Good Lord. Was she, Abigail Sutton, daughter of a gamekeeper and companion to Mrs. Gordon, dancing with the Marquess of Harland?

He didn’t recognize her. Of course not. Why would he have?

It lent a delicious freedom. With the mask, she was made bold. She should never speak to a man of such stature as the marquess, much less take a position opposite him in a dance set.

Yet here she was. He bowed and she responded with the most elegant curtsy she could, aware that the movement was little more than trying to emulate what she’d observed of her betters. If she hadn’t been raised as an unconventional playmate to the daughter of the manor house that employed her father, she’d never have had the opportunity to study under a dancing master—by way of standing in as a practice partner to her friend, more often in the male role than not—and this moment wouldn’t have been possible.

For so infamous a ball, the dance could almost have been respectable.

Almost.

She was supposed to be looking for Edward. What was she doing dancing? She could have refused—not that the marquess had given her much of a choice initially, but he certainly had most pointedly done so before leading her across the floor.

An irreverent part of her hadn’t been able to say no. It’d been like he’d issued a challenge, and when he had, she’d risen up ready to prove herself worthy.

Worthy to whom? Of what? What did she have to prove? Abigail already knew herself worthy of Edward. That was enough. She didn’t need more. She didn’t want more.

Yet when her palm pressed into the marquess’s and they looked at each other treading around in a circle for the dance—her looking up at him, him looking down at her, captured by their unbroken stare—the rest of the world faded to insignificance. The color of his eyes behind the mask was indeterminate, but the distant memory from long, long ago of their malachite depths flew into her mind from nowhere. The cut of his nose was long and straight, echoing its male power along the square precision of his jaw.

Oh, he was something to see, surely. Quite remarkable as far as male physicality went.

But his allure went deeper. Far deeper. He possessed a certain quality—an ineffable quality that compelled Abigail closer, made her want to be near him.

It wasn’t right. She was here for Edward. It was Edward she wanted. Edward with whom she could have a happy future.

The marquess—what could she be to him? Little more than an object of temporary amusement?

The idea should have repulsed her. It should have driven her from the floor, heedless to whether or not she made a scene. She was nothing to these people. They were nothing to her.

Leaving the arms of the marquess, though…it was far too great an obstacle to overcome.

It was just one dance. It didn’t mean anything.

Her hand met his. Warmth bloomed in her belly at the touch. So simple. So right. And not remotely similar to anything she’d ever experienced with Edward, even that once when she’d allowed him the liberty of a kiss.

The marquess was an entirely different man. This was an entirely different night. It couldn’t mean anything, this new and strange sort of longing that wanted to bring her closer to a stranger.

Except it did. In the war playing out within her, the wrong man was winning.

Then the dance steps brought them to pass beside each other and their bodies brushed together. Abigail shivered, warming in places she didn’t dare name, impressing the sensations upon her brain.

Too soon it was over and he was leading her through masses of people. A bittersweet realization surfaced that the memory of the dance would have to last a lifetime. Her heart dipped dangerously low, like it’d been replaced by a leaden ball that she hadn’t the internal buoyancy to support.

“You haven’t sighted him, have you?”

She faced the marquess. They were alone. He’d brought her into the lower gallery flanking the ballroom, deep into the shadows against the windows where condensation clung to the clear panes. Somewhere along the way, he’d picked up a small crystal of lemonade, which he pressed into her hand with a murmured warning about the dangers of becoming overheated.

“Sighted him?”

She sipped the cool drink, which hadn’t been over-sweetened and lingered tart on her tongue. “Oh. Yes. I mean no—no, I didn’t see anything of him.”

“What does he look like?”

“What?”

“So I can help you.”

“Oh.” What did Edward look like? Precisely the question she didn’t want asked. Abigail hesitated. Lord, it hadn’t been quite so long as that. She should have been able to picture him effortlessly. Wasn’t he her heart’s desire? “Fair hair. Brown eyes. A rather pleasant looking fellow.” Far less imposing than the marquess, with his soaring height and the inky blackness of his locks.

The ball went on. The lemonade disappeared. The number of guests in the room thinned. It seemed a more and more hopeless business.

The marquess waited with her.

“You don’t have to stay, sir.” Abigail’s well-schooled tongue fought to rebel, trying to say my lord each and every time.

“It’ll be dawn in a few hours, madam.”

What? Abigail started, turning to the window, but all that was there was her own reflection mottled with the droplets—and the marquess towering behind her like he’d been heaven-sent to guard her through the night.

There weren’t so many people left in the room that she could have overlooked Edward among them.

