Percival John Benedict Walter, Viscount Tremont, seventh Marquess of Harland, who’d skin anyone alive who tried calling him Percival, made his way up the back stair to the gallery. He’d gone against his better judgment. Again. The ball wasn’t what it used to be, a night of masked revelry all in good fun. It’d become an excuse for excessive drinking, which in turn supposedly—and this, to his mind, was a dubious supposition—excused some very poor behavior.

Nothing made him more an outsider within the walls of his own home than this wretched ball.

But it was expected. And far be it from him not to do exactly as prescribed. So invitations had gone out on schedule. Guests had arrived on the usual day in their usual trappings and everything had unfolded exactly as it had done for the past who knew how many years. It was difficult to distinguish one year’s ball from another. They were smaller than in his father’s day. Much smaller, no doubt owing to the fact that he was sour about the whole business while his father had been nothing but enthusiastic. Otherwise these balls were always frightfully alike.

He might well have to give the ball, but he did not have to play the part of attentive host. He partook of the festivities only from the safety of elevated distance. Who’d notice one way or another if he were in attendance or not? The spirits flowed freely, and after a certain hour—

Harland came short. Somebody stood in the gallery. His gallery. A woman. She looked down to the ballroom below, her form cast in shadow. The shining gold and glittering gemstones of her mask were lavish and beautiful.

She couldn’t have been there for him, surely. He might throw the annual Harland Masked Ball, but the past decade or so had cemented a rather stodgy reputation for this particular specimen of the line.

Then again, every once in a while, a woman came along looking for a challenge.

“Pardon me—”

She jumped back at least a foot, hands thrust behind her back as if guilty of an act more insidious than spying.

Seeming to remember herself, she relaxed, drawing her neck long, her chin level. Only the slightest slice of light from the finger’s width gap along the edge of the curtain, but it fell precisely along her shoulder and upper chest in a way that highlighted a slight hint of curving clavicle. Not a sorry sight, to be sure. Rather lovely, actually.

But no jewels adorned her person. Not even a fashionably simple chain about her throat.

Curious.

“Forgive me, sir, but I’m not looking for company.”

Sir?

Oh, yes. The mask. She probably recognized him, but everyone knew the rules. Feigning ignorance of identity was part of the conceit.

Unfortunately, in this instance, the conceit was working rather better than intended. He didn’t recognize her.

“If you’re waiting for your lover, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

“I’m not here to tryst, sir. I was only—” She gestured to the curtain, pointing with one slender finger. “—looking for someone.”

The lilt of her voice…it wasn’t much, but it was enough to awaken a memory—a terribly foggy memory—at the very back of his mind.

Devil take it, he knew her. Had to. Not a single invitation was issued to a stranger. They’d had to have had at least some acquaintance, however nominal. Why couldn’t he place her?

“You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Confound it, but her starchy reply made him want to smile. She was so cool and confident, so self-assured and steady.

“You weren’t here when I arrived. By rights, I believe that means the gallery is mine for the time being.”

She sounded sober, which was enough to distinguish her from the rest. Even a few of the footmen allowed to work the ball took the very great liberty of a few clandestine indulgences, something for which Harland couldn’t be bothered to fault the poor men.

“I beg your pardon, but—” Names weren’t supposed to be mentioned. That was one of the most sacred rules of the ball. He might want to ask if he did indeed know her…

Usually, Harland knew everyone on sight, despite the masks. He did have full control over the guest list, after all.

“What was that, sir?”

Of course he had to know this woman. Something about her tugged at the back of his mind.

Something else about her drew out an impulsive offer. “Might you wish to dance?”

“I’m afraid I’m not here to dance tonight.”

“You must have at least one, madam. Why else would you be here, but for a pleasant diversion?”

“Rest assured on that score—I am nothing if not diverted. But I really ought to—”

“You’re looking for someone. Yes, I realize.” Harland swept her onto his arm. He rested his gloved hand over hers, engulfing the smaller with his much larger, and began leading her down to the ballroom floor. “Searching for him—”

“How do you know it’s a him?”

