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“I do not object to a gentleman seeking pleasant company,” she said, folding her hands to keep them still. “I object to his assuming that a woman’s experience makes her conveniently undemanding.”

His lip tilted upward. “I would not expect you to be undemanding.”

“You have known me for less than a minute.” She tilted her head. “What makes me different than any other widow?”

“It has been an instructive minute.” He shrugged. “Sometimes that is all a man needs.”

Against her wishes, the corner of her mouth threatened to lift. She pressed her lips together to keep it in check. A quiet satisfaction deepened the lines beside his eyes. Amelia snapped open her fan. “You find me amusing.”

His smile never faltered. “I find you interesting. There is a distinction.”

“Not by my estimation,” she said. “That is a distinction a man makes when he realizes he’s made a grave mistake.” She met his gaze. “Do you think the slight is so easily forgiven?”

“I hope to be forgiven because I spoke carelessly.” He paused, his gaze steady upon hers, and the teasing faded from his voice until only sincerity remained. “I should like to remain because you have made it rather difficult to think of little else.”

Her fingers tightened upon the fan, and her breath caught before she could stop it. That was better than it ought to have been. He had not lowered his voice to make the words a performance for anyone passing. Nor had he moved closer, as though an admission of interest entitled him to something. He simply stood there, patient and watchful, with his hands loose at his sides, and let the words be what they were.

She could leave. He seemed prepared to let her. For the moment, she preferred to stay. “What a burden this evening has become for you,” she said, and was dismayed to hear a note of softness in her own voice.

“An unexpected one,” he said.

“I am certain you will recover.” She wasn’t so certain she would, though.

“That may depend upon whether you permit me to improve your opinion,” he said.

She studied him over the edge of her fan, the painted silk fluttering against her fingers. His mask could not conceal the intensity of his gaze, and she became inconveniently aware of the breadth of his chest beneath his waistcoat. The steady rise and fall of his breath, and the sheer, solid warmth of him in the narrow space between them. Was he always so composed when a woman challenged him. What might disturb that composure? The idea pleased her, and a slow, private heat unfurled low in her belly. “And how would you propose to do that?” she asked.

“A dance would be a beginning.”

“Your solution is to twirl me around?”

“My solution is to listen while you tell me precisely how mistaken I am. A dance is only the beginning.”

Amelia laughed before she could prevent it, the sound spilling out bright and unguarded. His answering smile was quick and genuine, transforming his whole face. A small, unwelcome flutter stirred beneath her ribs. She had come for amusement. She had no reason not to enjoy his, provided she remembered how readily a charming man might say whatever served him. The reminder rang a little hollow, even to her.

“A dance is an ambitious offer,” she said. “You may discover that I have considerably more to say than you anticipated.”

“I am beginning to hope you do,” he told her.

She lowered her fan and held his gaze. “And if I find your company disappointing?”

“Then you may leave me alone in the middle of the floor.” He grinned. “Think how embarrassing that would be for me.”

She arched a brow. “No attempt to persuade me otherwise?”

“I might look mournful. I cannot promise to control my face.”

This time she let herself smile fully and saw his eyes darken in response. Across the gallery, Charlotte stood conversing with Lady Haviland. Her friend caught Amelia’s eye, glanced at Hartwick, and acquired an expression that promised intolerable questions later. Amelia turned her back upon it, her cheeks warm. “One dance,” she said. “You may begin by explaining what you believe makes a widow sensible.”

Hartwick offered his arm, the black sleeve crooked with courtly precision. “I suspect I shall need to reconsider the entire subject.”

She rested her gloved hand on his sleeve, feeling his warmth through the fine wool and the firm muscle beneath it. The contact was slight. Her awareness of it was not. Her pulse hummed in her wrists, and she was suddenly, vividly conscious of every point where they nearly touched.

“Do take your time, my lord,” she said as they stepped into the gallery, and she let her voice drop low, just for him. “I have no objection to keeping you occupied until morning.”

One

Dominic Vale, Earl of Hartwick, had never been quite so pleased to have made a fool of himself. Lady Covington’s hand rested on his sleeve as they crossed the gallery. He found himself considering her last remark. Something he rarely paid any attention to. Until morning... She had said it to unsettle him. The gleam in her hazel eyes made that plain. Unfortunately, knowing her intention did nothing to lessen its effect. His pulse picked up a slow, heavy rhythm, and he was fairly certain she could feel it through his sleeve.