The champagne laced through her veins, giving Evangeline a brilliant feeling. It was a feeling she couldn't recall experiencing in years as she checked the ruffles of her dinner gown.

She stared at herself in the mirror, eyeing the pink lace and bows. Her mother had picked the design, hoping to make her more feminine. She looked like a cake. A cake decorated by a mad chef pâtissier.

But there was little she could do. . . Or was there?

Biting her lower lip, she turned to her small box that held her embroidery. Embroidery was well and good, though she was quite terrible at it. Her mother sent it with her everywhere, desperately hoping she’d give up novels. But there was something in there she might use. Did she dare?

A wicked, little smile curved her lips. Indeed, she did!

Perhaps it was the conversation she’d had with Duchess Cordelia wherein the slightly older woman had treated her with kindness and respect and plied her with wine and told her that a bold and intelligent woman was the best thing to be.

Perhaps it was the sudden freedom of being away from her parents. But she strode to the box, flipped the lid and slipped out a small pair of scissors. She stared at them for a long moment then called to Charlotte.

Her friend, who was in the adjoining room with a door opened between them, hurried in. Her own teal green gown was simple yet beautiful. The clean lines gave her red-haired friend the most beautifully sophisticated air, even if she’d made it herself.

“I need your help,” Evangeline said, her voice catching, hardly believing what she was about to request.

“Of course. What can I assist you with?”

She extended the scissors. “Cut.”

Charlotte’s brown eyes bulged. “Cut?”

“This frothy monstrosity.” She gestured at the gown, her hands fluttering. “I think we can separate the over gown and tie a ribbon about my waist.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened with horror and intrigue “But— But—”

“If you count yourself my friend, please.”

It was the note in her voice that had Charlotte stepping forward.

Carefully, she took the scissors. “You’re certain?”

“Certain,” Evangeline said, her voice hard with determination. “Free me.”

And with a suddenly cheeky grin, Charlotte did just that.

* * *

Anthony chatted with the Duchess of Aston, adoring her Scottish accent and blunt humor. The lady was as good a company as one could hope for. Witty, beautiful, married, and absolutely uninterested in straying from her slightly dangerous and boisterous husband.

They had become friends since her marriage.

To her husband’s good credit, he’d encouraged it. Anthony had always disliked men who walled their wives away from the society of other men. Trust, he was certain, was extremely important to a successful marriage.

They stood near the fire, the light dancing over them. The room was bustling with the joyous conversations of well-entertained people.

The Duke of Aston, himself, sat in the corner, quiet for once, playing the pianoforte. Mozart.

As he launched into a sprightly Voi Che Sapete, there was a lull in the conversation.

Someone had just entered, garnering attention.

He turned and his jaw slackened.

“Basingstoke, are ye well mon?”

He could not even shake his head. He was transfixed as was every other damned man in the room.

Lady Evangeline stood in the doorway. . . Veritably naked.

Not naked. But good God. . . She might as well have been.

The silk of her pink gown clung to her breasts, stomach, and thighs.

The thin silk fabric had mere straps at her shoulders. It dipped, exposing the amount of flesh he expected from the most fashionable debutants. After all, bosom was de rigueur. Unmarried ladies even dampened their skirts to make them cling, but Lady Evangeline had seemed far from such an action as well as the exposure of her breasts.

She’d clearly embraced hers.

But he never would have imagined she’d own such a piece in her wardrobe.

A silver embroidered ribbon shimmered just beneath her breasts only emphasizing the pale swells and hourglass shape of her waist.

Her hair. . . Her hair had been curled, a wild riot that seemed barely contained by a matching silver ribbon woven through in the Grecian style.

Half the room was gaping at her.

The women were smiling with admiration and approval. It was the sort of gown that could start a fashion. Perfection.

And yet, he had no bloody idea what to think. Except that, somehow, in one short afternoon, Evangeline had turned into a stunner.

Oh, she wasn’t pretty. Her face was and always would be unusual. Her nose too bold, her lips slightly too plump, her eyes too big. But by God, she’d stopped the room.

And as if she had absolutely no idea the effect she’d just had, she entered quickly, Miss Treadwell on her heels.

Lady Evangeline’s wickedly intelligent eyes darted over the room, looking for a familiar face.

And then, she spotted him.

Her eyes, those damned blue eyes that had always burned with a hidden fire, blazed at the sight of him. Her lush lips parted in a delighted smile.

He knew he should back away. He should run. In all his life, he’d never felt so completely frozen. Not out of fear, but out of amazement and. . . Desire.

