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best conversation with clothes on.”
    Her pink-red mouth opened. “Because it’s something of a sexual nature when clothes are off, Mr. Ryland.”
    He stumbled, missing a dance step. His phallus clenched. Hard.
    Recovering, he chuckled. “Indeed, it is.”
    Miss Tottenham circled slowly for the dance, her skirts rubbing him, and glad he was for the longer, concealing waistcoat. His mysterious guest grasped well the game he played, giving better than she got.
    His lungs expanded, drinking in much-needed air. There seemed to be so little of it in the room. He wanted to be alone with her in his dark study again. He hungered for connection with the woman beneath maddening layers of cloth, something physical and yet…something else.
    Then, she took a deep breath, her small breasts straining the lace of her plunging neckline. The simple movement snared his vision.
    Was she just as affected?
    He itched to test the smoothness of her pearl-colored skin, and not only the plump parts about to spring free. He wanted to test her shoulders, her back, the legs hidden by voluminous skirts. Would the rest of her feel as soft as she looked?
    Chattering dancers took two steps forward. He slipped his hand again under the sack and splayed his fingers across the small of her back. The silk gown slid against his skin. The scandalous move was lost in the crowd, but her dark lashes fluttered low within her mask.
    â€œShould I worry you’ll take advantage of me, sir?”
    â€œSomething tells me that doesn’t happen easily with you,” he said, eyeing a lock of her hair falling loose.
    His hand traced her spine to her shoulder, finding the warm flesh where the white-blond curl settled on her collarbone. Her body quivered, and the tender reaction shook him. Another arrow of heat shot to his groin at the image of his mouth planting a hot kiss where the curl met skin.
    Miss Tottenham’s blue-green stare reached his, dark and liquid. Her lips parted for him and him alone.
    Across the room, violins sought soaring notes. Music stretched. Strained rhythms reached for high peaks, as taut as Cyrus was from head to heel. His abdomen squeezed behind the placket of his breeches.
    Miss Tottenham’s mouth was accessible…tempting. His head bent lower. The small, dark space between enticing pink lips captivated him—lips that said saucy things, lips that needed kissing. Her warm breath came faster, brushing his chin.
    He inched closer. Ever so slowly, her mouth softened, opening more. His lids drooped. A fraction of space separated her lips from his.
    A baron’s booming laughter blasted them apart. The man spun by, his elbow hitting Cyrus.
    He jerked his head upright, taking a half step backward. The oblivious man saved him from doing the unthinkable—kissing a woman for all to see in the middle of a ball.
    Blood rushed his ears. He tugged his jabot, his body hot and constrained. His impulses galloped near out of control, running roughshod over rational thought. He stretched his neck and blinked at the ceiling, sucking in more air. The crowd of dancers pressed them. Everywhere light and noise jangled his singed nerves, and he lost the allemande’s movements.
    They weren’t in a wharf-side tavern, nor was his dance partner a woman of coarse manners to be kissed in public display.
    â€œMiss Tottenham…I…” His voice trailed off, his mouth pressing into a sober line.
    She surprised him, taking a half step nearer to begin the next intricate turn. “Don’t.”
    She looked to where their hands joined for the dance, curling her fingers intimately with his. This was no delicate crossing of fingertips, but holding hands. Her simple, affectionate act wrapped around him.
    Violins and voices, noise of a hundred shoes scraping the floor enveloped them, but Miss Tottenham’s breath came heavier too, moving the inviting flesh plumped high from her bodice. She was just as caught