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it’s unconscionable that in so doing you should be excluded from all the fun.”
    Portia turned as Winifred swept up on Simon’s arm. “Oh, no. That is—” She stopped, unsure how to answer.
    Winifred smiled. “I’d be grateful if you would allow me to relieve you. I would like to sit out a few dances, and . . . this seems the best way.”
    Portia met Winifred’s eyes and realized that was literally true. If Winifred simply sat out, some would speculate as to why. Portia smiled. “If you wish.”
    She stepped out from behind the piano stool. Winifred took her place; together they flicked quickly through the sheets, then Winifred made her selection and sat. Portia turned to the room—to Simon, who had, with uncharacteristic patience, waited.
    He met her eyes, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”
    It was absurd, but she’d never danced with him before. Not ever. The notion of spending ten minutes revolving around the room under his direction without their interaction descending into open warfare had not before seemed a possibility.
    His gaze was steady, the challenge therein quite plain.
    Remembering her vow—hearing it echo in her brain—she lifted her chin, and smiled. Charmingly. Let him make of it what he would. “Thank you.”
    Suspicion flowed behind his eyes but he inclined his head, anchored her hand on his sleeve, and led her to join the others on the floor as Winifred commenced a waltz.
    The first jolt to her equanimity came when he drew her into his arms, when she felt the steely strength of him surround her, and recalled—too well, too vividly—how it had felt when he’d carried her. Once again, her lungs seized, her breath caught, then continued more shallowly; the sensation of his hand, large and strong on her back, distracted her—something she fought to hide.
    The music caught them, held them, set them revolving; their gazes touched, slid away.
    She could barely breathe. She’d waltzed times without number, even with gentlemen of his ilk; never before had the physical sensations even impinged on her awareness, let alone threatened to suborn her wits. But she’d never been this close to him; the shift and sway of their bodies, her awareness of his strength, her suppleness, the harnessed power, all cascaded through her, bright, sharp, disorienting. She blinked, twice, fighting to focus her mind—on anything except the way they were whirling so effortlessly, on the sensation of being swept away, on the tingles of anticipation streaking through her.
    Anticipation of what?
    She only just stopped herself from shaking her head in a no-doubt-vain attempt to shake her wits into order. Dragging in a breath, she glanced around.
    And saw Kitty waltzing with Ambrose. Her performance, with all its subtle variations, was still going on.
    “What is Kitty up to—do you know?”
    The first thought that had popped into her head, but she’d never been missish, especially not with Simon. He’d been watching her intently; she’d been careful not to meet his gaze. Now she glanced up and, to her relief, saw the frown, the exasperated expression she was used to seeing, form in his eyes.
    Reassured, she raised her brows.
    His lips thinned. “You don’t need to know.”
    “Possibly not, but I wish to—for reasons of my own.”
    His frown took on another dimension; he couldn’t fathom what “reasons” she meant. She smiled. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Charlie. Or James.”
    It was the “Or James” that did it; he sighed through his teeth, looked up, steered them around the end of the room, then said, his voice low, “Kitty has a habit of flirting with any personable gentleman she meets.” After a moment, he added, “How far it goes . . .”
    He tensed to shrug, but didn’t. His jaw set. When he didn’t go on and continued not to meet her eyes, she, intrigued that he hadn’t been able to give her the polite lie, evenly supplied, “You know perfectly well how far it goes because