He’d already admired her. Her spirit. Her fire. But now?

Now, he wanted to haul her to a room somewhere in the house, pull free the fragile scraps of her gown and expose the body she was teasing them all with.

Mine, his mind growled silently and then he blinked, appalled by the thought. What the devil was happening to him? Whatever it was, it was so foreign he had absolutely no tools in which to make sense of it.

Miss Treadwell and Evangeline stopped before them.

“How do you do, Mr. Basingstoke?” Charlotte said brightly.

He did not make an immediate reply. He couldn’t. For once in his whole life, he’d been struck dumb.

She gave the slightest curtsy which caused the firelight to play over her face and breasts.

And he could not breathe for the magic of it.

“Sir?” Lady Evangeline said. “I hope you have made merry this evening.”

He blinked again.

“Have you gone deaf, Basingstoke?” asked the Duchess of Aston. The redheaded duchess elbowed him slightly then smiled. “Well, since his wits have gone the way of the chimney, I shall introduce myself. Shocking, I know. I am Rosamund, Duchess of Aston.”

Both young ladies curtsied again.

And he suddenly realized what a total ponce he was being. “Forgive me, Your Grace. May I introduce Lady Evangeline and Miss Treadwell.”

“A pleasure.” The Duchess of Aston leaned forward and gestured with her fan. “I quite admire your frock, Lady Evangeline. From Paris?”

“Yes,” Lady Evangeline said, smiling. “Though it has had alterations since it arrived.”

“Whatever you’ve done, it’s marvelous. And Miss Treadwell, I always feel an affinity to other redheads. People will accuse us of having the worst tempers. But I’m mild as a lamb.”

Anthony choked back a laugh.

She tutted and hit him lightly with her fan. “Now, don’t you be giving them any ideas, Basingstoke.”

“I’d never dream of such a thing,” he drawled.

“You dream more wicked things in an hour than most in a lifetime,” the duchess quipped.

“No doubt I will suffer for my sins.”

“No doubt,” she agreed. “But your company is excellent. You know the young ladies well, then?”

“Miss Treadwell I met today,” he informed her. “Lady Evangeline and I are friends.”

The duchess’ brows rose ever so slightly. “Are you, indeed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, a lady can always use a rascal as a friend,” the duchess said pleasantly before she gave a sly smile to Evangeline. “They always know the fellows to avoid.”

“He has promised to point them out to me,” Evangeline agreed.

“Has he?” The duchess looked from Evangeline to Anthony. “Most cordial of you.”

He cleared his throat. “I am nothing but the height of cordialness,” he managed even as he stared agog at Lady Evangeline.

Who was this woman? For Seasons, she’d barely spoken a word. A few hours with his sister and she seemed transformed. No, not transformed, for she’d been quite a lady before. But now? Somehow, she seemed as if she’d shed shackles that had weighed her down like stones in a river. Had simply leaving her family done that?

Such a thing was possible. If it was true, it was a crime what her parents had done to her.

Just at that moment, the butler unfolded the doors leading into dinner and pairs were made.

His sister suddenly swept up beside them. “Dear Lady Evangeline, I will escort you to your dinner companion. Brother dear, I’ve paired you with Miss Treadwell. You will know how to tell her the dearest gossip about every single one of us.”

“You wound me to the quick,” he exclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I do not believe that possible,” his sister quipped as she whisked Evangeline away. As she was rushed, she looked once back over her shoulder.

It was beginning, what he’d promised. Once his sister took up a project, nothing stood in her way. He should be feeling joy. He wasn’t certain what he was feeling but it bloody well wasn’t joy.

“Och. This will be an interesting party,” the Duchess of Aston laughed.

Suddenly, her husband’s booming voice cut in. “Where’s my wife? I can’t go in without my wife.”

“I thought it wasn’t the done thing for husbands to take their wives in,” Charlotte said with genuine confusion.

The Duke of Aston, who’d crossed the room in a few quick strides, gave his famous tiger smile. “It isn’t. But I can’t have her from my side above fifteen minutes. She is that which makes my life worth living.”

It would have sounded absolutely nauseating from anyone else. But his words rang true and Basingstoke himself knew the way the two had become not only lovers but the dearest friends. They were one of the only happy couples he knew. Most of which were in this room.

He offered his arm to Miss Treadwell. “Shall we?”

She smiled up at him. “We shall. And this is the most entertainment I’ve had in the whole year.”

“It will only increase,” he said, half with dread, half with anticipation at how Lady Evangeline might surprise them all next.