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embarrassment or issue a false apology, he’d wait an eternity. It was clear he intended to weather the incident with the veil of gentlemanly decorum. Well, so could she. Though her father would vehemently protest otherwise, she could act the proper lady when the occasion called for it. At the present, the occasion called out rather loudly.
    “Good evening, Lord Armstrong. As much as I would—”
    Someone tugged sharply on the tulle bertha of her gown, halting her before she could complete her refusal. A startled glance to her left revealed her chaperone appearing even more dour than the high-necked, brown poplin dress adorning her too-thin figure.
    How perfectly splendid.
Now she returned. If the blasted woman had returned only minutes before, she would undoubtedly be sipping some sweet drink instead of facing down this wretched man in a ballroom full of the crème de la crème of society.
    Miss Crawford shot her a hard look that said,
Refuse him and I’ll make you regret the day you were born.
She then gave a shrill laugh, to cover the silence that had befallen their rapt audience. “She would be delighted, my lord.”
    This she tittered to Lord Armstrong, who wore the same smile Lucifer must have worn when committing the sins that brought about his expulsion to earth.
    A low murmur started amongst those surrounding.
    “What did she say?” one woman inquired.
    “Did she order the Bertram girl to dance with him?” an older gentleman asked of another balding, portly one.
    “Move closer, Henry—I cannot hear a thing,” the hostess, Lady Stanton, instructed her husband.
    Amelia darted a glance around. Eyes alight with almost fiendish anticipation stared back at her. Their expressions said they wanted her to refuse. It was as if the taste of a scandal had bestirred their hunger and her refusal would merely whet their appetite for more.
    What choice did she have but to accept? At present, she’d do anything to halt this embarrassing debacle before it grew to such proportions that someone—namely Miss Crawford or perhaps even Lord Armstrong—would apprise her father of her gauche. Lord, he’d have her on the next train to some godforsaken convent to spend a year on bended knees, clutching a cross, and reciting
Hail Marys
and
Our Fathers.
    “I would be delighted.” She echoed her chaperone’s sentiments, praying her abhorrence wasn’t writ plain on her face for all to see. Placing a gloved hand on his proffered arm, the innocuous touch igniting a shower of sensation from her fingertips up the length of her arm, she followed his lead.
    They made what seemed like a mile-long walk to the dance floor amid a flurry of movement as onlookers hurried to clear a path for their progress. Amelia wasn’t certain which was worse, the intense scrutiny and whispers, or having his hands on her person as he drew her into the circle of his arms. The impulse to jerk from his touch overwhelmed and alarmed her … as it did to every one of her nerve endings.
    Her instincts told her to run, to go. Then pride tugged her up by the shoulders, lengthening her spine and tipping up her chin. Amelia didn’t mind if people called her cold and emotionless, but she’d never give them cause to call her a coward. So instead of bolting, she rested her hands on his shoulders, ignoring the tingling of her flesh in all the places they came in contact: her hands, her waist, the small of her back.
    With his athletic physique, she had taken Lord Armstrong for a man more suited to masculine pursuits like rugby or rowing. But he proved to be a dancer of finesse and grace, twirling her expertly about the floor. Uttering not a single word, he gazed down at her, his green eyes half-lidded. His slumbered look could not, however, hide the sharp glint in coal-black pupils bespeaking a mind in action—surmising, scheming … plotting her demise.
    Well, he didn’t frighten her.
    Amelia gave an involuntary shiver and in flustered haste, shifted her gaze from