Abigail looked away. “Apparently I wished upon the wrong star.”

“I’m sorry?”

She turned to the marquess, head low, unable to meet his eye. “I’d best be going.”

“Let me see you out. I’ll have your carriage called—”

“No. Please.”

She must leave without drawing attention to what she’d done. Going out the back to retrieve her things wouldn’t be possible. She’d have to go around the house for the second time tonight.

“What sort of host would I be if—” He bit hard into his lower lip.

She ignored his slip. “Don’t mistake me. You’ve been very kind—and when I’ve imposed upon you so terribly. The dance was…” …was what would set her heart alight each and every time she replayed the memory for the entire remainder of her life.

What could she say that would be enough? Only one thing might hope to approach expressing the depths of her feeling. “Thank you.”

* * *

She was leaving—walking away from him this very moment, her hair catching the light as she made her way through the crush.

How would he find her again? Fact was, he wasn’t going to be able to.

Unless…

Harland couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. Too much unfinished business remained between them. Maybe he could live the rest of his life without knowing her name or where she’d come from, but without having taken the chance for a kiss?

It was like his heart was being placed into a box to be put away and forgotten.

She wouldn’t turn back for one last look. She was walking out of his life without a backward glance, so why should he—

But then she did. She paused. Their eyes met, one of the paste gems of her mask catching the candlelight and throwing off a glint. Her lips parted.

He very nearly whispered for her to come back.

She turned again and continued on her way.

Harland motioned to a footman and spoke low. “That woman there wearing no jewels with the Titian hair and the—” The gown that appeared to have been woven from strands of starlight.

Devil take him, but if he started talking like that to the servants—to anyone—he’d be locked away in a madhouse. “—that, er, shimmering silk gown, a color between—” Between ice and celadon. “—between light blue and light green?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Report back to me whose carriage she calls.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Harland had but one duty left as a host: Calling an end to the ball.

Traditionally, this wasn’t done until first light. There were murmurs of surprise when he did so now. But once he’d spoken, there was nothing for it. The ball was over.

Waiting, he kept out of the way, pacing slowly about in an idle manner. Crammed with people, the room seemed small. When it was empty, it became obvious how absurdly sized it was for a space used so seldom.

The musicians on the balcony packed their instruments. Footmen began to clean the various detritus strewn about the room.

The marquess came upon a servant collapsed in a chair, his upper body sprawled over the table beside him, arm precariously close to abandoned crystal glasses and goblets of various sizes, mouth open.

Harland touched the boy’s shoulder. The boy jumped awake with a snort, blinking rapidly as if trying to regain his bearings. Catching sight of who stood before him, the footman leapt to his feet, his tongue tripping over itself to manage an apology.

“It’s all right, lad. Davies, is it?” Harland gestured to him. “See yourself off to bed. If you’ve any trouble from Mr. Webb about it, send him to me.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I couldn’t. Not when everyone else—”

“I’ll be dismissing them to their beds momentarily. You’ve all worked hard and the cleaning can wait a few days, I’m sure. It’s Christmas.”

In the name of the servants tasked with serving at the Harland Christmas Eve Night of Debauchery—er, Ball, rather—he should call a halt to the whole business next year. What an absurd tradition. Why had he clung to upholding it for so long? He was the marquess—had been for years. If that didn’t grant certain freedoms and privileges, what would?

Davies saw himself off. The footman charged with following the masked woman appeared at the other side of the room and began heading for the marquess.

Harland’s lungs squeezed in anticipation. If he didn’t want to know her identity, he had to speak and speak now before the servant did. The right thing to do would be to let her go. For what would he do if he found her? Chances were, they wouldn’t suit. He wasn’t on the market for a…

His insides clenched involuntarily as he came dangerously close to thinking of that frightful “w” word.

He cleared his throat. He’d have cleared his entire being if doing so were possible—a full-bodied cough to expel the sticky residue left by the word. The bad taste lingering on more than his tongue, the souring of his stomach, and the clenching of his hands.

True—it would be his duty to marry. Someday. In ten years, perhaps. And he would—just never mind the fact that seven years ago he’d also told himself he’d marry in ten years.

What he should be doing was falling to his knees in gratitude that the woman hadn’t wanted more from him.

One dance with her, that’s what he’d had. The footman strode purposefully, only a dozen paces away. This was his last chance to decide whether or not it would be enough. It should have been enough. But was it?

His insides pulled with a previously unknown yearning.

There it was inside of him—his answer. Harland had to know.

The footman bowed before him.