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her chaperone and sigh over the fact that propriety does not permit you to dance the next set with her,” the major said.
    â€œAh,” the lieutenant said, “of course. Come, my dear,” he said to the girl in Portuguese, “I shall return you to your chaperone. It would not do, alas, for me to sully the reputation of so delicate aflower by keeping you with me one moment longer. But the memory of this half-hour will sustain me through a lonely night.”
    Lord Ravenhill snorted. “It would serve him right if the girl were a secret student of languages,” he said. “I suppose he was taking his leave with protestations of undying love for the girl. Was he, Bob?”
    â€œSomething like that,” the captain said.
    But his attention had been distracted. Ravenhill had not exaggerated—not much, anyway. It was as if the crowds had parted and the Queen of Portugal—or of England—had entered the room. Not that all the noise or activity had ceased. Conversations continued and gentlemen were choosing their partners for the next set of dances. But somehow the focus of general attention had suddenly centered on the new arrival.
    She was dressed rather simply in a white gown. And her hair, dark and glossy, and yet a shade lighter than that of most Portuguese women, was not elaborately dressed. It was combed back smoothly from her face and her ears and dressed in curls at the back of her head. Her gloves and fan and slippers were all white. It was difficult at first glance to understand why her presence commanded such attention. But there were several reasons, he realized as he continued to gaze at her across almost the entire length of the large ballroom.
    She was dressed all in white. Amid the rich and glorious colors of the gentlemen’s uniforms and the lesser brightness of the ladies’ gowns, she was as startlingly noticeable as the first snowdrop of winter. And the contrast of her dark hair and the creaminess of her skin—there was plenty of it visible about her shoulders and bosom—made the whiteness of her clothing all the more dazzling.
    He could not tell if her face was beautiful. She was too far away. But she had an exquisite figure, slim but curved lavishly in all the right places. It was the sort of figure that could make a man’s loins ache without even a glance at the face above it.
    But it was not just her appearance or her figure that accountedfor the disproportionate amount of male attention she was attracting. There were other women in the room who were perhaps almost as beautiful—almost if not quite. Captain Blake watched her through narrowed eyes. There was a presence about her, a sense of pride in the lifted chin and the curve of her spine, an expectation of homage.
    And homage was what she was getting. There were copious amounts of scarlet regimentals and gold lace about her, their owners dancing attendance on her, taking her shawl, fetching her a glass of wine or champagne, taking her hand, kissing it, being tapped on the arm with her white fan.
    â€œOne would willingly spend eternity in hell in exchange for one night—just one night, eh?” Lord Ravenhill said, reminding Captain Blake that he had been staring at the woman and that he had not taken himself off home after all.
    â€œI daresay the body between the sheets and in the darkness would give no more pleasure than that of a willing whore,” he said, watching the woman smile as both she and the small court who had gathered about her ignored the fact that the dancing was beginning again.
    Both the major and Lord Ravenhill laughed. “I don’t think you believe that any more than we do, Bob,” Major Campion said. “Just the thought of my hand in the small of that little back is enough to send me in search of a pail of cold water. Has anyone seen one anywhere?”
    The marquesa was looking about her while her court danced attendance on her. Captain Blake felt