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Rose’s knee. “I made up my mind when I invited you to come to London that you’d not go home without a promised husband. Your mother, as you know, cannot interest herself in finding you a husband at this time. If you put it off much longer, you’ll be on the shelf through no fault of your own.”
    “A terrible fate, to be sure.”
    “Yes, it is. You’ve no notion.”
    “After delaying my debut for two years, I have a very good notion indeed. Last year was the dullest of my life. I vowed when I came to London I’d be gay to dissipation, and so I intend.”
    “Excellent. The best way to find a husband is to search for one. He won’t come climbing through your window, you know. Not unless you intend to marry the Black Mask!”
    Aunt Paige stayed to gossip and to direct her own maid in the dressing of Rose’s hair. Rose nodded and laughed in the right places, but her thoughts were busy. Though she disavowed all romantical fancies, the truth lay somewhere between illusion and reality. She cherished her dreams of finding and marrying a man she could truly love, but had long ago learned not to speak of them. Dreams, she found, withered faster than rosebuds in winter when scorn or rough humor followed their telling.
    She liked her indulgent, fashionable aunt very much, yet feared too much exposure to her cynicism would kill her dreams for good and all. Rose didn’t believe that she could marry for love alone. Too many kindly and practical people were watching out for her interests. Besides, she would never marry to disoblige her family. She would choose a good, sensible man and hope his admirable qualities would spark the tenderer emotions in her heart just as everyone promised. “Love comes with time,” seemed to be the refrain she was to take to heart.
    Meanwhile, no one could prevent her dreaming of her hero, some man who dared all odds like a knight of olden days, who would face dragons for his lady and win her heart in the moment of his victory. Rose knew these were only dreams that could never come true, yet they were very sweet. She couldn’t surrender them just yet.
     

Chapter Four
     
    Lady Fitzmonroe’s inspiration more than fulfilled its promise. Banks of newly opened flowers filled the air of the ballroom with the thousand scents of spring, while the cleverly improvised stream made rippling music in sweet counterpoint to the orchestra. The musicians and, indeed, all the servants were dressed like yeomen, having put off their powdered wigs and knee breeches for the evening. The butler wore a disgruntled expression when he’d opened the door, obviously not relishing his smock and trousers.
    Rose had danced with half a dozen men before she’d had a moment to herself. She’d sent off her latest partner to fetch her something to drink. Now she sat alone in a quiet nook, enjoying with deep breaths the scents of jasmine and lily that surrounded her. She was a trifle too hot after her exercise and idly waved her fan, eyes closed.
    Some sixth sense told her she wasn’t alone. ‘Thank you for ...” she began. Then she opened her eyes and recoiled slightly. “Oh, it’s you.”
    Sir Niles bowed. “At your service again.” He offered her one of the champagne flutes he held.
    ‘Thank you, Sir Niles. But Mr. Dickson has offered to bring me refreshment.”
    “When his dowager grandmother called him to her side, he delegated the delightful task to me.”
    She couldn’t leave him standing there like a servant proffering a glass. She took it, strangely glad she wore gloves so their fingers did not actually touch. Rose remembered the strange sensation she’d had when he’d taken her hand in Mr. Crenshaw’s office.
    “You’re not wearing your ruby,” Sir Niles commented. “I thought you’d be eager to show it off.”
    “I hope I have better taste than that.”
    “I hope so too,” he said under his breath.
    Rose wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. It wasn’t like the punctilious Sir Niles to