During the time that Rejar and Lilac were “not showing their faces,” Agatha Whumples took it upon herself to introduce and escort Prince Nickolai’s brother about the ton.

It did not take Lady Whumples long to discover that Traed did not have any clothes with him except what was on his back. Traed did not think it prudent to enlighten the elderly woman that the clothes he wore were of the finest Aviaran cloth—which meant they came with a selfcleaning spell put on them by the weaver’s guild wizard. He did not need any other clothes.

Since the man had no belongings with him, Agatha erroneously concluded that all of his baggage had been lost in transition during his travel from there (wherever there was) to here.

Unlike Rejar, Agatha would brook no refusal, insisting on bringing in a tailor for the man.

Traed proved most resistant to certain suggestions made by the tailor, choosing modestly styled, dark clothes with absolutely no frills about the sleeves and collar. When the tailor had balked at this, Traed had simply tossed the man bodily out the door.

At the time, Agatha had looked up from her reading to see the tailor sailing through the air, a stream of French invectives spewing from his mouth.

After the ordeal with the wardrobe was completed, Agatha then took the reluctant Traed to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, then on to Duchess Street to view the various rooms of treasures, followed by Westminster Abbey. It was not often Agatha had such a male at her disposal and she intended to make the most of it.

Traed seemed fascinated by the Egyptian Room and Grecian Temple in Duchess Street and particularly interested in the Rosetta Stone at Westminster, asking Agatha what mystical properties it displayed.

Agatha was not at a loss to answer and set into a lively discussion of the mysterious effluvia. Obviously the lad had a curiosity for the unknown. She set about to enlighten him.

Confused by her erroneous knowledge, Traed listened intently to Agatha’s words, causing her to believe she had found a person of similar interests.

And, in a sense, she had.

The two of them formed a strange alliance. Agatha doted on the man she called “my boy” while Traed stoically put up with her antics.

Everywhere they went, Lady Whumples made it a point to introduce Prince Nickolai’s brother to the ton. She was very proud of these new in-laws of hers and saw no reason not to show them about to her advantage.

Somehow, a story had sprung up that the Prince’s brother had been on his way to the wedding when his party was attacked by bandits. His baggage was stolen, everyone in the traveling party was killed except the brother—he was left for dead on the road—and he had missed his beloved younger brother’s wedding by just one day. The ton had great sympathy for the man who was the tragic hero of such a romantic gesture.

If Traed had heard the ridiculous tale, even he might have laughed.

On meeting the Prince’s steely-eyed brother, however, the story was immediately changed to: The brother had killed all of the bandits except the one who ran off with his baggage.

Traed, not being a Familiar like Rejar, had a more difficult time fitting in with the culture of Regency England. When Agatha tried to explain some little nuance of the society to him, Traed simply waved her off. In his fashion, he decided to ignore the rules and go about his own way as he had always done.

Instead of putting off the ton, his uncompromising behavior and steely-eyed glances at the goings on about him only served to elevate his status. He was referred to as an obvious “man of the world.”

The Prince’s enigmatic, brooding, darkly handsome older brother, who did not bear the Prince’s family name of Azov, intrigued the ton. He gave nothing of himself away—which made him all the more interesting. Whispers and rumors followed him wherever he went.

He was a Highland Chieftain; he was a brother of the blade.

He was a common Scottish reiver; he was the son of a Duke.

By his bearing there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was of noble blood. Just who was he?

It was the question on everyone’s lips.

While Agatha was merrily dragging Traed about London Town, Rejar was introducing his new wife to the joys of Familiar love.

So far, the explanations, while spirited, were still in the beginning stages. As he had always suspected, Lilac was proving herself an apt pupil, her innate sensuality coming to the fore with his expert tutelage and guidance.

For the first time in her young life she was exploring her sexuality and it was a heady tonic to the Familiar.

He could not get enough of her.

In fact, just that morning, he had decided that they had better start “showing their faces” soon because she was starting to look decidedly wan.

When he had spoken of it to her, she had hesitated, delightfully biting her lip as she pondered on whether she wanted to leave the exclusivity of his bed just yet.

At his chiding laugh, Lilac had come to her senses and, face flaming, had leapt out of bed.

Even if she did not want to admit it, he knew how much she enjoyed their lovemaking. Did she somehow think he wondered whose lips breathlessly moaned in his ear all night? Whose nails scored his back? And who did she think tightly clamped him in the throes of completion?

