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liars we are,” he said with a little laugh. “May I offer my condolences on the passing of Mr. Marston?”
    Sadness touched Cassie’s heart then receded. What she liked most about Charles was the gentle sweetness he’d always shown her in their home, and in their bed. Blinding herself to what Charles did outside their home had been a tactic she’d learned at her mother’s knee, one that had failed her when she’d returned to her father’s house after her widowing.
    “And, I must extend my condolences to you for your loss. It’s double mine,” she said. How she’d ached when she heard Lucien had wed. His wife, Dorothea Radcliffe, was exactly the sort of woman she’d expected him to choose: pretty, the third daughter of an earl and an heiress. Lady Graceton had died giving birth.
    Something flashed through Lucien’s eyes. He nodded, accepting her remark then heat flickered to life in his gaze. “Now that we’ve addressed the niceties what do you say we immerse ourselves in the moment?
    “You asked if I could be more subtle.” His smile was taunting. “Trust me, Mrs. Marston, I’m no longer the callow youth you remember. I can be very subtle.”
    Cassie read the message in his face. It was the same message he’d sent her six years ago, although then he hadn’t known he’d been sending it. He wanted her, not as his wife, but in his bed.
    Had it not been for Lord Bucksden this might have upset her. Swinging that urn had altered everything. She had two weeks, if that long, before her life irrevocably changed. Rightly or wrongly, until her family sailed to America or the Runners came to take her, Cassie wanted Lucien’s attention. She needed his pursuit to hide that she was no longer Cassandra, the upright, responsible widow who suppressed her own needs to tend to her family but Cassie, the slayer of earls.
    “You call that subtle, my lord?” she chided. “Hardly. Why, you’re practically leering at me.”
    His eyes widened as if in innocence, but lurking behind the pretense was surprise, pleasure and desire. “I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”
    “If that’s so, my lord, then I fear I must revise my opinion of you. The years have hopelessly dulled your intellect.”
    Lucien threw back his head and laughed. Cassie laughed with him, enjoying herself. The heady sensation was as seductive and alluring as the nobleman with whom she danced.
    His smile roguish, Lucien lowered his head near her ear. His attraction to her enveloped her along with his scent. Cassie’s body responded on its own. Three years was a long time to go without a man’s touch for a woman liked that sort of thing.
    “Why bother with subtlety, Mrs. Marston, when I’d much rather prefer to grab what I want.” His fingers shifted against her back, making it clear what he wanted to take.
    “Grabbing is frowned upon by we better sort of people, my lord,” she sniffed, toying with him just as he toyed with her. “So, what do you want so badly that you must grab for it?”
    His eyes sparked, recognizing that she moved their game to a new level. He answered as they made another turn by tightening his hand at the small of her back. Their hips almost touched. A thrill shot through her.
    “Passion,” he whispered.
    “Ah yes,” Cassie agreed, all innocence. “Passion is a fine thing to feel. I’m passionate about art. Why, earlier I wandered Lord Ryecroft’s gallery. I vow the paintings done by his father fair stole my breath. What stirs your passion, my lord?”
    Pleasure and desire filled Lucien’s gray eyes at her coy question. “At this moment I find I’m passionate about the curve of your lips. No statue, no painting,
no objet d’art
has ever so deeply moved me.”
    As he spoke they made another a turn. Lucien used the movement to again draw her closer. This time their hips brushed.
    Glorious heat tumbled through Cassie. She pushed herself back to a safe distance in his embrace. Lifting her hand from his shoulder,