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she wore did nothing to hide her curves. It was of a bold emerald green and fell in soft folds from beneath her bosom. On a lesser figure, those folds might have hung loosely. On hers, they followed the curve of waist and hips and long, lusciously shaped legs. Its sleeves were short, its neckline leaving little of her bosom to the imagination. Apart from her elbow-length white gloves and a fan and dancing slippers, there were no other adornments on her person. She wore no jewelry at all and no plumes in her hair. It was a stunningly clever idea. For her hair was her crowning glory—and it surpassed all cliché. It was a glowing red and was piled in loose curls on her head, with wavy tendrils to draw attention to the creamy white, swanlike perfection of her neck. Her face was pure beauty despite its bored, haughty, slightly contemptuous expression—a mask if ever Stephen had seen one. He doubted she was feeing as poised as she looked. It was impossible to see the color of her eyes, but there seemed to be a slight, alluring slant to them.
    All this he had seen the first time he glanced at her. This time hesaw immediately that she was looking directly back at him. He resisted his first instinct, which was to look hastily away. It was probably what everyone else was doing as soon as she glanced their way. He looked steadily back at her. And she did not look away from him , as he had expected she would do. Her hand slowly plied her fan. Her eyebrows arched arrogantly upward, and her lips curved into an expression that was half smile, half not.
    He inclined his head to her just as Carling and his lady joined them to inform them that the dancing was about to begin.
    Stephen went to claim the hand of Lady Christobel Foley, who had just happened to stroll past him with her mama when they entered the ballroom earlier and had stopped to bid him a good evening. Before they strolled away again, it had been arranged that the set he had reserved with her yesterday in the park would be the opening set, and that he would dance another with her later in the evening.
    He glanced toward Lady Paget again when he and his partner were standing in the lines waiting for the orchestra to begin playing. She was standing in the same place, though she was no longer looking at him.
    And he felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Not that he knew beyond all doubt that he was correct. Nevertheless, he was as sure as he could be that Lady Paget was that widow all in black he and Con had seen yesterday when they were out riding.
    Yes, it was surely she, though she looked quite startlingly different.
    Yesterday she had worn a heavy disguise.
    Tonight she stood exposed to the shock and censure of the ton .
    Tonight she wore only the disguise of her cool indifference, even contempt for everyone’s opinion.

3
    T HE second set would have to be the one, Cassandra decided. She could not stand here all night without looking ridiculous—and without making this whole painful exercise pointless.
    But when the opening set ended, the Earl and Countess of Sheringford came to speak with her. She saw them coming and raised her fan again. She half smiled and half raised her eyebrows. If they were going to ask her to leave, she was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassed.
    “Lady Paget,” the earl said, “despite all our efforts to keep the ballroom cool by having all the windows opened, it is overwarm in here after all. May I have the pleasure of fetching you a drink? Wine, perhaps, or sherry or ratafia? Or lemonade?”
    “A glass of wine would be very welcome,” she said. “Thank you.”
    “Maggie?” he asked his wife.
    “The same, please, Duncan,” she said, and watched him walk away.
    “Your ball is very well attended,” Cassandra said. “You must be gratified.”
    “It is a great relief,” the countess admitted. “I hosted a number of events for my brother before I married and felt no more than a twinge of anxiety each time. It