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discover if your gown really does match the color of your eyes. It does.”
    Lauren fanned her cheeks slowly—the ballroom was surely overwarm even though both sets of French windows leading out onto the balcony on the other side of the ballroom were wide open. Did he expect her to blush and simper at such blatant gallantry—when she had heard very different words on his lips last week?
Come on, you buggers.
    Joseph was purposefully clearing his throat.
    “May I hope you are free to dance the next set with me, Miss Edgeworth?” Viscount Ravensberg asked while Lady Mannering smiled benevolently at his side.
    “I was about to escort my cousin to the refreshment room,” Joseph said smoothly but with a firm edge of dismissal in his tone. He offered his arm for her hand. “Miss Edgeworth is thirsty and needs a rest from dancing. Lauren?”
    But Lord Ravensberg did not look away from her. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly while laughter danced in his eyes. He awaited an answer from her own lips. No true gentleman would have done so. And there was no necessity for her to reply when Joseph had done so for her. She had merely to place her hand on his arm, smile disdainfully, and walk off. It was a quite unexceptionable way in which to deal with unmannerly pretension. But she did none of those things.
    Lord Ravensberg had not been coerced.
He had complimented her eyes, however foolish the flattery. And he was undeniably attractive.
    “Thank you, Joseph,” she heard herself saying, “but perhaps I have the energy to dance one more set before taking refreshments.”
    She stepped forward, set her hand on the viscount’s sleeve, and allowed him to lead her onto the open space of the dance floor. Would she have done so if Joseph had not spoken up to protect her? Or if Lord Sutton had not been bringing her another partner? She did not know. But she did realize suddenly, now that it was too late to change her mind, that the next set was to be a waltz—the intimate dance, still considered slightly scandalous by the highest sticklers, that she had once considered wondrously romantic. But that had been when she had danced it with Neville at her wedding eve ball. And never before or since.
    “Such a grave look,” the viscount murmured as she turned to face him. “
Are
you tired? Would you prefer after all that I escort you to the refreshment room?”
    “No. Thank you.” It was strange how such a small rebellion had lifted her spirits. And she was actually glad that the dance was to be a waltz. Perhaps she could lay to rest more than a few ghosts tonight.
    The orchestra began playing the opening bars. Lauren raised her left hand to his shoulder and set her other hand in his. She could feel his right hand come firmly to rest against the arch of her back. His height made their positioning seem more intimate than it had felt with the taller Neville. She could not easily avoid gazing into his face. She could not avoid feeling his intense physical presence. She could feel the warm strength of both his hands. She could smell the subtle musk of his cologne. She drew a slow breath and looked into his eyes.
    They smiled warmly, knowingly back into her own—as if he felt her discomfort and was amused by it. A dangerous man indeed, she thought. She had never been comfortable with such men. She had avoided them all her life.
    He led her into the waltz.
    For a while the bitter memories of her wedding eve ball and the day that had followed it threatened to overwhelm her. She calmed herself by deliberately counting her steps and concentrating on the rhythm of the music and the movement of her feet. But it did not take long to realize that she was partnered by a man who was an accomplished dancer. It was easy—it felt almost like second nature—to fit her steps to his lead and to follow the graceful, twirling pattern he set about the perimeter of the ballroom floor. It was easy to feel comfortable with his height, to appreciate the fact that