Lavinia had learned that, with no small measure of pain, when her those she’d thought of as friends had withdrawn from her when her family fortunes diminished.
He guided her through a particularly graceful turn, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity as though they'd danced together a hundred times before.
"You sound rather cynical for one so young," he observed.
"Age has little to do with experience, Sir."
"True enough." His smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. "Though I confess, your particular brand of cynicism intrigues me. As does your reluctance to dance with anyone else tonight."
“I see you have been watching me,” she noted.
One corner of his mouth curved upward. “How could one not? Are you inclined to share your reason for avoiding the dance floor?”
"Perhaps I was waiting for a partner worthy of breaking my self-imposed exile from the dance floor," she returned, then bit her lip, startled by her own boldness.
"Then I'm honored to have passed whatever mysterious test you applied." He guided her around a slower couple. "Might I know the name of the woman who's deemed me worthy?"
Lavinia shook her head, suddenly remembering the precariousness of her position. "You see me now, but you won't tomorrow. And that's how it has to be."
"Mysterious indeed." He pulled her a fraction closer as they navigated through a particularly crowded section of the floor—close enough that she could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood and something uniquely his own. "At least tell me if you're enjoying our dance as much as I am."
"I..." Lavinia faltered, unused to such direct questions. "Yes. More than I should, perhaps."
His eyes darkened behind his mask. "Why shouldn't you enjoy it?"
"Because enjoyment implies continuation, and there can be none. I won't be present when the music ends."
"All the more reason to savor this moment, then." His thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles where their hands were joined, a touch so subtle it might have been accidental—yet Lavinia knew it was anything but.
"Your name," he pressed as the music began building toward its conclusion. "Just your first name. Something to remember you by."
"No names," she said, though something inside her yearned to grant his request. "No tomorrow. Just this dance, now nearly finished."
The final notes of the waltz approached. All around them, couples were beginning to move toward the center of the ballroom, where the Duchess of Lushton stood ready to begin the ceremonial unmasking.
"Then I shall simply have to find you again," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
Before Lavinia could respond, she slipped from his arms and into the crowd, heart pounding with exhilaration and alarm in equal measure. She wove through the crush of revelers until she reached the hallway just as the clock began to strike midnight.
Outside, her borrowed carriage waited as promised. She climbed in quickly, giving instructions to return to Pembroke Manor before collapsing against the worn leather seat. Her hand flew to her throat to seek the comforting presence of her mother's pendant.
Her fingers met bare skin.
Lavinia sat bolt upright, frantically patting her neck, her bodice, the folds of her dress. The pendant was gone—the necklace she had not removed in eighteen years, the last gift from her mother, lost somewhere between a waltz and a hasty retreat.
She lunged toward the carriage door, ready to order the driver to turn back. But the footman had already closed it with a decisive click, and the horses pulled away from the duchess's London townhouse, carrying Lavinia into the night.
She fell back against the seat, one hand still at her throat, a hollow ache spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the mysterious man she'd left behind, and everything to do with the piece of her heart now lost among the glittering detritus of a world she could no longer call her own.
CHAPTER 1
SIX MONTHS LATER
"For heaven's sake, child, stop fidgeting. You'll wear holes in those gloves before we even arrive," Moira Gallagher, the Duchess of Neads and mother of Lavinia’s dearest friend, reached across the carriage to still Lavinia's restless hands. "A lady never betrays her nervousness, especially when seeking employment from one of England's most discerning dukes."
"Discerning? Is that what we're calling it now?" Lavinia smoothed her modest traveling dress for the tenth time, painfully aware of the places where the fabric had been mended with careful, invisible stitches. "I've heard the Duke of Evermere described as many things, Your Grace, but 'discerning' seems rather charitable."
"And what have you heard, pray tell?" Moira arched a silver eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes.