“Of course it’s a him. And searching for him from above is a fine idea, but putting yourself in the thick of things gives you both the opportunity to recognize each other, wouldn’t you think, madam? Or is it miss?” It wouldn’t be miss, though there wasn’t a ring upon her finger. Rings came off. More to the point, though, was the fact of the type of person who came to the Harland Ball. No mere miss would dare step within these walls. Not if she had any hope whatsoever of maintaining any kind of decent reputation.

But that could only mean… An unaccountable twist of jealousy rose up in him at the thought that she might belong to another.

“Are you allowed to ask?”

“Answer my question and you may ask one of your own. Anything you like, I assure you.” She smelled of…feminine things. Pleasingly feminine things. The kind that silently urged him to lean closer to inhale.

Or better yet, taste.

They came to the main sweep of steps and began to descend.

“That would be well and good, were I in possession of any such questions. Alas, I am not.”

“See through me, do you?” Outwardly he tried to sound light. Inwardly, he cursed. More proof that she recognized him. This had never happened before—this strange inversion. Quick recognition was one of his strengths. It was a point of pride, in fact, keeping names and faces carefully stored in his mind.

“On the contrary.”

“But not curious?” Was she toying with him? If so, it was working.

“There are some places too terrifying to think of treading.”

A laugh flew from Harland before he could help himself. Oh yes, this woman knew him, right enough. “You have me at a disadvantage, you know. Enjoy it.”

Coming to the ground level of the house, they turned together in the main entrance hall and worked their way towards the ballroom. People were strewn about everywhere—all of them upright, which, for the evening, counted as gratifying. Given the hour, if nobody were passed out on the floor, at least not in a public space, this year’s ball was already better than last year’s.

A strange sensation surfaced. Being with the woman on his arm made the ball better than any previous ball going back at least as far as his grandfather’s time.

But surely that was going too far. She was a diversion. The curiosity born of an idle moment, no more.

She was looking for another man, after all. The best he could hope was that the rival—who was no rival really, not in any real sense—wouldn’t be pleased to see her. And if he, Harland, hoped for such a thing, that would make him the sort of ass to whom he’d want to deliver a swift kick. Right in the ass, in point of fact. He smiled. What pleasing symmetry.

A few people sent them lingering glances. More than anticipated, in fact. Were they gawking at him appearing with a lady on his arm, or were they wondering about her as he did?

At the edge of the ballroom, he paused. “Take a good look about. Any sign of him?”

It was a harrowingly long wait while she combed her gaze through the crowds with subtle care. She sunk a little, almost imperceptively, mouth going tight, and gave her head a small shake.

That was too bad. So long as she didn’t find the man she sought, she’d still hold out hope to find him, which would keep her attention elsewhere instead of with him.

“May I still have this dance?” Harland felt stiff and awkward, as if there were more riding on her response than there ought to have been. It was dashed uncomfortable.

“I suppose I can’t say no now.”

“You think me some sort of monster who has only one way—his own?”

“What?” Her pretty little mouth turned down at the corners. “No. Of course not.”

“Then you have no idea how terribly irking that response is, do you?”

“You’ll have to explain yourself, I’m afraid.”

“If you’re dancing with me only out of a sense of some duty to what you consider the proper mode of behavior, I’ll have none of it and leave you to your evening this instant.”

The mask hiding the top half of her face did nothing to disguise the sharp look she cast upon him. “Ah. I see. Yes.” She raised her chin to a lofty height. “I’ll dance with you because I want to, sir. Gratified?” Her tone was mischievous, as if he called upon her to spar with him, she’d unsheathe a foil from somewhere in the gauzy waves of her silk gown and put him en garde.

“Terribly.” He spoke with crackling dryness while inside smiling at his victory.

People parted for them as they stepped out onto the floor. The music would be starting again momentarily. He led her into position as the first couple of the set. When the opening measures played out over the room, he bowed.