'Miss Daisy?' It was Mr Philpott, nervous in high collar and slightly shiny suit. 'I expect all your dances are taken already.'

'Why, no-none are. I have just come down.' Rowan opened her dance card and showed its clean pages.

She circulated, chatting, her card filling slowly but surely. Where was Lucas? Had he decided after all that this was a mistake? It was becoming hard to maintain her poise and her smile and to focus on whoever she was speaking to, not look over their shoulder for a glimpse of a dark head and elegant back.

She was exchanging polite, if barbed compliments with some of the other dressers, whose sharp eyes had seen the mark on her hem and were smug as a result of it, when she felt a touch at the nape of her neck-as tangible as though he had laid his fingers there. Lucas was watching her.

'Miss Lawrence. May I hope your card is not filled?'

'Mr Lucas.' Her curtsey was shallow, the graceful acknowledgement of a gentleman who was her equal. She was aware of Miss Browne's raised eyebrows, but ignored it. Another few days and she would never see these women again. Provided she did nothing to bring opprobrium upon Penny, she did not care what they thought. She lifted her wrist so he could write in the card against whichever of the four remaining sets he chose. When she looked down she saw the bold 'L' against every one-including the supper dances.

It was shocking-or it would be if this was a London Society ball, or Almack's, or anywhere else Lady Rowan Chilcourt frequented. But this was a ball out of place and out of time. A magic ball: the rules did not apply to her. She let the little card drop on its wrist cord and smiled. 'The second set, then Mr Lucas. I look forward to it.'

With a bow he was gone, leaving her to the mercy of Miss Browne and her colleagues. 'You have made an impression there, Miss Lawrence. Are you looking ahead to when your mistress and his master are married?'

Rowan laughed lightly. 'Goodness, no. But he is the best-looking man in the room, don't you agree?'

They bridled, scandalised by her boldness, but then Miss Pratt giggled. 'He is indeed. Why, we are all jealous.'

Rowan smiled and passed on to meet the head gardener's wife and pretty daughter, both of whom were looking very handsome, with hair well dressed. She felt a pang, wishing she could emulate them.

Lucas's dark looks suited the severity of evening black tailoring and crisp white linen. He was as well groomed and dressed as many gentlemen, whereas she had had to be very wary about her appearance.

Her heart wanted her to look as beautiful as she could for him-to style her hair in the most becoming way, to dress in the silks that best showed off her colouring, to wear her pearls to gleam against her skin. But it was not safe. Soon she was going to have to go back into Society: she had to preserve a distance between Daisy Lawrence, even in her prettiest gown, and Lady Rowan.

She feared she would disappoint him, but the look in his eyes when he came to claim her for the first dance of the set put her mind at rest. A series of vigorous country dances with Mr Philpott had put colour in her cheeks, but she could still blush when he took her hand for the quadrille, murmuring, 'Magic, my lovely.'

The formality of the dance steadied her, and the need to watch out for the less able dancers on the floor

distracted her from retreating into a world that held only Lucas. By the end of the set she was composed, confident that she was showing a decorous face to the company.

He yielded her hand to the curate for another set of country dances and strolled away. She managed to follow him with her eyes under the pretext of paying close attention to the figures of the dance, while all the time maintaining a sprightly conversation with the curate. He was young, cheerful, much given to sporting pursuits and proved a boisterous dance partner. By the time Lucas found her for the first of the set preceding supper she was panting slightly and fanning herself.

'My, it is warm in here! And you look as cool as a cucumber-have you been sitting out?'

'Strolling around and flirting wildly,' he said with a chuckle, taking her hand and sweeping her onto the floor. 'What is it? Did you not realise this was a waltz?'

'No. How very dashing of the Steward to permit it!' She had not expected it. Not expected to have to be in Lucas's arms in front of everyone. Not expected to have to guard her expression and her gestures so very carefully.

'I suggested it would be intolerable provincial of him not to,' Lucas drawled, placing his hand lightly at her waist.

Rowan managed not to draw in her breath, reminding herself she had waltzed with the Duke of Wellington without a qualm.

'After that he obviously felt that the honour of the house was at stake.'

The floor was less crowded than it had been. Many of the lower staff and the men did not know how to perform this dashing and fashionable dance, but all were interested. Rowan felt she was on stage. 'They are staring,' she whispered. 'It is most disconcerting.'

'It is because you are so beautiful,' he replied, not troubling to lower his voice.

Mercifully the band struck up to save her blushes and habit took over. Smiling serenely, as though there was nothing in the slightest unsettling about being held close to a man and swept around the floor in his control, their bodies swooping and gliding, Rowan let her feet follow the steps without conscious thought.

Every instinct, every sense, was focused on the man who held her. He was a good dancer-she had expected it from the way he moved. He led with authority, but without force. And he was close, so very close, and intent on nothing but her. Rowan drowned in his eyes, surrendered to his strength and lived only in that moment.

When the set finished and he led her off the floor she knew she was trembling with desire, dazzled with enchantment and quite hopelessly in love.

'Daisy? Are you all right?' He bent over her as they reached the edge of the floor.

'No,' she answered, meeting his gaze frankly. 'I am not all right. Not at all.'

He knew she was not referring to the heat, nor to any possible over-exertion on the dance floor. 'Would champagne help?'