He chuckled, shaking his head at the sometimes illogical behavior of women.

Then again, such behavior was one of the reasons Familiar men so adored the female. It was that unpredictability which so appealed to their feline senses.

Standing in the dressing room in nothing but a shirt, he stared at his choices of apparel. Lilac had gone below earlier while he had lingered in his bath. She had come up once, a while ago, to tell him that Agatha had suggested that for her first outing as a married woman, she accept an invitation to Lady Whitney’s for an afternoon of embroidery.

Looking rather adorable, she morosely informed him, “I am not very good at embroidery.” The idea of spending the afternoon engaged in this pastime quickly irritated her. She suddenly gave him a disgusted look, declaring, “It’s all your fault!”

Rejar had been somewhat surprised at her mercurial change of mood. Only a few short hours before she had been mewing contentedly in his arms. Her attitude was not unlike that of an overly indulged child.

He would have to see what he could do about that. It appeared Lilac needed to be enlightened in ways other than intimacy.

Begin as you mean to go on, Krue had always told him.

Remembering his father’s advice, Rejar sternly advised her, “Since this is all my fault, I will personally see to bringing you to Lady Whitney’s.” He intended to go out for the afternoon with Traed and he intended to know her whereabouts at all times. He had told her, “You will wait for me there until I fetch you.”

It was no surprise that this decree did not sit well with her; she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Under normal circumstances, he might not have made such an outrageous decree. Besides the fact that she had goaded him into the display, there was something about her going around unescorted, without his protection, that made him uneasy. To his way of thinking, it was too dangerous a world. In this savage place, he had seen a man get his throat sliced simply for the few tokens in his pocket.

Lilac was much too vulnerable. Especially now that it was believed she was the wife of a prince.

The truth was, she was the mate of a Familiar. A unique Familiar. Whose sire was a high-level Charl warrior and one of the ruling council of Aviara. There were times in his own worlds, as well, when heeding the words of your mate could mean the difference between life and death.

The Familiar practice was an aid to their survival and an important lesson for her to learn—a lesson which might not be wise for him to put off.

Lilac marched with a determined stride through the bedroom toward the dressing room.

It was still chilly in the late afternoons, and she thought it best to bring a shawl with her to Lady Whitney’s.

She had no intentions of waiting for Nickolai to bring and fetch her like some treasured possession. Who did he think he was?

Your husband, a little voice said.

She ignored it.

Flinging open the door to the dressing room, she stepped inside. Her hand reached for her green woolen shawl on the shelf nearby. She didn’t see him until it was too late.

At first his back was to her.

He was standing there wearing nothing but his white lawn shirt. The gleaming length of black hair seemed all the glossier against the snowy material. Strong thigh muscles flexed as he easily stretched for a pair of boots on a shelf which would have taken a ladder for her to reach.

The movement lifted the hem of his shirt.

Two perfectly shaped globes of male backside proudly displayed themselves.

Lilac sighed. She understood perfectly well now what Leona Harcorte found so enticing. They were a lively handful. Nickolai must have heard her soft exclamation, for he smiled at her over his shoulder.

Until his sights drifted to the shawl in her hand.

The smile died on his face.

Instantly, the pupils of his blue and gold eyes flared once in what she was coming to recognize as a warning signal of his anger. Nickolai knew exactly what she was about.

He turned to face her.

That was when she realized his shirt was unbuttoned; it hung open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of…everything. All that golden-tan skin was enough to give anyone pause.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Not a good sign.

Lilac’s hand went to her throat.

“Close the door, Lilac,” he said softly.

Not stopping to question his order, she did as he said, shutting the dressing room door behind her. After all, he was standing there almost in the nude; one of the maids might walk in, although that was unlikely.

His burning gaze flicked to her shawl. “Put it down.”

So, he wasn’t concerned about someone walking in; he was furious with her planned act of rebellion. Lilac thought about not doing it, but one look into those glittering blue and gold orbs made her change her mind. She wisely walked over to the shelf near the door, replacing the shawl.

“Come to me.” His voice was quiet and deadly serious.

This time she did balk. Nickolai looked a wee bit too angry. She shook her head silently.

“Come here, Lilac.”

Such a tone required some response. She slowly approached him, lifting her chin defiantly when she stood directly in front of him.

