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They entered the shop, where Benito, one of Don Ramón’s teenaged sons, was in charge of greeting guests. “Señora Martin,” he said, his face lighting up. “Buenas noches.”

“Buenas noches, Benito. This gentleman is Señor Pembroke.”

“Señor,” the boy said with a respectful nod. He took their coats, entered their names in a guest ledger, and led them toward a side staircase. “Be careful of your step, señora,” he advised Reina in Spanish. “The stairs are dark.”

“Yes, I remember—” she began but was cut off by a burst of thunderous noise that shook the ceiling, accompanied by a volley of energetic shouts.

Instantly Pembroke hauled Reina to the stairwell threshold, one of his arms curving over her head as the other clamped her against the protection of his body.

For a second or two, she was aware of nothing except the hard strength of him wrapped around her. The sensation reached down to some deep instinct she’d never been aware of. She went still, her body taking in the feel of him, the scents of chilled night air and Windsor soap and warm male skin. His breath rushed hotly through her hair, sinking down to her scalp and sending a thrill down the back of her neck. She wanted to keep this feeling forever; to store it like perfume in a bottle, rationing it out for the moments she needed it most.

But Benito appeared at her side, tapping her arm anxiously, and staring at Pembroke as if questioning his sanity. “La jota,” the boy said, pointing up to the ceiling. “Jota.” As he saw Pembroke’s uncomprehending expression, a fit of hilarity overtook him, and he began to laugh so hard, he staggered back a step.

Another round of thundering and shouting from overhead.

Pembroke’s head lifted, and he stared at the vibrating ceiling in disbelief. “What the devil is a jota?”

“A dance,” Reina said. “An energetic dance.”

Benito shook his head, still snorting, and blotted his wet eyes with a shirt cuff.

“It sounds like the damn ceiling is about to come down,” Pembroke said. Seeming to realize he was still holding Reina, he loosened his arms abruptly.

“It will be over soon,” Reina assured him, a smile lingering at the corners of her mouth no matter how she tried to suppress it. She took his arm and went upstairs with him.

They emerged into a large room filled with candlelight and knots of people talking with little glasses of sherry in their hands, while others sat at tables with heavily laden plates.

The jota had ended and now guests were dancing the pasodoble, heels striking the floor as men imitated the movements of the matador, while women used their skirts to evoke the graceful swirls of the cape.

Reina kept her arm tucked in Pembroke’s as they walked into the room. He was too distracted by unfamiliar sights and sensations to object, his wondering gaze taking it all in. There were guests of all ages, including families with children. Everyone was speaking Spanish, the sound of it buoyant and liquid, like wine being poured into a glass. Women wore lace and flowers, and gold jewelry at their throats, wrists, and ears, while men wore lavishly embroidered waistcoats beneath formal black evening coats.

“Reina,” a voice called out. She turned to see her friend Isabel standing a few yards away in a small group.

Isabel’s eyes were filled with bright mischief as she looked pointedly at Pembroke and raised a finely arched brow just a millimeter. Reina grinned, thinking only a Spanish woman could say so much with a single glance.

With her vivacious personality and quick wit, Isabel was one of Reina’s favorite people in the world. She had devoted herself to helping newly arrived Spanish immigrants establish themselves in a new country. Ten years ago, Isabel had moved to London with her husband, Don Ramón, to grow their sherry enterprise. Not only had she taken part in many key business decisions, but she’d also become an accomplished society hostess with infinite social and political connections. Whatever the nature of someone’s problem, Isabel always knew someone with the expertise to help.

“Come with me,” Reina murmured to Pembroke, tugging at his arm. “I want to introduce you to my friends.”

He wouldn’t budge. “I’ll wait downstairs, ma’am—”

“Come,” she urged, willing him to have faith in her.

Reluctantly he let her draw him forward.

They approached the group, which included Isabel and her husband, and the Spanish ambassador and his wife.

“Don Manuel Rances y Villanueva is the ambassador,” Reina murmured to Pembroke. “He’s the one with the big black mustache.”

“They all have big black mustache.”

Amused, she said, “He’s the one in the gold brocade waistcoat, then.”

“Ma’am, you can’t introduce your ticket-of-leave butler to the ambassador.”

“We’re all exiles and fugitives in here, Pembroke. You’ll fit right in.”

“What the devil are you going to say?”