Ethan did as he always had—he smiled his most winning, sheepish grin.
“Be quick.” Uncle Leith jerked his chin toward the servant’s doorway in the corner. “I’ll give your apologies.”
Wasting no time, Ethan slipped through the door. The passageway was dimly lit, extending from left to right along the length of the ballroom. A spiral staircase stood in the right-hand corner.
Where are ye?he thought.
The soft shush of silk skirts reached his ears from the right.
Ah.She had gone down the stairs.
Ethan rushed after, round and round the spiral staircase, descending toward the servants’ domain in the basement. Once he reached the bottom, he turned down a long, shadowy corridor, hisladraa rustle of fabric drawing him forward.
Finally, he ran her to ground before a delivery door. She was bent over as if peering into the lock.
What the devil was she up to? And how could she see a blessed thing in this dim hallway?
He cleared his throat.
She gave a startled “Eeep!” and whirled around to face him, chest rapidly rising and falling in her surprise.
They stared at one another for a long, breathless moment, her gray eyes glinting in the darkness.
Unbidden, Ethan’s eyes skimmed the vast expanse of her creamy skin on display—bare shoulders, elegant collarbones. The purple silk of her dress shimmered even in the low light, the deep V of its fashionable waistline accentuating the glorious curve of her nipped waist.
Heat expanded his lungs.
Just as in that carriage last summer, she clubbed his senses.
And just as then, he felt an unbidden sense of familiarity, as if he had seen her before.
“You,” she said, hand pressed to her bare décolletage, lungs still heaving.
“Aye. Me.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall to his left, crossing his arms. “Imagine meeting yourself like this.”
“Yes. Imagine.” Her dry tone was all the confirmation he needed of her identity.
He grinned.
She blinked.
“So, itisyou,” he murmured.
She shrugged, lifting that delicate jaw of hers.
How was she even more lovely than his memory?
“Ethan Penn-Leith, at your service,la mia ladra.” He sketched a brief bow.
“Hmm, I gathered as much, Mr. Penn-Leith. Do you always command such fanfare?” She waved a hand, indicating the fuss in the ballroom three stories above their heads.
“I did tell ye I was a poet,” he replied . . . and then frowned. “Your English is remarkably aristocratic. You seem to have misplaced your Italian accent.”
Her hand dipped into the poof of her voluminous skirts. A wee furrow dented her forehead as she rummaged through her pocket.
“Thank you. Itismy native tongue.” She paused her searching, raking him up and down, eyes lingering meaningfully on his kilt. “I am not sure I can say as much for yourself.”
Her dry teasing startled a laugh out of him.