Her defiance abruptly vanished at his shocking words. “Lift your dress,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Did you not hear me?”

She heard him all too well. “I will not!”

“Charming world, this,” his eyes flashed a warning, the silk and velvet of his voice at complete odds with the expression in their depths. “From what I understand, a wife must obey her husband. Is that not so?”

Lilac’s nostrils flared. She reluctantly lifted her skirts.

The dark, sooty lashes drifted downward. Nickolai eyed her lacy pantalettes dispassionately. “Remove them.”

She sucked in her breath. “Nickolai, I—”

“Do it”

Holding the material of her dress in one hand, she reached over to untie the ribbon at her waist. The cottony material slid down her legs, gathering about her ankles in a soft puddle. Exposing her totally to his view. Lilac wished she could hide her face. Among other things.

“Step away.”

Looking at a spot somewhere to his left, she did as he bid, gingerly stepping out of the undergarment.

He took one step forward.

She took one back.

The corners of his mouth curved mockingly. She did not like the look on his face. He took another step, forcing her back against the door.

“Nickolai, I don’t think—”

Strong masculine hands reached down, cupping her derriere. Without any visible exertion, he lifted her up, high against his chest. “Enclose my waist with your legs,” he hissed.

When she hesitated, he braced her against the door with one hand and easily positioned her to his liking with the other. She was completely open to him now. Poised on the tip of his masculinity.

He stared down at her—all male fire and smoldering heat.

Passion and fury mixed equally on his sultry face. Despite her apprehension, Lilac could feel her dewy moisture slicken the head of his manhood.

By the narrowing of his eyes, he felt it, too.

Nickolai was very angry. She had flaunted his words in his face, outwardly defying him. What would he do to her? There was something almost feral about him.

“Nickolai, don’t! I’m afraid, I—”

He sunk ruthlessly into her.

A cry somewhere between alarm and ecstasy escaped her lips.

He withdrew, then fiercely plunged into her again.

Sliding her hands beneath his shirt, Lilac gripped his shoulders. She didn’t know whether to yell in outrage or bliss. This was aggrieved ecstasy! It amazed her how fast her husband could turn from sweet to savage. Nickolai was definitely inflamed.

And he was inflaming her in a way he probably didn’t intend. The sight of that remarkable masculine face, jaw tensed, eyes flashing, struck her with a powerful surge of desire.

Bracing her against the door, he thrust into her with a steadfast, ironclad rhythm. No words came from his lips; the upward motion of his thighs gave him all the power he needed to get his point across. And not just sexually.

Lilac moaned over and over, senselessly; burying her face into the skin of his warm, sweat-damp throat. The position he held her in would not allow her to escape his masterful impalement. Even if she wanted to. The door rattled against the hinges with his constant, ramming strokes.

Still, he pounded into her.

She shivered and screamed at the exquisite torture. “You’re killing me! You’re killing me!”

But they both knew what she was really saying.

His hot, racing breath fell across her face. “Who am I to you?” he ground out between teeth clenched with his exertion and, although she did not know it, his control.

“My—my husband,” she sobbed against his neck.

“Yes.” He drove up into her. White-hot flame shot through him; exploded in him.

Lilac began to climax with him, tasting his blood as she bit sharply into his lower lip in her frenzy.

Rejar sagged heavily against her, pinning her between him and the back of the door. Trying to catch his breath, he spoke raggedly in her ear. “Do you understand me?”

She nodded, rubbing her forehead against his chin. With very few words, he had expressed himself remarkably well, had sharpened her awareness of him and what he was to her. There would be no taking herself off to Lady Whitney’s. Her husband expected her to consult with him in such matters and heed his advice.

“Good.”

She thought his lips brushed her hair, but when he released her curtly and coldly turned away, she realized she must have been mistaken. This was an untamed side of Nickolai and she never wanted to see it again. Lilac swiftly grabbed her pantalettes off the floor and fled the room.

After she had gone, Rejar yanked on his clothes with precise, irate movements.

He was still concerned about her safety; she was headstrong and youthfully rebellious. These attitudes, while charming in their way to him, could cause significant problems between them. In his anger, he had almost turned feral on her.

He was worried about that.

Lilac would not be able to handle him if he turned feral. She was too inexperienced with his kind—with any kind.

A Familiar woman innately understood her male. This unsophisticated woman did not.

