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Her eyes went wide as he approached. She tipped back the coupe, finishing her punch in a single gulp. She watched, regretfully, as a footman took away her empty cup.

Henry was so close he could smell her perfume; his entire being ached at the strange familiarity of her scent. It was shocking, to be so close to her. He’d never expected to see her; he’d never allowed himself to imagine it happening. It was too dangerous.

What he felt for Caroline was too dangerous.

And then she met his gaze, her head tilting back as he got closer, and closer, pushing aside bodies with increasing urgency.

Four

C
aroline had been ducking in and out of the crush with exhausting futility all evening.

Holding her fan just beneath the reach of her bottom eyelashes, she’d searched the ballroom, from the balcony to the floor and back again. She hoped she was as discreet as she
thought
she was being in her pursuit; surely in the midst of all this merriment and mayhem, no one would notice her looking, quite ardently, for a pale-haired giant?

Yes, surely.

Caroline’s eye caught on a flash of gray-blue brilliance across the ballroom, widening at the realization that it was a diamond—
the
diamond, King Louis’ French Blue. It was enormous, even from a distance; there was something distinctively seductive about the way the jewel sparked and glittered in the low light of the chandeliers above, winking red one moment, flashing white the next.

Perhaps it was the lady wearing the French Blue who was so alluring. She was tall and shapely, and wore a gown of diaphanous pale gauze that left very little to the imagination. The jewel hung from a collar of wisplike diamond threads, resting just above the inviting crease between her breasts. Like the
diamond, her eyes flashed a bold shade of blue; but even as the pert slope of her nose, the knowing smile of her lips exuded confidence and coolness, the woman’s color was high.

One need only look slightly to the left to know why.

Caroline’s brother, William, despoiler of debutantes, voluptuary extraordinaire, was grinning down at the lady as if he might enjoy that ample bosom for dessert.

Caroline rolled her eyes. So much for finding London and its dissipated amusements dull; a few coupes of punch and William was back to his old tricks. Hopefully the poor girl knew better than to indulge him.

Who was she, Caroline wondered, and why had this Mr. Hope chosen her to wear his prized jewel? Perhaps he wanted to display his wealth before all the world, or at least all of London, and there was no better way to do that than to wedge it between a pretty girl’s breasts.

But even as curiosity prickled in the back of her mind, Caroline’s thoughts returned again and again to Henry.

Was he here at the ball? She was beginning to feel foolish for even thinking such a thing; she was beginning to feel foolish for thinking she’d seen him at all earlier this afternoon in Hyde Park.

Yet it was him. It had to be him. She’d felt it in her skin, in her heart. Henry Lake was back in London.

But even if he
was
back, even if he was here, what did she hope to accomplish by chasing him down? He disappeared twelve years ago with hardly a handshake; no one had heard from him since. It was obvious he did not want to be found.

Caroline turned, and so did her heart inside her chest.

He was here
. He was real, and alive.

And he was looking at her.

She looked away, heart pounding, heat rushing to her face. She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the ground had suddenly shifted, jolting her to life. Her ribs fought against the prison of her stays as she struggled to catch her breath.

Meeting his eyes—his one eye, which at the loss of its partner seemed to have taken on twice the intensity, twice the heat—made Caroline feel as though she was going to cry; like she was falling into the deep well of emotion that had lain hidden inside her all these years.

Caroline began to move, if only to keep from fainting. She inched sideways through the crowd, feeling the heat of Henry’s gaze on the back of her neck. Was he following her?

She glanced over her shoulder. Oh, he was
definitely
following her.

Stumbling blindly through the crowd, Caroline at last found respite at the refreshment tables. She didn’t need to look to know that Henry was getting closer.

Caroline hooked a trembling finger through the handle of a crystal coupe and threw back the punch.

Dear.
God
. It was more brandy than punch, burning a ribbon of fire down the length of her throat. She coughed heartily, running the back of her hand across her lips. She looked up. Henry was close. Very close.

She looked down at her empty glass, waiting for what her brother called liquid courage to light a fire in her belly.

She waited.

And waited.

And was none the more courageous when, sadly, a footman removed the coupe from her hand.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Caroline looked up.

Henry was an arm’s length away; as he moved to stand before her, he captured her eyes with his, her chin drawing higher to meet his gaze.

He drew up in front of her, a respectable distance separating their bodies until a crowd of drunken dandies jostled enthusiastically behind him, pushing him closer.

Too close.

His face lit with panic.

“Oh, oh, how clumsy, and the crowd . . . I, um. Are you all right?”

She blinked, startled by the sound of his voice. A chill shot down her spine; that voice of his, deep, rumbling, was at once foreign and familiar.

“Yes,” she breathed. No. Not at all. “All right, thank you.”

Henry’s green eye, wide, glowed in the half-light of a thousand candles. For a minute the room fell away and she was beneath the arched ceiling of her family’s ancient chapel, the echo of her vows ringing in her ears as she met Henry’s gaze.

She blinked and the spell was broken. She could see stray
white strands of his wig clinging to the damp skin of his forehead; heavens, he was bigger than she remembered, and more handsome, and intimidating, and so . . . so very
much
.

“Hello,” he said softly.

She met his eye. “Hello.”

Caroline could smell the scent that rose from his skin. He smelled fresh, like lemon soap and laundry. There was something else there, too, something visceral and spicy, something that sent a rush of recognition through the base of her skull.

The eye patch was more sinister up close; its surface shone dully, and Caroline wondered what, exactly, was hidden beneath it. She resisted the impulse to reach up and feather her fingers across its surface.

