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wandered off to the forgotten edge of the ballroom floor. And why he happened to see her .
    From over the rim of his champagne glass, he studied the young woman and her silly, blindingly bright yellow skirts. With dark brown, very nearly black, hair pulled back in a severe chignon, and rather nondescript features, there was nothing about her that would immediately pull at a man’s attention. But then with the small pencil attached to the dance card on her wrist, she jotted something upon that card.
    He sipped champagne and across the heads of dancers performing the steps of a quadrille, he continued to study her. Even seated, he detected the way the fabric of her gown clung to her slim, willowy frame. Sebastian made to turn away when she suddenly looked up. Her narrow shoulders stiffened and she passed her gaze throughout the room, as though feeling his stare upon her person.
    Sebastian blamed it on boredom, the tedium of attending mundane amusements night after night, but the young woman’s furtive movements intrigued him. And he’d not been intrigued since Miss Sophie Winters; the young woman he’d courted who had opted to wed his closest friend, Christopher, Earl of Waxham. Even if the courtship had only begun as a ruse, it had become something more and—The dark-haired stranger across the room caught her lower lip between her teeth, seeming lost in thought. Her eyes widened and she hastily grabbed her pencil.
    With her dark hair and slender frame she didn’t possess any of the soft, golden beauty he preferred in women. Something about her commanded his notice, demanded his attention, if for no other reason than to understand the intense glint in her eyes and whatever the hell it was she marked down on that card.
    Then her eyes collided with his. Any other young lady would have dropped her stare demurely to her lap, yanked her gaze elsewhere. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. The bold as you please wallflower at the back, central portion of the room returned his stare, moved it over him, almost methodical in her perusal. She then proceeded to mark something else upon her card. She returned her eyes once more to his. He stared back, expecting her to glance away. Only, she tipped her chin up a notch and shamelessly held his gaze.
    “Mallen, never tell me you’re woolgathering in your advancing years.”
    He started. Droplets of champagne spilled over the rim of his glass. His close friend, the Earl of Waxham, grinned. “Waxham,” he drawled, hardly needing Waxham to point out that he was getting on in years. Most especially not on this day. He looked about, resisting the urge to shift his focus back to the note-taking wallflower. “And wherever is the lovely Countess of Waxham?”
    “Otherwise occupied by your sister,” he said, inclining his head.
    Sebastian searched about and located the two young women at the corner of the room, enrapt in their conversation. They periodically glanced his way, gestured, and whispered. He narrowed his gaze. This was never a good thing; to be the object of scrutiny for two scheming women. “And I gather you have no idea what has them so enrapt this evening?”
    Waxham’s lips turned up in one corner in a lazy grin. He tugged at his cravat. A dull flush climbed his neck. “No idea.”
    Sebastian snorted. He could easily recognize a lie. Particularly from the man he’d considered a friend since Eton and Oxford. But for the tension between them when they’d vied for the now Countess of Waxham’s hand, the two had been fast friends since early on. He glanced out across the floor in time to detect Miss-Note-Taking-Miss scratch another something upon her card. “Who is that?” he asked quietly.
    Waxham looked about. “Who is who?” He furrowed his brow.
    The duke gestured discreetly across the ballroom to the young woman now tapping a distracted rhythm upon the floor, a discordant beat to the lively reel played by Lady Denley’s orchestra.
    His friend scanned the