He did not want her. Yet she did not want to be wanted, so why should she object? Was it but an oblique way to show his pity? But she did not want pity. Why had it felt so good, so safe, when it was not? Stiffness built in her arms, in her spine, resistance, armor against an assault that was not an assault, yet had so easily scaled her defenses. Once again her body screamed its need to flee.

“Then, sir,” she said, pushing against his shoulder, “as we have established that you do not like me and I do not like you, perhaps it would be advisable to separate your person from my person.”

For an answer, he released her and stepped back, leaving Sylvia feeling suddenly empty. He sketched a bow that was arrogantly formal. “Your servant, madam. Thank you for the dance.”

Sylvia smiled. Perhaps she could not find the words to explain it to herself. Perhaps it was simply a thing of feeling, not of intellect. She was often slow to understand those things. But it was beautiful. Beautiful in a way words could not explain.

“I thank you, Lord Vailmont. It was a beautiful gift.”

She slipped her arm onto his, and he rested a hand atop hers. As she turned back to the macadam path, she caught sight of a tall, slender gentleman leaning against a tree, arms folded.

Lord Albert Pinkerton.

“Good evening, Lady Ashbroughton, Lord Vailmont,” Pinkerton drawled. “Do say you will join us for the fireworks.”