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said that I am a man grown bitter. But it is not bitterness that fills my soul to the dregs. I’ve lost my way. And I know not how to find it.
    Simon Blackwell
    Anne had resigned herself to her fate. There was nothing she could do to avoid it. She must deal with it—or him—as best she was able. Should her path chance to cross Simon Blackwell’s, she would react with the decorum instilled in her by her mother. She would not embarrass her family with small-minded behavior.
    No, Anne would never have deprived her mother of this night. Ever since her mother had offered to host the Dowager Countess ofHopewell’s birthday celebration, her dear mama had been flitting to and fro like a butterfly. Though she was fatigued at day’s end, Vivian was gay and glowing. Not until then did Anne realize how much her mother had missed her social activities. There was a lightness in her that Anne had not seen in many a month. Both Caro and Alec had noticed as well.
    And indeed the affair was a lively festivity. The ballroom had been scrubbed and dusted and aired and was now filled with the lingering scent of roses. Dinner was scrumptious. A quartet had begun to play, and the dance floor was already filled. Vivian, animated and radiant, was making the rounds of the guests. The Dowager Countess of Hopewell beamed.
    At dinner, it was Simon Blackwell who rose and offered a birthday toast to his aunt. When he smiled—oh, but there was no denying it!—he was so strikingly handsome, Anne’s breath stopped in her throat. She discovered herself mulling the oddest question.
    He infuriated her. He disturbed her. He distracted her. So why, when all was said and done, did she find him the most attractive man she’d ever met? Why couldn’t she stop thinking of him? Why couldn’t she put him from her mind? It should have been easy.
    Heaven above, it wasn’t.
    She’d thought of him nearly every momentsince they’d met. Not particularly pleasant thoughts, but she’d thought of him nonetheless.
    It was highly disconcerting, and certainly something she would never divulge to Caro. Caro would surely cackle with delight at such a confession. And it was not, Anne assured herself as she managed to strategically place herself at the opposite end of the ballroom, an effort to avoid him. It was simply the desire to be wherever he was not .
    Which was, she decided, rather silly. It was ridiculous to allow him to unsettle her so. And with that thought fixed securely in her mind, she laughed and chatted and danced.
    But fate did not favor her tonight. As if Simon Blackwell’s presence wasn’t enough for her to contend with, Lillith Kimball was here as well. Lillith was off to the side of the ballroom, standing near the musicians, watching the dancing. Anne knew the precise moment Lillith saw her, too.
    Ann nearly groaned. Instead she summoned a smile and inclined her head; Lillith adopted no such courtesy. Her expression was cold. Quite deliberately, Lillith turned her back.
    So. Caro’s words the other day at Hyde Park flitted into Anne’s mind. For whatever reason, it appeared Lillith had neither forgotten—nor forgiven—her resentment over Charles Goodwin.
    How silly. How stupid, for it had been twoyears. But should she chance to encounter Lillith, Anne was determined to be pleasant.
    Just as she swung away from the punch table, Anne saw Simon. Off to the side near the double-paned doors that led to the terrace, a tall figure clad in dark evening clothes that set off his height to full advantage. His waistcoat was a deep, rich brown, his frock coat a dark hunter green—it was the first time she’d seen him garbed in clothing other than black. He’d turned his gaze to stare through the glass, into the darkness that lay without. Anne studied his averted profile, her steps inadvertently carrying her closer.
    Despite the distance that separated them, she sensed something odd in him, something like the first time he’d heard little John called