Every muscle in Faith’s body was poised to flee, but she could not save herself.

As happened every week at this time, four-and-twenty pairs of curious, engaged eyes scrutinized her every move across the dance floor. As they paired up with each other, every student attempted to copy her exactly.

Faith tried to hide a grimace. She didn’t even wish to copy herself. Against all odds, she was in the one place she had sworn to never again find herself:

Lord Hawkridge’s arms.

It was heaven. It was hell. It was home and memories and broken promises. Dancing with him was like nothing she’d ever dreamed and everything she’d ever feared. He was the same temptation he’d always been. The same poison. The same mirage. She shook her head to clear it.

How ironic was it that, so many years after they had found and lost each other, she and Hawkridge should share their first public dance?

Back when she had been young and hopeful and desperately trying to fit in with a crowd like his, she would’ve done anything to have a name on her dance card. Hawkridge’s name. For a few short months, she had even hoped it would be possible.

But she was not one of his exalted set, then or now. And he was not of hers. The difference was, she now accepted her place. She had carved out a life of her own. People of her own. A family of her own.

Here, in the boarding school she managed with her best friend, was the one place where a woman as unremarkable as Faith held any power over a lord as well-connected as him.

The moment Heath Grenville arrived to take over as dancing master, Faith could show Lord Hawkridge out the front door and insist he never ever return.

That knowledge was the one thing keeping her mechanical limbs in motion. That, and the sense of rightness she’d always felt in his arms. Even though she knew it was wrong. That as soon as the music stopped, reality would come rushing back. Cold and unyielding. The tear in her heart, reopened.

This was just a waltz. It wasn’t forever. It wouldn’t even happen again.

She just had to survive a few minutes more in the arms of a man whose every aspect reminded her of the girlish dreams she’d once believed would someday come true.

From this position, she could not keep an eye on the front corridor in the hopes of espying the late arrival of Dahlia’s brother. Instead, all Faith could see was the angle of Lord Hawkridge’s jaw, the slant of his cheekbones, the dark curve of his eyelashes as his hazel eyes gazed soulfully into hers.

It was all so familiar. Every dream, every memory, an echo of moments just like this. Moments she’d feared would never happen again. Moments she had prayed would not. He was her biggest mistake and her greatest weakness. She should not thrill at his touch. At being the object of his focus, if only for one dance.

No matter how loudly Bryony played her Stradivarius, Faith knew from experience that the asynchronous stomping of two dozen little girls was more than capable of drowning out music, no matter how beautifully it was played.

Yet tonight she could hear nothing at all over the pounding of her own heart.

He smelled the same. Like man and musk and promises. He smelled like a lord. Like a daydream. Like a nightmare. He smelled so painfully familiar it was like discovering a part of herself that had been lost and finding the pieces no longer fit back together.

If her fingers trembled in his, Faith could not tell. He gripped her hands so firmly she could not possibly run away… Or slap him, if that was what he feared.

He need not. She had no moral high ground from which to exact vengeance.

At first, perhaps. At first, absolutely. He had ruined her. There was no excuse possible for not doing the right thing.

She had been so young back then. So naïve. So hopeful.

And then she’d received the letter.

Despite tossing it into the fire where it belonged, Faith still recalled every word of that precise, no-nonsense script. When he had inquired as to whether their ill-advised encounter had incurred a permanent consequence, she hadn’t completely understood the question.

Possibly because it had arrived on impersonal sheet of parchment rather than direct from his lips.

When she realized he was saying that the only possible circumstances in which a lordling like him would even consider leg shackling himself to a peasant like her, was if an unwanted child forced his hand in the matter, she had been furious.

What woman wanted a man who didn’t want her? A life of inferiority and resentment with the man she’d foolishly believed loved her would have been consigning herself to a hell worse than anything she could imagine.