Rejar rolled his shoulders to release some of the tension there. Familiar males had a way with their mates which was never questioned. The female knew that her mate always had a reason for his behavior, often an instinctual reason. Consequently, she knew he would never request anything from her without a strong sense of necessity. To do otherwise was not their way.

Female Familiars trusted their mates in all things; for they knew the male cherished and protected his family, even at the cost of his own life.

Lilac knew nothing about instinctual reasons.

He licked his lip, tasting the blood. He remembered her wildness and smiled halfheartedly. Well, she certainly had the passion to become like a Familiar woman. Maybe in time, she would come to understand him.

Before leaving the dressing room, he thoughtfully retrieved her shawl, bringing it with him downstairs. The weather had a habit here in Ree Gen Cee Ing Land of turning raw.

She would need it when he escorted her home from Lady Whitney’s.

His dutiful wife was waiting for him in the parlor when he came downstairs.

The picture of abject misery, she sat primly in her chair, back straight, hands folded in her lap, staring straight at the wall. Rejar shook his head disbelievingly at the tragic melodrama portrayed before him.

Agatha and Traed entered the room from the doors which led out to the garden. Agatha was adjusting her pince-nez as she expostulated on some topic, while Traed walked at her side, hands clasped at the small of his back, listening to her with a patience only he possessed.

“Lilac! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

In keeping with her role as the pitiful martyr, Lilac sighed dolefully. “Yes, Auntie Whumples; what is it?”

“Why, did you not hear it? There was a terrible racket! It appears there is a shutter loose somewhere on the house—the banging was dreadful! Traed and I just went out to investigate, although we couldn’t find anything loose.”

Lilac turned scarlet.

She risked a glance at Nickolai. Did he realize just what banging noises Auntie had heard?

Blue/gold eyes twinkling, her rogue of a husband slowly ran his tongue over the little red spot she had nipped on his lip. Abashed, she turned away from him.

His low laugh just reached her.

Oh, how she detested him!

Traed came alongside Rejar. Glancing knowingly at the Familiar’s lip, he murmured facetiously, “Have you been to battle, Rejar?”

He grinned, sending Traed a cocky look. “Mmm.”

Traed’s eyes danced with sport. “Perhaps there is some Aviaran warrior in you after all.”

“Only, in certain parts,” Rejar mouthed to him as he walked over to fetch his wife.

Traed coughed.

“It is a little early in the day, but what do you think, Traed?”

Traed ta’al Yaniff gazed around the smoky interior of the gaming hell at 77 Jermyn Street. Everywhere he looked, men were engaged in various kinds of wagering.

“This is what the men here do for a pastime?” he asked in disgust.

“Yes. Sons often wager entire family fortunes.”

Traed chuckled. “Krue would knock your head against a wall, Rejar.”

“Only if I lost.”

Both men grinned at each other.

“What is this game here?” Traed walked over to a green baize table.

“It is called hazard.”

“What are the rules?”

“Do you see those two cubes with the spots on the sides? They are called dice. A caster throws the dice until he scores spots numbering five, six, seven, eight, or nine. This score is called ‘the main.’”

“Then what?”

“Then he throws again. If his second score equals the main, he wins all the tokens. If he throws anything other than his main, he continues to throw until he gets the main—here he loses—or he gets his second score, in which case he wins. However, if he throws a two or a three, it is called ‘crabs’ and he loses at once.”

Traed was not impressed. “Where is the challenge?”

“Ah! That is called ‘hedging’ or knowing the odds. Someone good at hedging can ensure his victory by the bet he places.”

“Show me.”

Rejar placed a bet on the table after the caster had thrown his second score. By carefully watching the throws, he was easily able to figure out the odds in his favor. So he was somewhat surprised when he lost his tokens.

Traed looked at him.

Rejar rubbed his ear. “I meant to do that…to show you how the game is played.”

“Of course you did.” Traed glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

The caster “threw out” and the dice were passed to Rejar. He picked them up, weighing them in his palm. The hazard table at 77 Jermyn Street was notoriously crooked. Rejar, with his Familiar abilities, could tell at once that the cubes were not balanced.

He leaned over and spoke in Traed’s ear. “The dice are askew. The game is set up for a loss.”

“Do not play.”

“I believe I can compensate for the imbalance in my throw.”

Traed raised his eyebrow. Familiars had an excellent sense of balance and coordination; he probably could. Traed swept his hand, palm side up, in front of the table, indicating to Rejar he thought this was an excellent idea. “By all means, brother.”

