Abigail’s pulse still struck hard blows in her veins. The Marquess of Harland… The Marquess of Harland…

Had that happened? Had she danced with him? Him?

Or had it all been a dream? A lovely, wondrous, wholly impossible dream?

She made her way around to the other side of the house passing through the proper gardens this time on her way to gather the things she’d left. The air seemed colder than it had when she’d arrived, the gown having been made for well-heated spaces, such as the ballroom.

One night. One chance.

No Edward. Was she sorry? She should have been. He’d been her reason for everything. They’d loved each other.

But not enough.

Stars gleamed and glinted in the serenity of the black heavens.

What foolish nonsense. It was like she was a girl of fourteen instead of a grown woman of—well, of an age to know better.

The only thing that mattered now was returning home to the welcome of a warm bed and a blissful sleep. Tomorrow she’d claim to be unwell in order to rest and recover from her foolish night. Her mistress wasn’t overly compassionate on the subject of illnesses, being of a robust constitution and the sort of character who wondered loudly at those doing what she could never imagine doing herself, but Abigail was too ragged to care.

She stopped beside a stone fountain, water turned off for the season, for a last look at the back of Mandeville house. She turned her head up to the nymph frozen in a graceful twist above the empty basin, form all but abstract monochrome planes under the cover of so deep a night with nothing but a low moon and starlight shining above. “Did that really happen? Did I really dance with him?”

The ghost of his body brushing up against hers elicited a shiver. It’d happened only once, and yet each time the memory played through her mind, it was like living the moment for the first time all over again.

The windows of the ballroom still glowed. Would he think of her as she would think of him? What was he doing this very moment?

She brushed her first two fingers over her mouth, her trembling breath warm through the gloves. The idea of never meeting again was heavy with melancholy. Never knowing what the pressure of his lips upon hers would feel like.

But that was foolish. She’d risen from the status of her low birth to become a respectable companion—that was as far as she would ever go.

To think of daring to dream about herself and a marquess engaging in a kiss—in even just one kiss—well, such things didn’t happen. She might as well have wished to be crowned Queen of the Fey.

Besides, a man like him probably kissed with an urgency her body wouldn’t be able to withstand. He’d coax things from her, responses too lurid for contemplation—the sort for which she wouldn’t want to have to apologize.

It was time to put away wishes. Put away dreams and fairytales. She had a fine life. She had plenty to eat, good clothing, all the heat she pleased, and even a bit of savings, small, but growing. For all her mistress’s faults, she treated Abigail well. Even perhaps esteemed her on good days. Her mistress’s occasional foul humor aside, Abigail genuinely enjoyed the woman’s company, oddities of character and all. She had no need of wanting more. None at all.

At last, she dared a glance upward, speaking in a low whisper to that little sparkling heavenly gemstone she’d picked out above all the others. “I understand now. I have my answer.”

Flesh erupting in tiny bumps, she rubbed her arms up and down. It was too cold not to keep moving.

A few minutes later, she found where she’d hidden her things and placed the cloak about her shoulders. She shivered, the cloak almost as cold as the night air itself.

Without quite meaning to, her eye fastened back on the star she’d wished upon before setting out on this mad quest. With a sigh, she dropped her head. “So much for last chances, I suppose.”

Instead of Edward’s face coming to the forefront of her mind at the whispered words, however, another man’s features appeared.

Time to tuck the dream of Edward away forever. Why had she clung to false hope long past the time when hope had been extinguished?

Just as she was about to do away with her mask, a large figure strode from the shadows.

Hope sprang in her breast, warm and dizzy with all the foolish absurdities she’d not five minutes ago been trying abandon forever.

The night was dark. But enough light shone to reveal the line and height of him. Harland.

Heart in her throat, Abigail’s lips parted. She might as well have been struck mute by a god of old for all words could have been coaxed from her tongue just then.

He stood above her. The Marquess of Harland himself, in all his perfect, masculine glory.

A half-smile touched his mouth. “Come back for me have you, my fair one?”

He couldn’t wreak this torture of temptation upon her. They should have been parting, not giving in to secret wishes. She drew herself up and tried to sound haughty and affronted. “Most certainly not.”

“I have but one question for you—one thing I ask.” He took in a trembling breath. “Can I have tonight? Only tonight, that’s all I want. Give me until dawn.”

“What—what precisely are you asking?”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you. Stay with me.” His voice was rough and low with vulnerability that struck Abigail in a low, tender place deep within her.

What he was asking, though—however much she yearned to say yes, she could not. Such things…well. They weren’t done. “Stay with you?” Abigail shook her head, a battle raging within her that she might not betray her true feelings. “I really don’t think—no. It’s—it’s—” What was it? She licked her lips and leveled her chin. “It’s inappropriate.”

* * *

Harland paused at her refusal. “I think you want to.”

“You want me to want to, you mean.”

The longing in him—it was assuredly not one-sided. “I don’t deny, I wish for your company more than anything. And being here with you, it feels good. It feels right.”

Harland must know the woman. He must. To have such an immediate reaction to a stranger—no, it was impossible. The sort of pulling sensation inside of himself drawing him closer to her—that didn’t happen between people not previously acquainted.

“Well, what if I did? We can’t all go about taking whatever we please whenever we please. The world wouldn’t work.”

“I’m not asking for the world to work, I’m asking for you to stay with me…only for the next few hours. Nothing more.”

“I’m not going to go to bed with you.”

He could hardly blame her. Though the need coiled tight and warm and a little bit hard between his legs, it was, rather surprisingly, not what he wanted most. “Pity that, of course. But that’s not my aim, I promise you. I want to be near you a while longer. I know a place we could go where we’ll be completely alone. Whatever you say, I shall abide by. You have my word.”

“And then?”

“And then you shall never have to see me ever again. I promise.” The tenor of his voice shifted. “Tell me, fair lady, what is it you please?”

“I should please for this vice to be driven from my soul.”

“Truly?” Harland’s lungs went tight. He was unused to rejection. From anyone else, it would have been either an annoyance or an impertinence. With her, something else hung in the balance. Something he wouldn’t examine too closely.

Her demeanor relaxed, and, giving her head a little shake, her mouth bent into wistful pleasure. “No. Not truly.”

“Should you like to stay with me?”

She reached for his hand. Taking it, their fingers knit. She squeezed. “I think—I think I would.”