“Hand me the brush, Delia. I’ll do it myself.” Lily held out her hand impatiently, frowning at Delia in the mirror.

Delia laid the brush in Lily’s palm. “I told you, Lily. You need Hyacinth. I have no talent with hair.” She collapsed on top of the bed, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “I can brush it out for you, and then we can just tie it with the green ribbon. It will look very nice.”

Lily tilted her head this way and that, examining the effect in the mirror. “Very well,” she replied at length, sighing. “It’s just that I rather hoped for a little more than very nice this evening. This isn’t a country dance in Surrey, you know.”

Delia rose and joined Lily at the vanity, and for a second they both gazed at their two similar reflections in the mirror. “I know, dear, but you always look beautiful, no matter how we dress your hair.” Delia tried to smile.

“What shall we do with yours?” Lily ran the brush through Delia’s hair, which still hung in loose waves down her back.

“Oh, the same as always, I suppose,” Delia replied, without interest. She turned to the wardrobe to sift halfheartedly through the slim selection of dinner gowns. The blue would do, but Lily was right. It would be wonderful to have a special gown to wear. She thought of the delicious green figured silk gown Lady Lisette had worn the day she’d arrived. She’d looked like a butterfly in it. A fretful, petulant butterfly, to be sure, but a butterfly nonetheless.

Alec hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

Delia pulled the blue gown out of the wardrobe with a little more force than necessary and laid it on the bed, then stood back and regarded it with a small frown.

Lily pulled her long braid over one shoulder and ran the brush through the wavy ends, regarding her sister in the mirror with narrowed eyes. “You look pale, Delia. Have you been sleeping well?”

Oh, certainly. She’d been sleeping splendidly, like a veritable babe in arms. A kitten in a silk-lined basket. A fuzzy baby chick still nested in its egg. A bear during winter hibernation. Up until three days ago, that was, when Alec Sutherland had kissed her. Not just once, but over and over again. Now she wasn’t sleeping. She was lying in her bed, remembering the way her lips opened helplessly under his, and how his hot tongue had slipped into her mouth. How her body had leapt to quivering, burning life under his touch. When she did sleep, it was fitfully, and she dreamed of his fingers brushing lightly across her bodice and the tops of her breasts. When she awoke, she was breathless and panting, aching for him.

Once again, if he meant to seduce her, he’d had ample opportunity. So then why had he stopped? He’d pushed her away almost desperately, as if he couldn’t trust himself not to touch her again. She’d been afraid to look at him, afraid she’d see triumph or smug satisfaction on his face, but when she’d managed at last to raise her eyes to his, he’d looked … nearly wild. He’d wanted her. She knew it—her every instinct screamed it. Yet he’d touched her so gently, and murmured to her so tenderly. He hadn’t seemed at all like a man in the midst of a calculated seduction.

But then, what did she know about such things? Perhaps this was what seducers did. Made you dream about them. Made you ache for them. It hadn’t occurred to her when she began this madness that he could make her want him like this. But he had, and it had shaken her. She hadn’t been toying with him that night in the garden. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and it was this more than anything that haunted her when she awoke in the night.

Perhaps Alec had been shaken, too, for he hadn’t approached her or spoken to her since those disastrous, exquisite moments in the garden. He hadn’t left Lady Lisette’s side over the past few days. He’d walked with her, their two dark heads close together as if they shared some delicious secret. He’d escorted her through the gardens and down to the lake. He’d taken her into dinner every night. His intentions toward her couldn’t be any clearer. He was the model of an eager suitor. Delia could almost believe he’d forgotten the game entirely, forgotten the passionate kisses in the garden. But every moment of every day since, he watched her with such heated intensity she thought his eyes would singe holes in her clothes. Those hot, dark eyes followed her everywhere.

Lily laid the brush down on the dressing table and walked over to the bed. They stood together and stared down at the blue gown. “A dark blue satin trim would look nice with it, I think. Fashionable, too. If we stare long enough, do you think it will sprout Brussels lace?”

“No, I don’t,” Delia snapped, “so there’s no point standing here waiting for a miracle.”

Lily turned to look at her sister with wide, bewildered eyes. “Delia, I know something is bothering you—” she began, but she was interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. Lily hurried over and opened it, then stood back in amazement as a small troop of maids crossed the threshold. Ellie and Charlotte followed, issuing orders as they sailed into the room.

“I think Miss Somerset’s hair first, Bridget.” Eleanor moved forward to give Delia a quick kiss on the cheek. “Is this your gown for the evening?” she asked, spying the blue dress laid out on the bed. She ran a practiced eye over it. “Lovely color.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “It will suit you nicely, Delia.”

