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"There." His fingers lingered at her neck. "Now you look exactly as a countess should."

"Like a possession to be decorated?" Elizabeth meant it to sound sharp, but her voice emerged breathless.

"Like a treasure to be displayed." He met her eyes in the mirror. "One that grows more intriguing with each passing day."

The heat in his gaze was too much. Elizabeth stepped away, her heart thundering against her ribs. "I should...I should change back."

"Running away again, wife?"

"Merely being practical." She forced lightness into her tone. "Unless you intend for me to wear this home?"

"I intend for you to wear it tomorrow night," he corrected, "when every man in that ballroom will curse himself for not seeing your true worth sooner."

"And you'll enjoy their envy, no doubt."

"Immensely." His smile was wolfish. "Almost as much as I'll enjoy having you in my arms during the waltz."

"Bold of you to assume I'll accept your invitation to dance."

"You will." The certainty in his voice made her shiver. "If only to prove me wrong about your skills."

Elizabeth retreated behind the dressing screen, grateful for the temporary escape from his intense regard. "Perhaps I'll accept Lord Ashworth's invitation instead. I hear he's an excellent dancer."

Cecil's laugh was dark and rich. "Now who's being bold, wife?"

"Merely practical," she called back, proud that her voice remained steady. "Since my own husband seems determined to question my abilities."

"Oh, I question nothing about your abilities, Elizabeth." The way he caressed her name made heat pool in her belly. "I simply look forward to discovering them...intimately."

Elizabeth was grateful for the screen hiding her flaming cheeks. She needed to escape before she did something foolish—like beg him to kiss her right there in the modiste's shop.

"I believe we're finished here," she announced, emerging in her original gown. "Unless you'd like to scandalize Madame Laurent further with talk of nightgowns?"

"Another time, perhaps." But his eyes promised that discussion was far from over. "Though I do hope you'll remember this conversation when you're alone in your bed tonight."

Elizabeth fled to the waiting carriage, her body humming with awareness. The worst part wasn't his outrageous flirtation—it was how much she'd begun to enjoy it.

Lady Morrison's ballroom blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Elizabeth touched her emerald necklace nervously as she and Cecil were announced, acutely aware of the whispers that followed their entrance. The new gown felt both magnificent and terribly exposed—she couldn't remember the last time she'd attended a ball as anything other than a chaperone.

"My lady Stonefield!" Dinah's familiar voice cut through Elizabeth's anxiety. Her friend approached with a warm smile, though her eyes widened slightly at Elizabeth's daring neckline. "You look absolutely stunning."

"As do you," Elizabeth replied, grateful for the friendly face. Dinah wore pale blue silk that complemented her fair coloring perfectly.

"Indeed," Cecil agreed smoothly, bowing over Dinah's hand. "Though I confess myself rather partial to emerald these days."

Elizabeth felt a flush creep up her neck at his words, remembering their charged encounter at the modiste's shop. She was about to respond when a striking blonde in lavender silk approached their group.

"Lord Stonefield!" The woman's voice was breathy with admiration. "We missed you terribly at Lady Rutledge's musical evening last week."

"Lady Pembrooke." Cecil's smile held that devastating charm that Elizabeth had come to know so well. "I assure you, the loss was entirely mine. Though my wife's company has made such absences rather more bearable."

Lady Pembrooke's perfect features arranged themselves into a pout. "You must allow him some amusement, Lady Stonefield. We've grown quite used to his wit enlivening our gatherings."

"I assure you, madam," Elizabeth replied with careful politeness, "my husband is free to seek whatever amusements he desires."

But something twisted in her chest as she watched Lady Pembrooke lay a gloved hand on Cecil's arm, laughing musically at something he'd said. Within moments, three more ladies had joined their circle, each seeming to vie for Cecil's attention.

"Your husband cuts quite the figure," Dinah observed quietly. "Though I daresay he's met his match in you—that gown is causing quite a stir."