The drunken dandies returned, forcing Henry to lurch forward; Caroline caught him in her arms. His face was bright red.

“I, uh, I swear I’m not doing this on purpose—here, once I can move I’ll, um, move?”

Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, her body pinned against his. She willed herself to be still.

His chest bowed and scraped against her own. They were both breathing hard.

Behind them the music started, a rising melody that permeated the sounds and sighs around them. Henry glanced over his shoulder.

“There’s more room near the dancing,” he said.

Caroline ignored the excited thump inside her chest. “Are you—?”

“Asking if you’d like to breathe? Yes. Although to do that we’ll need to dance.”

“But it’s a waltz.”

Henry furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong with a waltz?”

“I don’t know how.”

Really, she hadn’t a clue; considering she often had difficulty walking, it was safe to assume she was going to be miserable at it. Never mind that Henry was looking down at her like
that
; she was likely to break her leg, his leg, perhaps even
both
their legs . . .

No matter the threat to their lower extremities, Henry’s left hand dipped to the small of her back. He grinned.

“Then I shall teach you.”

The protest died on her lips when his right moved to clasp her own in the steady warmth of his palm. He pulled her against him; his breath tickled the hair at her temples. She felt terrifyingly present, her body coming alive as he pulled her yet closer. She looked down at the bare skin of his throat, the ridge of his jaw covered in the barest velvet of pale stubble, and swallowed.

They began to move. Caroline blushed at the intimacy of their movements, the way Henry guided her body to glide in time to his. Her gown sighed as it brushed against the gilded buttons of his courtier’s coat; his thighs pressed insistently against her own.

The ballroom surrounded them in a whirl of dark shape and sound, and yet the sensations bursting to life inside Caroline were all bright, all color. She could feel his eye on her as they moved. She did not dare look up.

Oh, heavens, what was she doing? All these years later—the heartbreak, the regret—she should know better than to waltz with Henry Beaton Lake.

And yet here she was, rising to the touch of the man whose memory had tortured her for a decade.

Despite his size and limp, Henry moved as if on air. His steps were confident, smooth. She wondered where he’d learned to waltz; in which corner of the world had Henry thrilled other women with his surefootedness, his steely command?

In the circle of his arms she felt safe and stranded. She felt lost and more than a little strange, as if it all were a dream: not entirely unpleasant, but certainly impossible—thrillingly, terribly so. She’d already woken once to find him gone. She was not fool enough to do so again.

Besides, she was widowed, and possessed of a hard-won freedom she would not give up for the likes of Henry.

But oh, that look in his eye . . .

Her stays felt too tight, suddenly, and Caroline struggled to breathe. She stumbled, but Henry was quick to right her.

Just when Caroline thought she might swoon, or die, or both, an enormous clatter reverberated through the ballroom. It was a throaty, tinkling sound. Henry froze; Caroline bumped her nose against the inviting little slope of chest where his collarbones met. They both turned at once in the direction of the noise; a wave of stunned silence washed over the crush.

There, on the far wall of the ballroom, a handful of figures costumed in black crashed through the high arched windows, showering the crowd below with broken glass. The figures somersaulted through the air before coming to land—impossibly!—on the monumental chandeliers spanning the length of the room. Pistols held high in their hands, they wrapped their arms and legs about the gilded cables from which the fixtures hung.

Caroline and Henry together ducked at the
one-two-three
discharge of the guns; the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room. She cried out, and Henry held her head to his breast, covering her ear with his hand. With her heart in her throat, she watched the intruders pull knives from their belts, and begin sawing at the cables.

“Oh my God,” Caroline murmured, and on cue the ballroom erupted in a cacophony of screams, shouts, prayers to our Lord and Savior.

An ominous groan crackled above her head. She looked up and saw an intruder leap from the chandelier to land solidly on the ground beside them; he took off into the crowd. A moment later the chandelier bore down upon their heads.

“Oh my God,” she said again, backing away.

Henry pulled her against him from behind, her back to his front, and with his arm about her waist pressed her to the ground, shielding her body with his own just as the chandelier hit the floor with a shuddering, monumental crash.

The ballroom was plunged into darkness.

Her shoulder was in his mouth and his knee was wedged between her thighs and she could hardly breathe. Not for the weight of him—though that was no small consideration—but for the shock of so much sudden, searing closeness.

For half a heartbeat, Henry lay sprawled atop her, chest rising and falling against her back as he struggled to catch his breath. She could feel the scattershot
thump thump thump
of his heart through the hardened expanse of his breastbone.

Caroline wondered if he could feel her heart.

She dearly hoped he couldn’t. It would give her away.

Another half heartbeat later, he was propping himself up on elbows and knees, his knees planted on either side of her hips. She turned over. His wig had thankfully disappeared, and his long, pale hair hung down about his face and tickled her nose.

“Are you,” he panted, tucking the strands behind his ear, “all right?”

Caroline swallowed. Around them people were scrambling, screaming. “I believe so. What’s—who—?”

“I don’t know,” he said grimly, glancing over his shoulder. “But we’ve got to get you out of here. Now.”

He hovered above her, blocking out the night, the world, surrounding her in a heady mix of sight and sound and scent. His green eye stood out boldly against the darkness, wide as he looked at her, and looked, and kept looking.

The look—that
look
!—in his eye made her belly fall to the backs of her knees. No one had looked at her like that in years; intently, softly, as if he liked what he saw, and wanted more of it. As if he wanted her. She struggled not to look away; the onslaught was unbearably brash.