“Practice the steps,” he said, retrieving his coat. “Remember what I said about your posture. And tomorrow night, when you look at Wilfrey, make him believe he is the only man in the world.”
He crossed to the door.
“Good afternoon, Lily.”
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent.
Lily stood in the center with the warmth of his hand still lingering at her waist and his words circling through her mind like smoke.
She sat on the edge of the bed. She stared at the opposite wall.
She told herself she would not think about what he had said.
Naturally, she thought about nothing else.
She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. The room was warm, the late afternoon sun slanting through the curtains, and Hugo’s voice returned to her, low and certain.
Stop treating desire as though it belongs only to other people.
Her fingers rose to her collarbone before she decided to move them. She traced the line of it, remembering how his gaze had lingered there more than once. The touch sent a slow warmth beneath her skin.
“I should stop,” she muttered to herself.
She did not.
Her hand drifted lower, skimming the edge of her bodice, the curve of her waist. The warmth deepened, gathering inside her with a force that made reason feel distant and unhelpful.
Then the kiss came back to her.
The balcony. The taste of champagne. The press of Hugo’s mouth against hers. The sound she had made when he deepened it, a sound that had come from some hidden place below thought.
Her breathing quickened.
Hugo.
His hands. His voice. His mouth.
She snatched her hand away and pressed it flat against the mattress.
She was utterly puzzled by him.
She was puzzled by how completely he had invaded her mind. Puzzled by how thoroughly he had dismantled every defense she had spent twenty-three years building. Puzzled by the fact that the mere memory of his voice could make her body answer in ways her intellect could not command.
She rolled onto her side, stared at the curtains, and willed the heat to fade.
It did not.
The ball began at nine o’clock.
Lily stood at the top of the grand staircase and told herself she was not nervous.
This was ridiculous. She had attended balls before. She knew how to descend stairs. She knew how to enter a room. She knew how to breathe.
At least in theory.
Below her, the ballroom glittered with candlelight. Guests gathered in clusters of silk and jewels, laughter rising above the first soft notes of the orchestra. At the foot of the stairs stood Hugo, greeting everyone with the effortless polish of a man born to be observed.
