The task was lengthy. Being a costume ball, she would be gowned as Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, and sensual rapture. The costume her aunt had commissioned for the affair was made of white satin and fashioned in the Grecian mode, baring one shoulder, clinging to her curves, and draping across her bosom. The sides of the gown were split, and when she walked, her legs were exposed well past the knee.

The entire effect was heightened by the Grecian designs embroidered in gold across the bodice and around the hem, the thin gold sandals that encased her bare feet, and the bands of gold encircling her upper arms.

As soon as she was dressed, she sat down in front of the mirror and Jeannie coiffed her hair, clipping it up on the sides with mother-of-pearl seashell combs while leaving the rest loose down her back in fiery red curls. As she watched Jeannie work, she tried to stay angry at Caleb, but her temper had cooled considerably and most of her fury had seeped away.

In truth, chances were good if he had known her decision—not to pick Mondale or Nash or any other man—he wouldn't have gone to her aunt.

Why had he? Did he really want her so badly? And if he did… ? If he did, what exactly did that mean?

Surely Caleb couldn't be in love with her.

She shook her head. It was impossible. Ridiculous. He was the son of an earl. His interest was only in the physical side of the attraction they shared. It wasn't love. It couldn't be.

But what if it were?

The question nagged her, wouldn't get out of her head.

As Jeannie fastened the buttons on her white satin gown, she told herself she was being a fool, a complete and utter harebrain, but the niggling thought remained.

Jeannie dabbed a little more rouge on her cheeks, urged her up from the stool, then made a sweeping assessment of her handiwork. " 'ow lovely you look, chérie. Magnifique!" Jeannie motioned for her to turn in front of the tall cheval glass and she made a slow pirouette.

Vermillion thought she looked exotic, that she looked sensual and seductive. That she looked like Vermillion and nothing at all like Lee.

And so this night, for perhaps the last time in her life, that was exactly who she would be.

She reached over and caught her maid's hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Jeannie. You've been a very dear friend."

The older woman smiled. "You will choose the captain, no?"

Vermillion shook her head. "No, Jeannie."

"But why not? Nom de Dieu, surely now that you know 'e is not a servant, that 'e is—"

"I'm not choosing Captain Tanner or anyone else. I'm going to lead a life of my own." Vermillion turned away before Jeannie could argue and started for the door.

The guests had all arrived. Everyone would be waiting downstairs. It was time to make her entrance.

The ballroom was in a separate wing of the mansion, a huge, high-ceilinged chamber illuminated by crystal chandeliers. As the guests walked in, each cut glass prism sparkled and danced, the colors multiplied a thousand times in the mirrors that lined the walls. Tonight the room had been decorated to resemble the sea from which Aphrodite rose the day she was created. Murals had been painted depicting the ocean, with white clouds above a rocky shoreline dotted with white-winged gulls. In the corner where the orchestra played, sand had been brought in to resemble a beach.

Pausing at the entrance to the ballroom, Vermillion pulled a white-feathered mask down over her eyes, then started through the door. Just inside, Oliver Wingate, costumed as a too-tall version of Admiral Nelson, offered her his arm.

"Good evening, my dear." His eyes moved over her seductive satin gown. "There are not words to describe your beauty, Vermillion."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Lord Andrew Mondale, extravagantly costumed as a sixteenth-century courtier in a doublet of deep orange velvet trimmed with ermine, doffed his matching ermine-trimmed hat. "Happy birthday, my beauty."

"Thank you, Andrew. You are looking quite dashing, as always."

He beamed with pleasure and settled his hat back on his head, hiding the gleam of his golden curls.

Jonathan Parker, Viscount Nash, was the third of her suitors to appear. It was obvious the men had been waiting.

"Ah, yes, Aphrodite. Quite appropriate, I would say." Wearing the tunic, jackboots, and the hat of a musketeer, Jonathan bent and kissed her hand. "Before the night is over, I hope to worship at your altar of love."

It was a rather un-Nash-like remark and she couldn't help a smile. "Why don't we join the others?" she said evasively, then, once they were immersed in the milling throng, excused herself to go in search of her aunt.

As she crossed the ballroom, making her way through the crowd, she tried not to search for Caleb. She didn't see him, but perhaps she wouldn't recognize him if he were there. He could be one of the several court jesters she passed or perhaps a Roman soldier. She recognized Sir Peter Peasley, costumed as Henry III, and beside him, Lisette Moreau in a tall silver wig, playing the role of Madame de Pompadour. Juliette Beauvoir was there, flirting outrageously with the actor, Michael Cutberth, but there was no sign of Caleb.

Vermillion continued toward the dais where Aunt Gabby stood next to Lord Claymont—a handsome Mark Antony and a beautiful, silver-blond Cleopatra.

Gabriella smiled, the golden serpents on her gown glittering as she moved. "We've been waiting for you, darling. Now that you're here, the party can truly begin." But of course it was already in full swing.

Vermillion thought of the long hours ahead, the boring conversation, the leering glances, the gossip she cared nothing about.

Steeling herself, she pasted on her practiced smile and accepted a dance with a skinny man she knew to be Lord Derry wearing a black hood and carrying an ax.


Caleb stood away from the crush of guests along a far wall of the ballroom. He wasn't wearing a costume, just his scarlet and navy uniform and tall black dress boots. His only concession to the masquerade ball was the scarlet satin domino that covered the top half of his face.

