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pulled loose by chubby hands; she’d been flushed and radiant.
    The sudden surge of remembered feeling jerked him back to the present, but left him slightly giddy. He dragged in a breath, then uttered a prayer of thanks as the music ended.
    Enough was enough.
    Concealing grim resolution behind his usual affable mask, he crossed the floor to rescue Anne. She looked about, searching for him, then saw him and smiled. When he joined her, she slid her hand onto his arm.
    Gordon Canterbury blinked, but was too polite to comment.
    The end of the ball was nigh; once again, the Caverlocks had been noticeable by their absence. Reggie steered Anne toward the chaise where Minerva sat.
    “I’m not sure what to make of it,” Anne murmured. “Harriet Grismeade said Imogen had intended to come but sent word yesterday that she was indisposed.” She glanced briefly at Reggie. “She hasn’t been about for the past two days.”
    Reggie didn’t truly care about Imogen. “Perhaps she caught a chill.”
    Anne caught the edge to his tone; startled, she glanced at him.
    He captured her gaze. “Tomorrow morning.” Once assured he had her complete attention, he stated, “I’ll call to speak with you at noon.”
    “Noon?”
    “Yes. Be there.”
    She searched his eyes, then, a touch of nervousness returning, nodded. “Very well. I’ll be in.”
     
    “Good morning.”
    Anne’s soft voice reached him; he turned as she shut the parlor door.
    A morning gown of pale green emphasized her delicacy, turning her hair a deeper chestnut in contrast. The wide skirts shushed as she came toward him, searching his face, her expression guarded; he kept his features impassive, searching her eyes in return.
    He saw a frown grow, inwardly frowned in response.
    She halted with a yard between them, drew herself up, clasped her hands before her. “If you’ve come to lecture me on watching the Caver-locks…”
    Her uncertainty reached him; irritation surged anew. He felt his lips thin. Caverlocks, be damned! “You don’t need—” He saw her draw back, steel herself; he broke off, hauled in a quick breath, held it for a fraught second, then let it out with the words, “That wasn’t what I wanted to speak with you about.”
    Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Her defensiveness abruptly eased, replaced with a finer tension. After a moment, she prompted, as always gentle, “What, then?”
    He felt his jaw set, fought to overcome the instinct not to reveal himself in anything so definite as words—even now not to make himself vulnerable to the hurt she could deal him if he’d misjudged her.
    Yet he hadn’t misjudged—either her or him; he could see it in her eyes, watching him, as wary and as hesitant as he felt, every bit as unsure, wondering if it was possible to hope.
    “At Lady Hendrick’s. In the parlor.” He ran out of words. How the devil was he to phrase it?
    A blush rose to her cheeks; she was struggling to follow his direction. Her blush grew brighter; her gaze fell. “I… apologize if I was too forward—”
    “No.” He stepped closer, ran a finger down her cheek. “ Don’t apologize. If anyone should it should be me—” He broke off as she looked up, was lost for a moment in her eyes, then continued, “But I have no intention of doing so. If I hadn’t— if we hadn’t—I might never have known. Never realized.”
    Her gaze was locked with his. “Realized what?”
    She—her wide eyes, the softness in her face, the delicate curve of her lips, the rich fall of her hair, the light perfume—some combination of apple blossom and honeysuckle—that rose from her skin, that skin itself, pure and pale, the promise of womanly warmth that, standing so close with her skirts brushing his boots, reached for him and wrapped him about—all that gave him the courage to take her hand, raise it to his lips, say, “That if we wish—if you agree—we could share our lives in great happiness.”
    She blinked; like veils falling, her shields