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Horror scorched through her as she jolted forward. “My gown!” she squeaked, dropping her fan and slapping her right hand over her bottom.

Sure enough, the satin panels at the back of her dress were missing. She curled her fingers, trying to see whether they were hanging by threads, but no. All the panels in the rear had ripped free. She couldn’t feel anything other than her chemise, constructed of handkerchief linen and certainly transparent in this light. She looked down in desperation, but no fabric was puddled at her feet.

Surprise morphed into fear. Daisy felt suddenly dizzy, her gasping breath loud and ragged in her ears. The brightly lit ballroom blurred before her eyes.

Lord Devin’s right hand gently curled around her waist. “If you’ll forgive me, Miss Wharton.” He drew her backward toward the pillar.

Two dowagers not far away were watching them with curiosity; Daisy forced a smile and waved at them gaily as she slid sideways to place her back against the marble once again.

“My skirt is missing panels!” she whispered, flattening her bottom against the cool stone. “Where are they?” She glanced around frantically.

“A footman thought a shawl had dropped and picked them up. I couldn’t catch his attention without half the room realizing that the length of satin he was carrying matched your gown,” Lord Devin said.

Her mother had insisted that the modiste add panel after panel of fabric, which had obviously resulted in the stitching giving way. Daisy took a shuddering breath. She was lucky that the whole skirt hadn’t ripped away, leaving her half-naked on the dancefloor.

She leaned her head against the pillar and stared up at the ceiling, trying to calm her breathing. How was it that these things always happened to her? Her mother would undoubtedly say it was due to Daisy’s lack of refinement. It was just as well that Lady Wharton was nowhere to be seen because Daisy had a feeling that her mother would fall into a fit of palpitations, calling even more attention to her missing skirts.

“The door is all the way across the floor. How can we get there?” Daisy whispered, realizing that her teeth were chattering—not from a chill, but from fear. “How can I get there?” she corrected.

She was ruined. Her poor mother would be clothed in sackcloth and ashes. No one would ever stop talking about the moment Miss Wharton’s fat bottom was revealed to polite society. It would be bad enough if it were Regina’s trim rear … but Daisy’s?

“I feel sick,” she added.

“I’ll walk closely behind you, escorting you to the corridor.” Lord Devin’s eyes caught hers. “Don’t panic, Miss Wharton. You bested the guards at the entrance to the Tower of London, very nearly smuggling a file into Beauchamp Tower. You will stroll across the dance floor pretending that your gown is intact. It’s all in your expression. Look insouciant.”

Daisy felt as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Lady Regina was somewhere close by. If she realized what had happened to Daisy’s gown, if she saw … Daisy’s mind reeled with ugly comments: “fat and unkempt” would be the least of them.

“Where’s your fan?” Lord Devin asked.

Daisy nodded to where it lay on the floor. “Can you please retrieve it?” she asked, wishing it was the size of a barn, so she could hide behind it.

Since the orchestra was taking a break before supper, Lord Devin was able to stroll over and scoop up her fan without dodging dancers. Guests were chattering in small groups, which meant that the two of them standing together didn’t look as out of place as they might have been.

He bowed and handed her the fan, his face utterly calm, as if nothing was happening. As if …

Her eyes flew to his pantaloons, which did nothing to disguise a broad length skewing left, almost reaching his waistband.

Lord Devin normally looked at her with arrogance and condescension, as if she were a fool who had strayed into his path.

But now his eyes were hooded. He was standing just in front of her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body and smell fresh linen. Of course, fresh linen. He was the sort of man who bathed every day. Twice a day, she thought wildly.

Behind him, the chamber was emptying as people drifted toward supper.

“Perhaps we could just stay here until the floor is empty,” Daisy suggested, her voice wavering.

He shook his head. “That would draw attention to us.”

Everyone had already seen them standing together, but she didn’t want to remind him since she needed his help. “That’s one thing about you, Lord Devin,” she said, before thinking.

“What?”

“You always help. You helped my uncle, even though you believed he was a traitor, didn’t you?”

“Actually, I didn’t think Tyron was clever enough for the subterfuge of coded letters,” Lord Devin said with brutal casualness.

“I suppose not,” Daisy said. Her chemise was little more than gauze; she had never, ever, thought of her bottom as a sensual part of her body, but it was … It definitely was. Pressing it against the wall under the scrutiny of Lord Devin’s dark gaze was making heat pour down her legs like scalding honey.

“If you turn slightly to your left, I will move into position behind you,” his lordship said, obviously having no idea of her humiliating response to his closeness. “Open your fan.”