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“I suppose I should be insulted, but unlike ‘adultery,’ I’m not certain of the qualifications for a ‘minx.’ Do I simply flirt?” Her expression was …

She was flirting with him.

She probably flirted with everyone. Miles instinctively tried to rein in his body’s enthusiastic response to the twinkle in her eye, the twinkle that suggested she found him desirable. The twinkle that made him want to kiss her here, on the dancefloor, which would be insanity.

Still, he instinctively drew her closer, their legs brushing as they moved through the steps of the waltz. Even all those layers of satin couldn’t disguise her high, plump breasts, distractingly close to his chest as she leaned into his embrace. “Stop it, minx,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl.

Her laughter washed over him like music. They had reached the bottom of the long ballroom, so he turned her in a circle, and then another for the pure delight of it. She swirled with perfect grace, an impudent smile curling the edges of her mouth.

Hunger made him shudder—No, that was disdain, Miles told himself hastily. He couldn’t be feeling more than garden-variety lust for a woman as impulsive as Daisy. She was not only impulsive, but reckless.

Right now, that didn’t sound like a defect in a wife. In fact, as more strands of moonlit hair fell to her shoulders, marriage seemed like a very good idea, because he could kiss her every time she looked at him with that expression.

No.

She laughed too much to be his wife. Too often.

Often at him.

“So, shall we discuss politics?” Daisy asked in an interested voice. “Wait, let’s not. I don’t know anything about the subject, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture. Have you ever read a novel?”

Miles shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than a blunt and impractical statement: I want you. Not as a wife—just because she was the most carnal woman of his acquaintance.

“Now you,” she commanded as they made one final turn and headed back up the long ballroom. “Ask me something.”

Other women danced like sticks, their backs straight and their limbs rigid. Was it possible to dance and strut at the same time?

He cleared his throat. “How are you faring?”

“Given my lack of suitors, you mean?”

“Actually, I was referring to your uncle’s courtroom battle and subsequent demise.”

Daisy pursed her lips, sending a wave of lust down Miles’s legs. Damn it.

“I’m all right. Careful of my skirts,” she added.

As the music drew to a close, he fell back just in time to allow her to sweep the panels that made up her gown to the side. The satin flattened against her legs. Her breasts were magnificent: not just plump but heavy, breasts that would overflow a man’s hands.

He glanced over, catching the gleaming eyes of a man ogling Daisy’s body. Miles’s blood went cold as he drew her close enough that she was obscured from his gaze.

The man stepped sideways. “Good evening, Miss Wharton. I hope to escort you to supper.”

“Good evening, Mr. Hemlock,” Daisy said. “May I introduce you to Lord Devin?”

“Evening. The answer is no,” Miles told the lout. He spun Daisy away from Hemlock, but unfortunately his foot caught the hem of her skirt, and he heard a distinct ripping sound. He looked down Daisy’s back and saw, bared to general view, two generous globes, lightly veiled by a translucent chemise. Enough satin panels had separated from her bodice for her entire rear to be exposed.

He turned her around again, so her back was to the wall. Given Daisy’s calm expression, she hadn’t registered the ripping sound, nor realized that half her gown was missing.

“What on earth are you doing?” she inquired. She came up on her toes and craned her neck to see over his shoulder. “Mr. Hemlock, perhaps we could dance later this evening.”

Miles turned his head and gave the man a deadly glare. Not being an entire fool, Hemlock fell back.

“Yes, later,” he exclaimed, skittering away.

“Don’t ever dance with him,” Miles ordered. “I recognize his name. It was in connection with the Earl of Debbleton’s charge for … for …” Too late he realized that he could not inform a young lady precisely what the earl had been accused of, as it was one of the unsavory cases he’d been asked to investigate for the House of Lords.

“I read about it,” Daisy said coolly. “The earl built a playhouse with a proscenium stage, the better to personally perform with a hired troupe of actresses. I gather the plays they chose to enact were of an unusual type.”