Eleanor turned to the waiting maid. “Some silk flowers and ribbons twisted in Miss Somerset’s hair, Bridget, but first, can you fetch that dark blue satin ribbon I had? We can add some trim here.” She pointed to the neckline of the gown. “Here, as well.” She indicated the bodice. “Miss Somerset has such a lovely bosom,” she added with a naughty grin. “Charlotte? What do you think about your ice pink silk for Lily?”

Delia and Lily stood openmouthed as the maids scurried into action. The pink gown was produced and gratefully accepted. Hair was curled and piled high. Ribbons, silk flowers, and satin trim flew from hand to hand. By the time Delia and Lily were laced into their gowns, flowers, ribbons, and scraps of fabric littered the floor.

“You spoke too soon, Delia.” Lily studied her reflection in the mirror with satisfaction. “Never underestimate the possibility of a miracle.”

It would be a bloody miracle if he survived this evening.

Alec surveyed the modest gathering. It was mostly neighbors from the surrounding estates and a few close friends who’d arrived early from London in anticipation of the ball. The evening seemed to be progressing much as he might expect. Archie was flirting with Mrs. Ashton. Lady Lisette and her mother were deeply engaged in a conversation with Lord and Lady Barrow, which suited Alec’s purposes perfectly. He didn’t want Lisette underfoot just now.

Alec was impeccably dressed in severe black evening attire. He stood next to the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in his hand, looking every inch the elegant lord of the manor.

He was ready to explode.

He hadn’t spoken to Delia in three days, not since his disgraceful loss of control in the garden. He hadn’t touched her again, either, but he could still feel her warm, silky skin under his fingertips and taste the sweet honey of her mouth on his lips. It was as if his body had sprouted nerve endings he never knew he had, for the sole purpose of remembering what it felt like to touch and taste her. He couldn’t trust himself with her. He realized that now. But every moment he didn’t spend with her was another moment Robyn would. The past few days had proved that.

Alec resisted the urge to tear at the tight cravat at his neck and glanced across the room. Robyn greeted a few friends and returned a few coquettish glances, but he was restless and distracted. His eyes kept darting toward the door. Alec watched Robyn’s restless pacing and took a deep swallow of brandy. His brother looked about as relaxed as a stallion ready to be taken to stud. With every day that passed, Robyn grew more enamored of Delia.

She had to leave the house party. At once.

A ripple of subdued excitement passed through the room. Alec turned toward the door, and at once he forgot about Robyn, his brandy, and his tight cravat. Delia had entered, her arm linked with Eleanor’s. Charlotte followed behind with Lily. The energy in the room changed subtly, the way it does when a captivating guest arrives. Heads turned. Alec saw more than one male gaze linger.

Delia’s hair was piled high. Tiny dark blue silk flowers peeked out from among the thick wavy tendrils. Long curls escaped and brushed her smooth white shoulders. Her pale blue gown was not lavishly trimmed. It was not in the first stare of fashion, either, and compared to some of the other gowns in the room, the neckline was almost prudish. She wore no gems at all—only a small length of blue ribbon around her white throat. It was almost laughably quaint, but it made no difference. Alec drank her in greedily. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.

“Delia!” Robyn crossed the room to Delia’s side with an eagerness that drew the attention of the other guests. Alec stiffened as Robyn raised one of Delia’s white-gloved hands to his lips.

He started across the room toward them. It had to be done, and it was best done quickly. “Good evening, Miss Somerset.” Alec bowed. His formal tone sliced through the intimacy. “You look very well this evening,” he said, perfunctorily enough.

Delia curtsied and touched one hand self-consciously to the ribbon at her neck. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you.”

“Mother asked you to escort her into dinner this evening, Robyn,” Alec said, turning to his brother. “I believe she hopes to avoid the attentions of Major Lytton.” He gestured across the room to his mother, who was speaking to an elderly gray-haired gentleman in uniform.

“Of course.” Robyn paused to raise Delia’s hand slowly to his lips once more, then bowed and walked across the room to offer his arm to his mother.

“May I take you in, Miss Somerset?” Alec offered her his arm.

She looked up at him in surprise, but after a brief hesitation she accepted his arm, just as he’d known she would. She was far too gracious and well-bred to refuse his escort. They entered the dining room, where Alec seated her at the head of the table, then deliberately took his seat across from her. There was no seat to her right.

How would she react when she realized Major Lytton, who was seated to her left, was as deaf as a post?

Delia raised puzzled blue eyes to his and then glanced around. Lady Cecil and Lady Lisette were seated farther down the table near the countess, and both of them were glaring daggers at her. Delia’s face flushed with embarrassment. She dropped her gaze to the napkin in her lap and kept it there as the soup course was served.

Alec did his best to ignore the way his chest tightened at her expression. He signaled to the footman, who stepped forward and filled their wineglasses. “Do any of your acquaintances in Surrey hunt, Miss Somerset? The major is an enthusiastic huntsman.”

“I’m afraid not.” She still wasn’t looking at him. “I don’t care for hunting, my lord.”

