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too late to stop the slaughter. Amelia could not recall the last time she’d felt thisthoroughly exposed. So stricken and besieged. So completely mortified.
    Never.
    Then to punctuate the totality of her humiliation, the crowd before her parted as if Moses himself had brought his staff down upon the waters of the Red Sea. Hushed tones could barely contain their glee. And condemnation. Through a sea of bejeweled gowns and black waistcoats strode the tall, commanding form of none other than the man whose prowess she’d just eviscerated in the full hearing of the ton.

Chapter 4

    Murder might be a hanging offense, but Thomas could see there were times when the trespass was well worth the consequence. But he’d be damned if he allowed the blasted chit to cause his masculine pride to supplant a level head.
    He strode through the crush, his gaze locked on the source of his ire donned in a peach ball gown, her hair a mass of dark, silken curls elaborately arranged atop her head. She stood frozen, her face cherry-blossom pink, her eyes like a deer on the verge of flight. What a pity beauty that blinding hid a heart encased in stone and housed such a virulent tongue.
    The crowd watched spellbound. Randolph, Smith, and Granville did little to squelch their amusement, their chuckles reaching his burning ears. And there wasn’t a single guest present fooled by the loud and prolonged coughs of Essex and Cartwright.
    Lady Camden, Lady Dalton, and Widow Ramsey looked on in mute denial, their expressions stricken—and they should know, they themselves had experienced enormous pleasure at the hands of his alleged sexual shortcomings.
    Thomas imagined at least half those attending the ball waited in salacious delight at what they hoped would be a scene from a particularly titillating melodrama.
    “Lady Amelia.” He managed a pleasant enough tone and a courtly bow. But his mouth strained under the effort of producing a smile.
    Cobalt blue eyes stared up at him with such stark horror he was almost moved to laugh. Almost, but not quite. She swallowed, and then like a curtain being drawn, her expression became shuttered.
    “Good evening, Lord Armstrong,” she replied coolly, her delicate chin tilted high as she performed a modest curtsey. But the quaver in her voice betrayed her nervousness … or fright.
    She had every right to be scared. He hoped she was quivering in her lacy French drawers.
    “Will you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked in cordial tones, extending his hand. Hardly the gesture of a man whose images of wringing her neck had barreled back in his mind with the force of a ferocious storm.
    He could
feel
the shock ripple across the guests standing close enough to hear his request. Much like spectators at a pugilist match, this crowd wanted blood, though they’d be loath to admit such a thing. They yearned for something raucous to break up the humdrum of their dreary week.
    The air was taut as the collective ton suspended their breaths to await her response. They made no attempt to even feign disinterest in the encounter that he was quite certain would top the list of conversation topics in parlors and drawing rooms all over town.
    Amelia thought she must be losing her mind—or at least had rattled her brain. He could not have just asked her for a dance.
    Her heart had only just begun to beat again. Now the wretched man stood too close, her senses picking up his distinct scent. Why had she come to this blasted ball? How she now craved those four silken walls. At the moment, she’dwelcome Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle. Really, she’d willingly read anything at all.
    But there he stood, his jaw firmly set, appearing the height of civility. Yes, this was more his style. Crush her with kindness. Watch her squirm. Make a show of philanthropic compassion. And the moment they took to the dance floor … She shivered. She could well imagine the kind of retribution he intended.
    But if he expected her to stutter in