Lady Emmaline Winterburn’s heart felt as though it might burst from her chest at any moment. Considering she was attending a ball, some would count that as reason enough.

Double damn. Someone—a maid, likely—was trundling down the Harringtons’ hall. She dashed into the first unlocked door she discovered and waited. The plodding footsteps came closer, and closer still. All the while, Emily was certain she was doomed. But then, the steps continued on past the room where she stood, back plastered to the wall as though that might somehow save her wretched hide.

Once she was certain the hall was clear and a quick peek confirmed it, she straightened up to find she had darted into the very room she sought. Moonlight spilled in through the bedroom window, illuminating the space just enough to help her with her task. The faint sparkle of gems caught her eye, drawing her to Lady Harrington’s dressing table.

Clearly, the lady of the house had been indecisive on which pieces to wear this evening, much to Emily’s benefit. With so many jewels strewn about, it occurred to her that nipping two items would likely be as equally unnoticed as one. With a careful eye, she selected the two pieces she thought were of a good size, but not so large as to be quickly noticed as missing.

Lifting the skirt of her ball gown, she found the hidden seam in her petticoats and tucked the first piece into place. She repeated the process on the other side.

Satisfied with her selection of baubles, she moved to the door and listened for movement. Hearing none, she whipped out into the hall and quickly made her way back to the cacophony of the ball.

As the noise and odors of the utter crush the Harringtons hosted every year swept over her, Emily considered leaving. Between the weight of the jewels in her skirts and the pounding of her pulse, it seemed departure was her most reasonable option. With her great-aunt Hortense home in bed—the poor dear’s joints were too inflamed to allow her to attend the ball—Emily was left to her brother’s dubious care and the good graces of their family friend, Lady Vardy. Focused as her brother likely was on his gaming, he would barely notice if she left. But good conscience had her stopping a footman to send a quick note.

“Please see that Lord Dunmere receives this as soon as possible.”

The servant nodded and set off toward her brother’s last known location.

Despite the scandalous nature of doing so alone, she was ready to depart the soiree. Emily turned to head toward the front entry; however, the foyer was so crowded that it prevented any forward progress. Much to her dismay, it appeared she would be forced to remain where she was for the moment.

Then her plight took a turn for the worse.

“Ah, Lady Emmaline, there you are.” Lord Brougham bowed. “I searched all over for you. I believe the last waltz of the evening is about to be played.”

“How perfectly lovely for you.” Emily glanced back over her shoulder in hopes an escape route might emerge.

Seeing no such opportunity, she faced her unwanted suitor.

Taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm, he quirked one brow up. “I believe we are engaged for this dance, if you will merely peruse your dance card.”

She was well aware, without looking, that he was two of four names on her dance card. The previous two agonizing dances with men who were poor conversationalists and even poorer dancers made her wish she could avoid yet another. However, Lord Brougham was an acquaintance, which had made his earlier request for a dance both annoying and impossible to refuse. Emily had hoped to avoid the too-handsome man, with his golden-blond hair, darkly intense brown eyes, and chiseled jawline. He embodied the Corinthian style, which she had never found appealing.

Unable to deny the man his rightful dance—no matter how suspect she found his interest—she relented with as much good grace as she could muster under the circumstances. “Please excuse my forgetful nature, my lord. You are, of course, correct.”

As the warning refrain sounded, he led her onto the dance floor, where they assumed their positions. When the music commenced, Lord Brougham swept her into his arms, and the too-familiar feel of masculine strength surrounded her in the most disconcerting fashion.

“You are looking quite fetching this evening, Lady Emmaline, if I may be so bold.” His low rumble proved just loud enough to carry over the orchestra.

“Thank you, my lord. You too are in fine fettle this evening.” She carefully pinned her gaze to the midpoint of his chest, somewhere below his chin.

The weight of the jewels seemed to grow heavier in her skirts with each sweep around the floor. The guilt tried to seep in, but she refused to surrender to it. Her dead parents would have been horrified to see how low she and her brother had fallen under the weight of his unstoppable gambling. It was up to her to salvage the family name and save her brother from certain ruin. If only she had learned the truth sooner, she might have had a chance to do so without resorting to nefarious means. Her only consolation? She chose her victims carefully, only stealing from those members of her set who were either known to be awful people, or who had personally treated her poorly. Sadly, there were victims aplenty, and with a new social season starting up, she would have an abundance of opportunities to turn her brother’s—and, more importantly, her own—financial tides.

“Why, thank you, my lady.” Lord Brougham pulled her ever so slightly closer. While the ladies of Almack’s might have noticed the minute shift, Lady Harrington was certain to be too busy preening over her apparent crush to notice such a minor impropriety.

“Tell me, Lady Emmaline, when you are not attending social events, how do you entertain yourself?”