Perhaps, unwanted pregnancy or not, he still wouldn’t have married her. That was not what men of his station did. Most likely, the cold dispassion of his letter was Lord Hawkridge’s discreet way of enquiring as to whether the stupid country girl required hackney fare to someplace where their “indiscretion” could disappear.

She had expected so much more from him. From herself. From love.

Of course a child could not come from a single union that lasted scarcely more than an hour. She would not embarrass herself chasing after a rogue who had no wish to be captured.

With all the scraps of pride and dignity she could muster, she had grabbed her quill with shaking fingers and informed him in no uncertain terms that he was under no obligation to so much as lay eyes on her ever again. That if what they’d shared was such a mistake, she had no intention of making another.

Somehow, she managed to force her steps to keep time with the music.

Being in his arms felt so wrong. So right. So infuriating. How dare he show up after all this time? Of course he could whisk her about the dance floor with the grace of a prince. He’d had years of practice. Scores of other dances. Other women. Her hand in his wasn’t special to him at all. It was perfunctory.

She wished she could feel the same. Or better yet, feel nothing at all.

Her family was no longer poor. She was no longer hopeless. But he was still a lord, capable of doing anything he wished in or out of the law with virtually no repercussions.

If he would not wed her back when their nights were full of stolen kisses, he certainly would not do so now. Who knew how he might react? He had the power to take Christina away. Perhaps even take Faith to court for fraud or child-stealing and any other charges ton barristers could bring against her.

And he might. He would be furious.

She could never let him know.

Her heart stuttered as she forced herself to keep dancing. To ignore the feel of his palm against the small of her back. To waltz as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Only recently, after Dahlia had wed Hawkridge’s half-brother, did Faith discover how deeply his father’s infidelity had scarred him. Hawkridge hated his father as much as he loved him. Vowed to be nothing like him. Promised his half-brother Simon that he would never make the same mistakes. Swore to be an exemplary father. When Hawkridge sired children, he would raise them under his roof as their father had been too selfish to do.

He would rather die than sire a bastard.

Except that was precisely what he’d done. And he had no idea. Because Faith hadn’t told him in time.

Not that it would stop him from taking Christina from her now. Hawkridge would believe raising his daughter himself was the right choice. The only choice.

And to punish Faith for her deception, he would ruin her even worse than before.

Her feet tripped. She gulped and tried to tamp down her rising panic.

Whether she found herself in prison or simply alone in a big empty house that had once contained her daughter, the moment Hawkridge learned the truth she would never see either one of them again.

“Bryony is a prodigy at the violin, is she not?” he asked, as if Faith’s entire fate did not rest in the palm of his hand.

She forced herself to nod. It was true. Almost all of the Grenville siblings were musical prodigies. “Yes. She is remarkable.”

His eyes focused on hers. “Do you play?”

Faith shook her head. “I enjoy music, although it is not something I myself can produce.”

What was she babbling about? God help her. She was trying so hard to hide her fears and act normal that it was hard to follow the conversation.

This waltz was longer than any musical score Faith had ever endured in her life.

Bryony, the blasted traitor, must be dragging out the moment on purpose to give them time to talk. That witch would be next in line for a throttling. If the bloody music would ever end.

Lord Hawkridge’s gaze searched hers. “You seemed so lost in thought. What were you thinking about?”

Faith bit back a hysterical laugh before it could escape her throat. What if he could see in her eyes that she was hiding something from him?

She tried to calm her breaths. He wasn’t going to take Christina from her. All she had to do was act natural a few minutes longer.

And definitely not look into his eyes.

“Dare I hope you’ll quit London as soon as the Season is through?” So what if the question was rude. He expected it. And probably wouldn’t notice the trembling in her hands. She hoped.

Besides, men loved to talk about themselves, did they not? Especially if they were rich, titled, or powerful. “Hawkridge” was bound to be Lord Hawkridge’s favorite subject.

To her surprise, he winced rather than began to boast.