Rejar grinned at him.

He threw a main of 8. His second throw was also an 8.

Shouts of, “By God, he nicked it!” ran throughout the hall. Soon, the area was swarmed with players converging on the table.

“I’ve got some blunt on you, my man. Don’t disappoint me—deliver the ready.”

At the insidious voice coming from across the table, Rejar looked up.

And went stock still.

The man, avidly watching his tokens, did not notice Rejar’s stance. Traed did. “What is it, Rejar?”

“This man—I will destroy him.”

Instantly, warning bells went off in Traed’s mind. “Why? What has he done to you?”

“Nothing—to me. He killed a child in the street.”

Traed’s features went to stone. “How?”

“He ran over him with his conveyance. I was too late to save the boy. He did not even stop.”

“Are you sure it is him?”

“It is a face I will never forget.” Traed could understand that; the man had a cruel, evil look about him.

There was one thing Traed could not abide and that was mistreatment of any living thing, especially a weaker life form. His arm went to the hilt of the retracted light saber he had concealed within his waistband.

Rejar’s hand on his arm stopped him. “He is mine.”

“Take my blade, then.”

Rejar shook his head. “I will do this the Familiar way.”

Traed did not approve. “Challenge him and be done with it.”

“There are worse things than death to a man such as this.”

“Such as?”

“It will not be today, but over time, I will make his worst nightmare become his new reality. Watch…”

Traed was surprised at Rejar’s insight. The words he spoke were wise. Wise beyond his years. There was more here than he let on…

Rejar spoke to the man, a sharp smile carving the planes of his handsome face. “I will do the best I can. To whom do I give the pleasure of winning?”

“Lord Rotewick. And you’d best be winning me a great deal. I’ve had a nasty day; I’m not in the best of moods.”

“Uh-oh. That be Rotewick ’is-self.” Traed looked down, surprised to see Jackie at his side. They had left the man outside by the coach.

“Best tell yer brother to watch ’is step; the man is a fencing master, ’e is. Killed twenty men. Rumor what ’as it ’e once skewered a man dead for spilling white wine on ’is red coat only to later quip white wine ne’er went none with red—warn ’is Princeship, sir.”

“Do not be concerned, Jackie, my brother can fend for himself.”

“That may be true, but an extra set of peepers ne’er ’urt no one.”

Traed smiled. “I will watch over him. What are you doing in here? Did we not leave you by the coach?”

Jackie grinned sheepishly. “I got a yen fer the hells sir. I met yer brother in one. ’Tis my ruination and that’s a fact.”

Traed nodded prosaically.

Rejar shook the dice in his palm. “Leave it to me. Your mood is in my hands, Rot Wick.”

“That’s Rotewick. Rote rhymes with smote, my dear fellow.”

“Rhymes with fot.” Traed murmured in an aside to Rejar, causing the Familiar to grin. Fot was an Aviaran word referring to a certain recess in the body. The description fit Rotewick perfectly.

“In my country, my dear fellow, we say Rot Wick.” Rejar managed this straight-faced, even lifting his midnight eyebrow arrogantly at the end.

“And what is this country?” Rotewick disdainfully took some snuff.

“Russia. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Prince Nickolai Azov.”

Rotewick clicked his heels together, nodding a bow. “Forgive me, your Highness.” The pompous man was fuming.

Traed’s peridot eyes danced with suppressed mirth. Rejar was at it.

“Nonsense, Rot Wick. I have nothing to forgive you for.” Rejar threw the dice, scoring a 5. His second throw garnered a 9.

“Anything but a two, three, five, eleven or twelve, yer Princeship!”

Rejar threw a look at Jackie, who had somehow muscled up to the table to place his own bets. “Who is watching the coach, Jackie?”

“Got that covered—don’t ye worry ’bout nothin’ ’cepting throwing that nine, yer Princeship.”

Rejar rolled his eyes and threw the 9.

The crowd cheered.

Traed took his elbow. “What are you doing?” He nodded Rotewick’s way.

“Give me some time, Traed. Leave a hunt in the proper hands.”

Traed stood down.

For the rest of the afternoon, Rejar threw and nicked it.

Lilac stared petulantly at the stitches stretched across her hoop.

