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strength entirely beyond her power to counter, shocked her, momentarily dazed her.
    Tangled her tongue.
    Left her mentally scrambling to catch up—and filch the reins of her will back from his grasp.
    The look on his face—one of all-seeing, patronizing, not superiority but control—helped enormously.
    She dragged in a breath, conscious of her bodice tightening alarmingly. “We haven’t been introduced!” The first point that needed to be made.
    “Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington. And you are?”
    Flabbergasted. Breathless again. The timbre of his voice, deep, low, vibrated through her. His eyes, deepest black under heavy lids, held hers. She had to moisten her lips. “Alicia…Carrington.”
    Where were her wits?
    “ Mrs . Carrington.” She dragged in another breath, and felt the reel her wits had been whizzing through start to slow.
    His eyes hadn’t left hers. Then he slipped his shoulder from under her hand, and that hand, her left, was trapped in his. His fingers shifted, finding the gold band on her ring finger.
    His lips twisted fleetingly; he replaced her hand on his shoulder and continued to whirl her smoothly down the room.
    She stared at him, beyond astonished. Inwardly thanking the saints for Aunt Maude’s ring.
    Then she blinked, cleared her throat, and looked over his shoulder into safe oblivion. “I must thank you for your help last evening—I hope the matter was concluded without any undue difficulties. I do ask you to excuse my early retreat.” She risked a glance at his face. “I fear I was quite overcome.”
    In her experience most men accepted that excuse without question.
    He looked as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.
    “ Quite overcome,” she reiterated.
    The cynical scepticism—she was sure it was that—in his narrowing eyes only deepened.
    Theatrically, she sighed. “I was attending with my unmarried younger sister. She’s in my care. I had to take her home—my responsibility to her came first, above all else, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”
    For a full minute, not a muscle moved in his classically sculpted face, then his brows rose. “I take it Mr. Carrington was not present?”
    A whisper of caution tickled her spine; she kept her eyes on his. “I’m a widow.”
    “Ah.”
    There seemed a wealth of meanings in the single syllable; she wasn’t sure she approved of any of them. Her tone sharp, she inquired, “And what do you mean by that?”
    He opened his eyes wider, the heavy lids lifting; his lips, thin, mobile, the lower somewhat fuller, seemed to ease. His black gaze held hers trapped; he made no move to answer her question.
    Not with words.
    She suddenly felt quite warm.
    Flustered—she was actually flustered.
    The music reached its conclusion; the dance ended. She’d never been so thankful of any event in her life. She stepped out of his arms, only to feel his hand close once more about hers.
    His gaze on her face, he set her hand on his sleeve. “Allow me to escort you back to your sister.”
    She had little choice but to accept; she did so with a haughty inclination of her head, and permitted him to steer her up the room, tacking through the crowd to where Adriana had returned to the safety of her court.
    Taking up her position a few steps away, close by the wall, she lifted her hand from Torrington’s sleeve and turned to dismiss him.
    His gaze had gone to Adriana; he glanced back at her. “Your sister is very lovely. I take it you’re hoping to establish her creditably?”
    She hesitated, then nodded. “There seems no reason she shouldn’t make an excellent match.” Especially now Ruskin was gone. The recollection had her meeting Torrington’s black gaze; it seemed fathomless, but far from cold.
    Oddly intriguing. His gaze seemed to hold her, yet she didn’t, in fact, feel trapped. Just held….
    “Tell me.” His expression eased a fraction more. “Have you seen the latest offering at the Opera House? Have you been in town long enough