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do?”
    He still had no idea what she was talking about. Did she refer to his ignorance, the fact that he liked the look of her, or that he wanted to know her better? Or perhaps she meant all three. Regardless, Wynthrope was beginning to wonder if perhaps the viscountess didn’t require more effort than any woman deserved. It was unfortunate, really.
    “Why don’t I just walk away?” he suggested, disappointed. “We can pretend this never happened.”
    He had just turned his back when a hand on his arm stopped him. “Wait. Please.”
    He faced her again, half expecting her to toss a glass of champagne in his face, or accuse him of wanting her pretty sister again. Perhaps she’d surprise him with some other act of lunacy.
    Instead she bowed her dark head, the stones in her tiara glittering violently under the chandelier. She looked like a queen—a white queen. Then, she raised her gaze to his.
    No, not a white queen. She was the black queen—with a solemn dark beauty and hidden secrets and depths yet unexplored. There was vulnerability in her hazel gaze, along with a steely strength Wynthrope could not explain. If he didn’t know better, he would almost think she was afraid of him, challenged by him.
    He waited for her to make her move.
    She swallowed, the fragile length of her throat straining with the effort. Good Lord, it wasn’t as though he’d asked her to run away with him—just for a dance. “Forgive me, Mr. Ryland. I was inexcusably rude to you just now.”
    He nodded. “Yes, you were.” He let her digest that before adding, “But perhaps I have given you reason to be wary.”
    Her gaze never wavered. “You have. I am not accustomed to such…attention.”
    Why the hell not? Were the men of England so bloody stupid they didn’t know a treasure waiting to be discovered when they saw it? Moira Tyndale was a diamond still rough and uncut, odd for a widow married so many years.
    He wanted to be the man to discover her facets—all of them. Never before had he felt such an attraction to a woman. As unnerving as it was, he wanted to follow the pull wherever it led him.
    “I would be honored to help you become accustomed to such attention, my lady.” It was truth, not flattery.
    She blushed as though he had told her he wanted to strip her naked and kiss her from foot to head. Not a bad thought, actually.
    “Good evening, Mr. Ryland.”
    Wonderful. The sister had returned. He met her with a cool smile. “Miss Banning. You look lovely this evening.” The chit always looked lovely—not as compelling as her sister, but pretty in a totally uninteresting way.
    Minerva dimpled. No blush, no fluttering pulse at the base of her throat. She was as accustomed to such flattery as her sister was not. “What are you and my sister discussing?”
    “Dancing,” Moira surprised him by answering. Her gaze met his for one brief, hot moment before turning to the younger woman. “Mr. Ryland just asked me to dance.”
    Was it Wynthrope’s imagination, or did Minerva look as though she’d like to kick Moira in the shins?
    “I am still waiting for your answer, my lady.” If she asked her sister for permission, he’d walk away. He really would.
    But Moira cast only the briefest—and most apologetic—glance at her sister before offering her hand to him. “I would love to.”
    Relieved beyond reason, Wynthrope took her gloved fingers in his and led her out into the crowd of dancers without so much as a glance at Minerva. Getting this woman to allow him access to her was going to take more effort than he was used to exerting. A moment ago he had thought she was not worth that exertion. Now he began to entertain the notion that she might be, after all.
    Good thing there was nothing else he would rather spend his energy on.
    The music signaled a waltz. Had she realized that before agreeing to dance? No, there was no way she could have. Finally fate was being kind to him. He could have her all tohimself for a few minutes