The sampler was supposed to say “A Happy Home Is Blessed” but it looked more like “A Naddy Momc Is Piffed.” She sighed. She was not very good at this. Perhaps Nickolai would not ask to see her creation. Shoulders slumped, she attempted a little lilac flower on the edge, oblivious to the women’s comments around her regarding their husbands and marital duty.

If Lilac had been paying more attention to the conversation, she would have realized just how revealing the ladies were getting. With each stitch they took, the bolder they got.

The circle eyed the new Princess Azov with unabashed curiosity. Everyone was dying to know about the Prince. How had the handsome buck performed? Was he as promising as he looked? It was noted that the new bride, while reticent, had a becoming bloom to her cheeks which had not been there previously.

Lady Whitney gave a knowing look to Lady Hallston and started the conversation by saying, “Philip”—Phillip was Lady Whitney’s elderly husband—“is a once-a-weeker at best. But I can always count on him after a rousing hunt; it seems to get his juices going.”

“Lord Whitney has juices?” Lady Henry quipped, causing a round of snickering.

“Well, he thinks he does.” Lady Whitney smirked. Philip Whitney was twice her age and three times her weight. She had been taking lovers for years.

“What I can’t stand is when they paw you to death.” Lady Hallston took the helm.

“Oh, I know!” Lilac stopped stitching for a moment. Even if she couldn’t sew, she could at least try to join in the conversation. “And that business when they lick you all over…”

Twelve needle-baring hands froze in midair.

Preoccupied, Lilac attempted a French knot, continuing on, “And then there’s that thing they do with their teeth…”

All needlework was immediately cast aside.

The women avidly leaned forward, eager to hear whatever choice bit the new bride was unwittingly giving out.

“Thing they do with their teeth?” Lady Sugarton prompted.

“You know—when they nip you like you’re a choice morsel or something! Or that other thing…”

“What other thing?” Lady Whitney asked breathlessly.

“When they clamp their teeth on the back of your neck to hold you in place so they can…well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Several of the women, eyes glazed, gasped.

“I swear I must have Nickolai’s teeth marks all over me.” She didn’t—Rejar had been very careful with her tender skin, but Lilac didn’t know that.

“Men do have their odd habits, don’t they?” That gorgeous hell-born rogue of a Prince bit her? All over. Lady Whitney began fanning herself vigorously.

“Mmm, they certainly do.” Lilac frowned as the French knot unraveled. Attempting another, she added distractedly, “Why, when I finish—”

“Don’t you mean when he finishes, my dear?” Lady Henry interrupted, from the lofty viewpoint of years of experience with the opposite sex.

Lilac waved her hand. “Goodness, no! Nickolai takes forever to finish.”

Twelve pairs of eyes bulged at the very thought.

“Sometimes,” Lilac blithely went on, “I finish four or five times before he does.”

Virginia Hallston’s scissors crashed to the floor.

At that precise moment, the door opened and the butler announced, “Prince Azov—here for his wife.”

Rejar walked into the Whitney drawing room.

Every female eye turned to stare at him with a such an intense scrutiny that his step momentarily faltered. What was this all about?

Briefly, he surveyed the room with a questioning expression. The women just kept gawking at him.

Spotting his wife in the far side of the circle of women, he said, “Lilac, are you ready to leave?”

“What? Oh, Nickolai, I didn’t hear you arrive.”

The twelve sets of eyes shifted to Lilac, incredulously. How could she be married to this magnificent specimen of a man and be so unaware? Several of the ladies present wanted to seal her up in the Egyptian sarcophagus which graced the center of Lady Whitney’s drawing room.

“Um, yes, I’m ready.” Lilac quickly stood, stuffing her erstwhile project into her bag. She said her good-byes to everyone, thanking Lady Whitney for inviting her.

Nickolai draped something around her, his hands lingering at her shoulders. She looked down. It was the green woolen, shawl. Still within his embrace, she looked up at him.

“I do not want you to get cold.” He spoke in a very intimate voice.

The shawl and his tone of voice brought to mind what had transpired between them earlier that day. Lilac’s cheeks got noticeably rosier.

They stared at each other for an endless moment.

Even to the casual observer, the regard they had for each other was fraught with sizzling sensuality.

Then Prince Nickolai took his wife’s hand and, saying farewell, left with her.

Several women began fanning themselves at once, and Virginia Hallston rang for cold drinks for the ladies.

Ice cold, she informed the butler.