He surveyed the crowded dance floor, his gaze taking in the wild array of colors and fabrics, the plumed hats and rich satins and velvets. In the corner of the room, he spotted Vermillion, in conversation with her aunt and Lord Claymont. She looked beautiful tonight. There was no denying it. Every bit the goddess she portrayed. She was a sensual, stirring creature, the epitome of every man's fantasy, sophisticated and completely untouchable.

Only Caleb knew the sweet young woman she was underneath her façade. The innocent young girl he had made love to that first night in the stable. His loins clenched at the thought, began to fill, and silently he cursed.

Caleb watched her dance, first with a slight man in a black hood and then with Andrew Mondale, and cursed again, more savagely this time. For a man used to waging campaigns, his strategy in dealing with Vermillion had been a complete and utter failure.

He had made a tactical error in seeking her aunt's assistance and Lee refused to forgive him. For the last two days, she had avoided him. God only knew what she would do when she saw him tonight.

Caleb sighed as he watched her dance. He shouldn't have gone to her aunt. He knew that now, but at the time he hadn't been thinking too clearly. He had wanted her, been afraid he was going to lose her.

He should have known Lee would rebel, do exactly the opposite of what he wanted her to do.

Dammit to bloody hell.

The dance ended and Mondale returned her to her circle of friends. Oliver Wingate was among them. She looked up at him and laughed at something the colonel said. It was all Caleb could do not to storm across the room and drag her away from the man, haul her out of the ballroom, out of the house and off someplace private where he could make love to her until neither of them could move.

Instead, he stood there watching, wondering what she planned to do, feeling sick inside. He prayed that when the time came she would simply cry off, refuse to choose any man at all. She had said that she might… that she was giving the matter serious consideration.

One thing he was fairly sure of—if she decided to choose a protector, the very last man she would pick would be Captain Caleb Tanner.


The evening dragged on. Gabriella had let it be known that when the orchestra struck up the birthday waltz, whichever man Vermillion chose to partner would be the man who would become her protector. Aunt Gabby had also said that if Vermillion danced with Lord Claymont, it would signify she had decided against any of the men in the room.

As the dancing wore on, a fine tension settled in Vermillion's shoulders. The golden sandals hurt her feet and the shimmering threads in the embroidery chafed her skin. She wanted nothing so much as to retreat upstairs to her bedchamber and simply go to sleep.

Instead, she heard her aunt's joyful laughter and saw her smile, remembered how long Aunt Gabby had been planning this affair and how much it meant to her, ignored her aching feet and chafed skin and kept on smiling.

Another hour passed. Her face felt stiff, her lips brittle, as if they might crack at any moment. She had finally caught sight of Caleb and purposely ignored him, which only served to make the long night even more miserable.

At last the hour came. Midnight. Time for the birthday waltz. She spotted Lord Claymont and smiled, knowing he would be pleased with her decision. From the time they had met, the earl had wanted a different sort of life for her, had, on more than one occasion, tried to convince Gabriella that he could make some sort of match for her, the son of a village squire, perhaps, or a young man in need of a wealthy bride's dowry.

Gabby wouldn't hear of it, of course. Marriage was the dreariest future she could imagine.

For the most part, Vermillion agreed.

"Darling, are you ready?" Gabriella smiled and Vermillion's stomach knotted.

"As ready as I shall ever be," she said, the smile still stuck on her face.

"Come up to the dais, darling. Lord Claymont would like to propose a toast."

With more dread than she should have been feeling, uncertain what her suitors would do when they discovered she intended to break her vow, she nodded and stepped up in front of the orchestra.

The music stopped and people clustered around the dais. Lord Claymont clinked a silver spoon against his crystal champagne goblet and the room fell silent.

"I should like to propose a toast," he said with a smile. "To Miss Vermillion Durant on this, the night of her nineteenth birthday." He turned to her, held up his glass. "To you, my dear. All happiness in whatever course in life you choose to take."

"Hear! hear!" said Colonel Wingate, lifting his glass. Mondale chimed in and all of the guests lifted their glasses and took a drink. Several more toasts were made, then the strains of a waltz began.

Vermillion looked down at the men clustered around the dais, some she barely knew, and Andrew, Jonathan, and Oliver, the three with whom she was most familiar. Lucas Tanner stood a little ways away, eyeing her with considerable interest. She wondered what his brother had told him about her.

Her eyes swung in Caleb's direction.

He stood behind the others, the epaulets on his scarlet jacket glittering, taller than most of the men in the room, his posture perfectly erect. It was then she noticed that his shoulders were stiff with tension, his jaw set and looking as hard as granite. Though a scarlet domino covered much of his face, she could see his eyes, so dark a brown they looked like onyx.

There was something in them, she saw, something that compelled her to look deeper, past the reserve he wore tonight, all the way into his heart.

A faint tremor ran through her at the image that rushed into her mind.

It wasn't possible.

He couldn't care that much.

Not the way she did, not with a deep, yawning ache that never left her, a pain so deep that suddenly she knew exactly what she had to do.

She knew the choice she would make, knew that she would give up her precious independence. Knew that she would choose Caleb. And if their brief time together was all she ever had of him, it would be worth it.

She stepped down from the dais, reeling a little with the enormity of what she meant to do. She stumbled a bit and swayed toward Andrew, who steadied her with a hand at her waist. He smiled, thinking as everyone did that she meant to choose him. Instead, her gaze swept past him, fixed on Caleb. She saw the anguish in his face even the mask could not hide.