'It can hardly make it any worse,' she murmured, half joking.

The supper room had been set with small tables, many already filling up with family groups or pairs of friends. Lucas sat her at an empty one, removed all but one other chair, and vanished into the throng. When he returned with two plates, a waiter at his heels with a whole bottle of champagne and glasses, she had emerged from her daze and was uncomfortably aware that her solitary state was attracting attention.

'They are still staring.'

'The women are jealous of your looks, the men are hating me.' He shrugged. 'I have acquired the very last lobster patties: please tell me you like them. I had to run the gauntlet of the doctor's wife to get them from under her nose.'

'I love lobster, thank you.' It was a welcome distraction.

'Really? You eat it much?'

Lord! Dressers were hardly likely to acquire a taste for such delicacies. 'Vienna,' she said airily. 'They were two a penny.' He looked sceptical. 'The Congress- such a demand for them, you see.'

'Why is it that you do not trust me, Daisy?'

'I…' He was regarding her steadily over the rim of his glass. She focused on the spiralling bubbles in the straw-coloured liquid. So he knew she was lying about her past. 'I cannot… It is too complicated. It is not all my secret.'

'Is Daisy your real name?'

'No.' She wondered why he smiled and counterattacked. 'Why do you not trust me? And is Lucas your realname?'

'Because it is too complicated, and not all my own secret. And, yes, it is my name.' He picked up a lobster patty and paused with it halfway to his mouth. 'Has the magic gone now we have stopped pretending?'

'No.' She took a morsel and chewed, her brain spinning. What to do? Lucas sat, apparently content to watch her in silence while she swallowed and took a sip of the champagne. She loved him and there was no future for it, whatever he felt-whether he was a valet, an estate manager or a Bow Street Runner. That was clear.

It was almost a relief how clear it was. There was no possibility of agonising about how to get around it, wondering if there was some way to make a miracle happen. They didn't happen. Not even at Christmas. She knew what she had to do.

'I love you,' she said, holding his gaze so that she saw the way his pupils widened until his eyes were almost black, heard the sharp intake of his breath.

'I love you, too.' He said it as clearly and as calmly as she had, and the very simplicity convinced her.

'I cannot marry you,' she added, as though they had been discussing going for a walk.

'Nor I you.'

There was pain there, behind the three simple words. Pain he was not letting show on his face-just as she would not betray the realisation that something inside was cracking open into a scar that would last a lifetime.

'Make love to me.' Rowan was not sure whether it was a question, a plea or a demand. It was only when she had said it that she saw from his face just how shocking her words were.

He leant forward to refill her glass, the action bringing his head close to hers. 'You are a virgin, are you not?' His voice was husky. Desire? Regret? Horror at her suggestion? 'I cannot do it.'

'Yes, I am.' She wondered just how she could hint at her thoughts, and discovered that with Lucas she could simply say the words. 'I have no experience, but it is possible, is it not, to make love without…that?'


As he struggled with the shock Lucas wondered if she knew just what she was asking of him. She was watching his face intently, and although he did not think he had betrayed himself, she read his expression.

'It wasn't fair of me to ask that, was it? It is asking you to exercise a great deal of self-control at a time when you will want to simply follow your instincts.'

'For you, to be with you, a little self-control is nothing.' With a woman he did not love it would be everything. This would be heaven-and hell. 'Even without…that-' her mouth quirked in amusement as he used her own euphemism '-it is very intimate, very intense. Are you sure you want that? Are you sure you will not regret it afterwards?'

'I will not regret it.'

Daisy-he dared not ask her real name-was maintaining a bright, social smile, even nodding and waving to people at other tables.

'All I regret are the things that are keeping us apart.'

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their wine, spinning out the minutes into a memory.

'Do you want to…to go now?' Daisy asked when her glass was empty.

'Yes. But we will dance again.' He wanted to be with her in public, as though she was his for all to acknowledge. He wanted to weave the measures of the dances with her, savouring the fleeting touch of her hand, the little smile as they managed a complex step safely, the aching thrill of the scent of her, warm and feminine, as she brushed against him.

'But you said until midnight,' she protested as they rose.

'I did not know then that you would let me love you,' he said, low against her ear, pretending to free a wisp of hair from her simple earring. 'We have all night, Daisy. All night to make magic'

He must have danced with hundreds of women in his lifetime, Lucas thought, watching Daisy laughing as she linked hands with the Steward and let herself be spun around as the clock struck twelve. He could recall the faces of none of them. He had fancied himself in love more than once, but he could not remember their names now. He had believed himself strong and above emotional pain, and now he knew

he was wrong.

Daisy was still laughing when he took her hands again and swung her out of the set, through into the

hallway and up the stairs.

'Lucas,' she protested. 'The front stairs!'

'Only the best for you, my lady,' he teased as they ran up to the first landing and along the corridor to the back stairs, and he wondered why she blushed.

CHAPTER NINE

The room was in darkness save for the hot glow of the banked fire. Inside the door Lucas released her hand and went to kneel by the hearth to kindle a spill for the candles.

I should be afraid, she thought. I should be shy and apprehensive. Or at the very least ashamed of myself. But I am not. I love him. I do not know how to pleasure him, but he will show me and I will do it. Lucas turned his head and looked at her, a long, serious look that turned her bones to water.