side. Watching her approach him, watching her weave her way through the faceless dancers, admiring the luminosity of her black-hued eyes, the word betrayal had momentarily thrummed inside his head.
âYou should visit the Dales, Mr. Randolph,â she said. ââTis not unpleasant there, though you might find it quiet after London. I believe the most strenuous activity our justice of the peace has is signing the parish clerkâs accounts.â
âThere is little crime, then?â
She laughed. âIndeed not. And if there were, Lord Stafford, our J.P., would be too impotent to deal with it.â
The orchestra struck up a quadrille, and Rand silently congratulated himself on his self-control. Until he felt Elizabethâs hand close over his own. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked down into her eyes.
âI know why you seem familiar,â she murmured. âI have long imagined someone like you in my novels.â
âThe hero, I trust,â he said lightly. But he knew who she meantâRalf Darkstarre. The knowledge was intoxicating and frightening, exactly the same mix of emotions he experienced while practicing his profession. Reaching out with his free hand, he stroked the contours of her face, lingering at a wispy curl in front of her ear. ââTis not only the darkness of our hair that is similar,â he said, âbut the darkness of our pasts.â
***
John Randolphâs words made no sense to Elizabeth, yet on some level they did. A voice whispered: I have seen your face before. I have seen that look before.
She felt as if her past had fallen away, as if there had never been a time when they hadnât known each other, so it wasnât only the chill of the evening shadows that caused her to shiver.
âWe have met before,â she whispered. âBut why donât I remember?â
His finger caressed her earlobe, sending even more shivery sensations up and down her spine.
âFormidable is too mild a word for you, Bess. Dangerous is more apt.â Cradling her chin, he turned her face, then touched his tongue to the ear he had caressed with his finger.
Elizabethâs heroines were always being âovercome.â As she clutched Johnâs shoulders, for the first time she understood the meaning of the word.
âKiss me,â she said, her tone not unlike the one she had used when she asked him to dance. But he merely continued exploring her ear. She felt like a marionette whose strings had been snipped. Only the tender strength of his palms against her chin kept her from sinking to the ground in a puddle of brocade. âKiss me,â she pleaded.
Rand traced Elizabethâs cheekbones. Then he stroked her brow. Finally, very gently, he caressed the fragile softness of her eyelids.
All at once, the crack of a pistol shattered the night.
From Stratton Street came shouts, the slap of running feet, and the clatter of horsesâ hooves.
A second shot sounded.
âHelp!â somebody yelled.
Another screamed, âI think we hit him!â
Heedless of his bad leg, Rand raced down the terrace steps, followed by Elizabeth.
âWhat is it?â she cried.
âSounds like a robbery.â Rand feared he knew the identity of the robber. When he had left the Rookery, Zak had been well on his way to a roaring drunk. It would be just like him to put in an unscheduled appearance.
People were milling around the horses and carriages.
Tethered between a brown gelding and a black coach, Randâs stallion tossed his head.
A tall man wearing a beaver hat waved his pistol and shouted, âI hit him! I think I hit him!â
âWhat happened?â Rand asked a coachman standing by the front gate.
âA damnfool highwayman came out of nowhere anâ thought to rob Lord Dunstable. Mâlord pulled a pistol on âim. Then the parish constable took off after the blackguard, bellowinâ anâ shootinâ. I think they