The man offered the most dashing smile she’d encountered since the Wilton Incident, and surprisingly, she believed for a moment that he truly cared about her answer. But then she reminded herself that men of his ilk, particularly a member of the Lustful Lords, would have only one interest in a woman such as herself. Certainly, marriage wasn’t on the man’s mind.

Worried about what his interest signified, she mustered up as vapid a reply as she could in hopes it would put him off. “Why, I shop, my lord.”

“Indeed? Surely not all the time?” he queried with a small crease between his brows.

Emily felt her cheeks heat a little as a denial fought to make its way past her sealed lips. “Well, of course, one must eat and sleep.”

The man coughed, though he somehow managed to retain his composure enough to keep time with the music. “Certainly. And do you attend any salons, perhaps something artistically inclined?”

Again, Emily fought the urge to allow her true intellectual pursuits to surface. Though perhaps her love of Wollstonecraft would be more off-putting than being a spendthrift nincompoop? No, his reaction so far indicated that her portrayal was effective. She summoned the kind of simpering tripe she had frequently heard spill from the mouths of the debutantes she came out with years ago. “How perfectly gauche, my lord. Of course, I sing adequately enough, but truly, a lady should not strain herself. We are the more delicate sex.”

A faint pink dusted Lord Brougham’s cheeks as he swept her about one more circuit. “How silly of me. You are, of course, correct. A woman would be taxed by intellectual pursuits. Why, I was just saying the other day to a chum that I appreciated nothing more than a woman who can keep herself occupied with appropriate pursuits. It is so tiresome to see these bluestockings gadding about, behaving in such a ridiculous fashion.”

Emily ground her teeth and closed her eyes. She must remember that she wanted nothing more than to lead him to believe she was not worth his time. The derision in his tone confirmed her ploy was working, even if it made her wish to stamp on his toe and march off.

“My lord, I find it tiresome that you would speak of any woman in such a fashion.” She pressed her lips together again and glared at the man as the music ended.

As the other dancers bowed and made their way off the floor to make way for the next dance, Lord Brougham grabbed her by the arm and led her out on the terrace overlooking the garden. “Lady Emmaline, I find your willingness to deceive me with such a trivial portrayal tiresome.”

They stopped on the terrace, the only immediate couple present as a quadrille began inside.

Emily tried to yank her arm free from his firm grip, but proved outmatched by his strength. She glared at him balefully. “Fine, my lord. I am a spinster who has far too much time available to read. Books. I enjoy everything from gothic romance to the very enlightened writings of Mary Wollstonecraft. I am more and more content each day with my spinster status, and find this entire charade to be wearing. This is not the first ball you have paid particular attention to me in the past few weeks.”

Lord Brougham took a step toward her, causing her to take one in retreat. Undeterred, she continued her unladylike tirade.

“And I will tell you, my lord, I learned my lesson well after Lord Wilton. I will not be made light of again. Furthermore, I am no green girl to be toyed with. I am not susceptible to being coaxed into dark gardens for illicit trysts. Nor am I one to surrender stolen kisses in dark corners.”

She found herself pressed against a stone balustrade, cloaked in shadows, with the burning heat of a masculine form bearing down on her.

“On the contrary, my lady, I am no Lord Wilton. As for coaxing you into a dark garden, while possibly appealing, I have far more proper intentions where you are concerned.” He stepped into her person, her skirts bunching around his ankles as he took hold of her upper arms. “Unfortunately, I find I am not beyond stealing a kiss in dark corners.”

With a gasp, Emily found her lips captured by his. Despite the layers upon layers of clothing that separated them, she was sure she could feel the heat of his body searing through her gown and underthings. He tasted faintly of brandy as his tongue twined around hers in the most shocking encounter of her spinsterhood. Of course, she had read of such embraces, but she had long ago given up thoughts of ever experiencing such a thing.

With a soft little moan, she surrendered to the foreign sensation of his kiss and relished the way her body reacted. Her skin felt tight, as though overly stretched, and her nipples grew sensitive as they pressed against the fine linen of her chemise.

Too soon, he drew back from her and released her shoulders. Lips flat, as though he disapproved of her, he stepped backward. “Do not believe that you are safe from men like me at any age, my lady. I suggest you return to Lady Vardy immediately, and do not stray onto terraces with men you do not wish to kiss.”

Shaken to her very core, she fled the darkened terrace and went in search of Lady Vardy. All the while, Emily grappled with the snarl of conflicting emotions tangled within. Her body clamored for more of the wonderful tingling sensation Lord Brougham’s kiss had caused, but her head screamed for her to run away from the man. He was far too domineering and insightful. A man like that would see past her ruse and quickly discern her thieving ways—and more importantly—the reasons for her actions. He was not someone she could trust—not that she trusted anyone anymore.