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“Is that word in your vocabulary?”
    Maybe she had him there. His gaze locked onto her lips and the tempting, creamy skin not covered by the mask. Miss Tottenham’s skin…her softly angled jaw, her slender neck, down to her small breasts pressed upward—all of her glowed.
    She vibrated with life and something indefinable he couldn’t name. Around them the music swelled, reaching for another crescendo. This time the turn of her body was not the practiced move of a flirt, simply the loose flow of a graceful woman.
    â€œVery well. I can toss a tidbit.” She looked to where her fingertips crossed politely with his. “See that?” She tipped her head at their hands. “The scar near my thumb?”
    He turned his attention to their hands, the allemande’s final notes drifting over them. His fingers curled under her hand, cupping her loosely.
    She angled her thumb to give him a better view, and he honed in on the star-shaped scar. Dancers jostled around them, bumping her closer. Little more than an inch of space separated them. More loose blond wisps fell from their pins, framing her dance-flushed cheeks. With each breath, her body made contact with his.
    His thumb stroked the unusual pink mark at the base of her thumb, and then slipped around to massage her palm. When she looked into his eyes, another shock went through him. Miss Tottenham’s strawberry-painted mouth opened a fraction with definite invitation. Again. His mouth curved triumphantly: he was regaining lost sensual territory.
    â€œYou’re very thorough in your study, Mr. Ryland,” she said, breathy and soft. “I don’t think my hand’s ever had such tender attention.”
    Her skirts caressed the length of his legs. The music stopped. They weren’t moving, but he held her close as though the dance would continue, her breath’s rhythm melding with his. The floor thronged with men and women, revelers laughing and mingling. Many removed their masks.
    Surrounded as they were, he settled in a private world with Miss Tottenham.
    He liked having her in his thrall, just deserts for the way she tempted him. Long brown lashes rimmed her darkened eyes. He searched her face, the small tip of her nose; her mouth curved and open.
    â€œThe scar,” he reminded her. “You were telling me about it.”
    â€œThe scar?” The pink-red flesh of her lips rounded gently.
    Was she as lost in the moment as he? He squeezed her hand, and one finger tapped the star-shaped mark. She dipped her head, cheeks flushing anew, but when Miss Tottenham looked at him again, her tender smile was open.
    â€œWhen I was seventeen, I cut my hand climbing a tree.” Her body brushed his, but her small, rounded chin snared him, the pert feature tipping up. “And despite the scar, I’ve no regrets. That day was wonderful. A woman who seeks to look and be perfect like some doll on a shelf hasn’t lived.”
    â€œA bold proclamation,” he said, warming to her haughtiness. “But I’ll have to bow to your wisdom about dolls on a shelf. Never bothered with them.”
    Her laugh whorled between them. The white tips of Miss Tottenham’s teeth nipped her lower lip. He glanced at her hand again, his thumb rubbing careful circles over the mark.
    A scar. Women weren’t supposed to have them. They were supposed to be soft-skinned, elevated creatures with men mucking through the hard places. But life left marks, those seen and unseen.
    Of all the things she could have said, Miss Tottenham shared an imperfection, a flaw over an accomplishment, which made her all the more fascinating. The picture of a proper young woman teetering between girlhood and the demands of maturity warmed him. He savored the image of her laughing in a tree, and he wanted more of the grown woman before him.
    His eyes narrowed on her demi-mask. “It’s midnight. Time for the unmasking.” He was done with the