Major Lytton sprang into life. “What, a hunt?” he shouted. “Capital, Carlisle. Capital! I predict excellent sport this winter!”

Delia jumped, startled; then her eyes narrowed on Alec. A tempest had begun to gather in those blue depths. Oddly, Alec was relieved. He could tolerate her anger, but not that look of hurt betrayal.

The footman placed soup tureens in front of them. “You do ride?” he asked her, managing to sound just a little dubious.

Delia had been about to sample the consommé, but she put down her soup spoon with a sharp metallic click. “Do you imagine I never learned to ride, my lord?” she asked. “Of course, in Surrey we have no Hyde Park, so perhaps you think there is no reason for ladies in the country to learn to ride at all? There is no Rotten Row. No parade of aristocrats in shiny curricles and fashionable gowns. No fine horses. No opportunity to see and be seen. Oh!” she added, as if she’d just understood him. “Perhaps that’s what you mean by hunting?”

“Hunting in Hyde Park?” the major yelled, going red in the face. “On Rotten Row? Oh no, my dear. Dangerous, that. Someone could get hurt.” He looked at Delia reproachfully.

“Quite right, Major.” Alec ignored Delia’s outburst, as if he’d also gone deaf. “Quite right.” He took a sip of his wine. “Did you bring your riding habit to Kent?” he asked, returning his attention to Delia, who looked as if she’d lost her appetite.

“Yes, of course.” She sounded a bit deflated. “I’d hoped to ride through the grounds. They’re too large to see on foot.”

“Are you a competent rider, Miss Somerset?”

“Competent!” Major Lytton shouted indignantly before Delia could reply. “My dear Carlisle, every man in Her Majesty’s service can ride.”

“Of course, Major. Forgive me. Miss Somerset?”

She glanced at Major Lytton. “Perfectly competent, yes.”

The major, absorbed by his consommé, had drifted back into obliviousness.

“I’m riding out tomorrow morning to see one of the estate’s tenants,” Alec said. “It means riding over a large section of the western grounds. I would be pleased to have your company.”

She blinked at him in surprise, but then an unguarded look of longing crossed her face. That strange, hollow feeling surged in his chest again, but he ruthlessly shoved it back. She’d set this game in motion, and she’d proved herself a worthy opponent. Now he was going to oblige her to play it, even if watching her face light with anticipation nearly stopped his breath, and even if he was suddenly appalled at the thought of coldly manipulating her.

“Will Robyn accompany us? Or your sisters?”

Alec’s face went rigid at the mention of Robyn’s name, and his attack of conscience evaporated. “Certainly. The entire party is welcome, though I doubt any of our friends will be in a state to rise early tomorrow morning for a hard ride.” He jerked his head toward the other end of the table.

She followed his glance. Eleanor was absorbed in a conversation with Archie and Robyn, helped along by liberal servings of wine. Charlotte and Lily had their heads together, giggling. It didn’t look as if any of them intended to retire early.

“I must see my tenant tomorrow,” Alec said, “but if you’re afraid to go alone with me, then you can wait for another opportunity to see the grounds with the rest of the party.” His tone insinuated it was unlikely another such opportunity would arise. Unless he missed his mark, he doubted Delia Somerset thought of herself as afraid of anything.

He shrugged as if her answer were of no consequence to him, but he watched her closely, surprised to find he was holding his breath.

“Afraid, my lord? Why would I be afraid of you?”

Alec’s eyes dropped to her lips. He could think of any number of reasons, but a lie jumped easily out of his mouth. “No reason whatsoever, unless you’re worried about propriety.” He emphasized the last word slightly, as if such a worry were absurdly prim.

“There can be no impropriety in a ride around the grounds, surely.”

Alec smiled grimly. She hadn’t any idea how spiteful the ton could be. Before they even returned from their ride tomorrow, Delia would be at the center of a storm of malicious gossip. Lady Lisette and her mother, Lady Cecil, would be more than happy to stir up a scandal, especially after the seating arrangements at dinner this evening. Delia would be on her way back to Surrey as early as the day after tomorrow.

Alec clenched his fists and tried to ignore the sharp stab of anguish he felt every time he imagined her exposed to the derision of the ton. It was better this way. It would hurt her to be sneered at, but in the end it was better for her, too. She and Lily didn’t belong here.

“I imagine you’re knowledgeable about the estate and the countryside, and I should be glad to learn something about them. You are a competent guide, my lord?”

“More than competent, I assure you, Miss Somerset.”

“Competent!” Major Lytton bellowed, catching only the last word of the conversation. “Oh yes, miss. Very competent. Carlisle knows his way about. You could not be in better hands, miss. No better hands than Carlisle’s.”

“Thank you, Major.” Alec raised his glass to Miss Somerset. “Thank you very much indeed.”