“Honestly?” He hesitated. “The Season I shared with you was the happiest I’ve ever been. Everything I do, I do for the estate, for the title, for my tenants, my mother. It is exhausting. And it is never enough.”

Faith clenched her teeth, angry that his unexpected confession engendered the same instant empathy she had always felt toward him. He did not deserve it. Hawkridge had behaved dishonorably to Faith, but he was the one who had suffered?

She pursed her lips. Fortune had smiled upon her despite him. She loved her life, her family, her daughter, her friends, her career. Her loved ones adored her right back. Believed her to be strong and capable and worthy of respect.

Lord Hawkridge’s intense gaze suddenly swung her way again. “Your school is marvelous. I am impressed, even more so than I expected to be.”

“I can’t take all the credit,” Faith said quickly. “Or even most of it. Everything you see was Dahlia’s idea. Her dream, her sweat, her tears. I came on board when she realized she could no longer do it alone. Thank the stars. I wouldn’t change this for the world. The students are wonderful.”

Hawkridge beamed at her as if he hadn’t heard a word about Dahlia. “With your love of children and your love of books, it’s no wonder they love you. You must be a brilliant headmistress.” His eyes softened. “One of my favorite memories is my head in your lap as you read aloud to me during a picnic along the Serpentine. The expressiveness of your voice has always had a way of transporting me to another world.”

Her throat caught at the unexpected compliment and she glanced away.

Faith wished she could transport into another world right now. One where she wasn’t sharing the air with the one man capable of stealing her breath. A world where her heart, life, and daughter were not at risk. A world where she didn’t find herself in the unenviable position of wishing to undo the past.

If only he hadn’t sent that terrible letter. If only she had not responded so hotly before discovering herself with child. If only she had been born to his class, or him to hers.

If only, if only, if only.

This was the world they lived in. The decisions they were forced to live with. The past could neither be altered nor undone, no matter how good he smelled or how easily he twisted up her insides until all she could think about was him.

Faith jerked her head up as the interminable waltz finally drew to a close.

So as not to find herself in his arms for so much as another moment, she immediately declared herself a “male” partner for the girls and swept the closest student into Bryony’s next minuet.

Although it killed her to do so, she forced herself not to look at him again until the hour was through, but she could not trust herself to personally escort him to the door.

Instead, Faith thanked the school’s unexpected guest and dismissed her students all in one breath and raced up the stone staircase to murder her best friend.

Dahlia barely glanced up from the paperwork on her desk when her door banged against the wall as Faith stormed into the room.

“What the devil were you thinking?” Faith demanded, her cheeks flushed with heat and her limbs still shaking. “Promise me, swear to me, you will never allow Hawkridge to darken our door again.”

“Difficult, as he is our new dancing master,” Dahlia said. She pulled a pile of decorative scarves into her lap that she had been embroidering for the next school fundraiser. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do it.” Faith gripped the back of a chair. “We can’t do it.”

“What choice did I have?” Dahlia eyes were pleading. “I’m so sorry, Faith. You don’t have to come to lessons anymore.”

Of course she did. Dance lessons were the girls’ favorite part of the week, and up until now, one of Faith’s favorites, too. She wouldn’t let her feelings for Hawkridge ruin that. Even if it meant her choices were to bow out completely…or to find herself back in his arms.

Dahlia bit her lip. “Simon’s new schedule precludes him from continuing on and my brother rarely has the time to substitute once the Season begins. When Hawkridge offered—”

“He offered?” Faith couldn’t believe her ears. “How would he even know we were teaching the girls to dance?”

“He didn’t. He offered to wield a hammer or a broom or a mop.” Dahlia shrugged. “I cannot recall his exact words, but the essence was him volunteering to help in any capacity needed.” She looked up from her embroidery with sympathetic eyes. “You know how much help we need. Should I truly have turned him away?”

Faith rubbed a hand over her face. Of course they could not turn him away. No matter how long she’d been angry at him.

Or how badly a small, secret part of her heart already longed to see him again.