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“I’m midnight,” she said, gesturing to her gown and then the jet and silver beads adorning her hair and mask.

“Very clever,” Rayne said sincerely.

Sophronie Slater smoothed her hands over her unusual soft leather gown with beautifully colored beads dangling from the sleeves and hem. She wore a sort of soft leather boot that laced up her calves, and she’d braided her strawberry blonde hair. More beads and strips of leather adorned the ends of her braids.

“This really isn’t a costume but a gift from a very special friend of mine in America,” she said. “She-Who-Walks-Softly and I have been friends practically our whole lives. She gave me this gown as a parting gift before Papa and I sailed to England.”

“It’s quite lovely,” Rayne said, running a finger over Sophronie’s sleeve. “I’ve never seen any fabric like this.”

“It’s deerskin,” Sophronie supplied.

Ophelia caught the end of a leather strip tied to one of Sophronie’s braids between her fingertips. “It’s so soft.”

Rayne hadn’t seen Ophelia since supper the other night. They’d managed to find a quiet corner to speak privately, and Rayne had admitted to Fletcher’s wink. Ophelia had then confessed that Asherford had approached her about a marriage of convenience.

It was time he married and produced an heir. That was exactly what he’d said to Ophelia by way of a proposal.

She’d refused his offer by dumping her lemonade upon his expensive suit.

The utter boor.

“I believe Asherford is looking for you, Ophelia,” Rayne told her friend.

Ophelia glanced over Rayne’s shoulder, and her expression hardened. “Speak of the devil,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Hurry, let’s find our way to the ladies’ retiring room.”

“Too late,” Sophronie whispered, pasting a false smile upon her face.

Ah, so Ophelia had confided in her as well.

Rayne turned around, prepared to be civil but perhaps not overly warm to Asherford. After all, he’d insulted one of her dearest friends. Her attention fell on the slightly shorter man beside him. Fletcher was tall, but Asherford was taller. Her heart stalled before it resumed beating double time.

“Good evening, ladies,” Asherford said, nodding.

Rayne had to admit the men looked dashing with their peacock feather dominos and gleaming cloaks. From the envious looks directed their way by numerous other ladies present, they thought so as well.

“May I have this dance, Miss Wellbrook?” Fletcher said, extending his hand. His cloak was a magnificent aquamarine shade that did fantastical things to his eyes. Things she had no business noticing.

Rayne had every intention of refusing him. Not only because wisdom and a bruised heart dictated that was the wisest course of action, but how could she leave Ophelia to Asherford’s mercies?

She needn’t have worried about her friend.

Ophelia pasted a brilliant smile upon her face and promptly agreed to dance with Neville Hornbrook. Never mind that the painfully shy and awkward banker hadn’t actually asked Ophelia to dance.

Before Rayne could comprehend what had happened, Ophelia had towed the beet-faced banker halfway to the dancefloor. Over her shoulder, she shot a rather smug, I’d-rather-dance-with-this-tongue-tied-fool-than-you smile toward Asherford.

“Miss Wellbrook?” Fletcher’s hand remained outstretched, a mischievous half-smile bending his mouth.

Rayne was caught, and the rogue well knew it. If she refused to dance with him, she couldn’t dance the rest of the evening. Blast his pigheadedness and his perverse sense of amusement.

She summoned a smile—it might’ve been a tad bit brittle—and laid her yellow gloved hand upon Fletcher’s palm. The orchestra struck the first chords, and she nearly groaned aloud.

She hadn’t had the opportunity to glance at her dance card yet, but the unmistakable strains of a waltz began.

With that same masculine grace that had first snared her attention, Fletcher guided her onto the sanded floor. He took her into his arms, and Rayne blinked back tears as memories of their kisses washed over her.

“Why must you torment me, Your Grace?” she asked, needing to take control else she would dissolve into a humiliating puddle. “Haven’t you toyed with me enough?”

God, when Fletcher touched her, she wanted to burrow into him. To inhale his scent and tell him of the love she’d tried to deny. The love she’d never be able to confess now.