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Us. Only us . She took a deep breath, and then another.

He made some signal she could not interpret to the orchestra’s leader, and the rhythm of the waltz changed, slowed, lengthened like a lover’s kiss.

He lifted her chin an inch, so that he was gazing into her eyes before moving into the pattern of the dance.

Everything seemed to ease. The world became his dark-eyed stare, his whispered words.

“You are so lovely,” he murmured. “You must promise never to waltz with another. I could not bear it.”

“An easy promise to make,” she replied. “Other men do not, precisely, line up for the privilege.”

“Fools and idiots. Perhaps they have not looked yet, but they will. They will when they learn I have reserved the supper dance as yours—for I have never danced with a woman twice at any ball, ever in my life. They will when I lead you onto the floor a third time, for the final dance of this night. They will when I stare daggers at any of your other partners. They will when I call upon your father as soon as we return to London. ”

He led her through a series of twirls, each faster, more intricate, than the one before it. It did not matter; she simply allowed his power to flow through hers, his strength directing, guiding, her faith in him in every footstep.

“I will not keep you,” she said, “if we cannot be happy.”

“I have discovered that my happiness requires yours.”

It was magic, that dance. After a time, she even closed her eyes, knowing he would never lose his way.

As he promised, they were alone in the ballroom, the music the only other guest allowed within the bubble they inhabited.

It lasted longer, she was sure, than any usual waltz, whether his signal to the musicians or her pure joy extended it.

But at last, the music soared, then quieted, and then, finally, ceased.

When they stopped moving, she opened her eyes. The noise of the party resumed abruptly, as if they truly had been alone in the ballroom. He bowed, but she was too bewildered to curtsey.

“The supper dance is the set after next. It is mine?”

She nodded confusedly. He bowed again, and stalked away.

Fitzwilliam reached the desperately needed cold of the terrace in record time, inhaling deep breaths of the frozen air.

The feel of her! The look in her eyes! And that dress, heavens almighty!

The way she had softened in his arms, allowing him…

well, suffice it to say that she was much too innocent to realise just what her body promised his.

How long before she would agree to marry him?

And then how lengthy a betrothal would she require?

Too late, he realised he was not alone. There stood his brother in the terrace shadows, wrapped around a domino-clad female as if he would consume her whole.

“Aurelia first, and now you,” Saye sighed, straightening without letting go of his companion. “A rankling redundancy of relations.”

“Miss Goddard?” Fitzwilliam asked, rather disturbed by his brother’s blatant absence of discretion. “You are well?”

Saye smiled with a delight unusual to him. “You may congratulate us, Richard. Miss Goddard has agreed to become my viscountess.”

“Excellent!” Fitzwilliam cried. “Well done, man. Miss Goddard, my felicitations. I could not be happier that you will take the risk.”

“Risk! What risk?” Saye made only a faint protest, apparently unable to summon his customary pique. “That I shall be as ham-handed a husband as I have been a beau? Never! Lilly, my sweet, pray explain to my battle-hardened brother how you led me, most meekly, into the divine decadence of monogamy.”

Lilly pulled away from his embrace, obviously trying for some dignity as she brushed rather futilely at the wrinkles in her domino. Fitzwilliam moved forward, his every instinct to put her at ease, and held out his hand.

“May I be the first to welcome you to the family, Miss Goddard. I promise you a brother’s protection, as well as a complete catalogue of Saye’s most embarrassing boyhood blunders, for use at your discretion any time henceforth.

Battle-hardened, I may be, but you shall not enter wedlock weapon-less, upon my honour. ”

Miss Goddard smiled gently, accepting Fitzwilliam’s kiss on her hand before submitting again to Saye’s embrace.

“Never mind him, darling,” Saye said dismissively, keeping his arm solicitously about her. “Now, tell me, Brother—what was this ramshackle barging onto the balcony all about? You galloped out here as if your toga was afire.”

“Have you seen her tonight?” Fitzwilliam exclaimed.

“Saye, she is enrapturing. Fascinating. And that costume she wears! Gauzy, silky thing. I fear a snow storm could not extinguish my—” He caught the astonished look upon Miss Goddard’s face and abruptly shut his mouth.

But Saye did not take the opportunity to condemn his coarseness, only sounding thoughtful.

“For the benefit of my bride-to-be, perhaps you ought to explain just who has sent you into such unusual transports of beguilement.”

“Why, Miss Bentley, of course. The thing is, she?—”

But Saye interrupted him, sounding…relieved? “Pray, spare us the details of your ardour as we have quite enough of our own to contemplate. Well, Mama will be delighted with two sons on the verge of matrimony. Sell your commission, and she will scarcely know where to look.”

“I hope so, for we shall likely be joining her at Matlock, at least until we can?—”

“Oh very well, I suppose you may have the Bridgelands estate. ’Tis but thirty miles of good road from Hampton’s seat, and it is mine to give.” Saye shrugged. “But do not dare whelp a boy before I do, or I shall never forgive you.”

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth in shocked astonishment. “What? But Saye…I…I…” He swallowed, barely able to even comprehend this unlooked for generosity. Miss Goddard, however, found words for him.

“Oh, Saye, how wonderful you are!”

He smiled down upon her. “I am, rather, am I not?” His gaze turned stern. “You are to tell no one.”

He glanced up from his betrothed. “I should probably point out—although as a decorated officer of His Majesty’s army, one would think you capable of reaching this conclusion yourself—that if the sight of Miss Bentley out of her usual shapeless shades of bilious green has inspired your passion, it might so inspire others. ”

Saye, as usual, was correct. “An excellent point,” Fitzwilliam replied, suddenly as eager to re-join the masque as he had formerly been to escape it. “Congratulations. Again. If there is anything I can do, ever, to?—”

“Yes, yes,” Saye waved him off. “You may start by disappearing. You are decidedly de trop .”

Grinning, Fitzwilliam hastily made for the door, but he was only just reaching for it when Saye’s voice halted him.

“I say, what costume did Miss Bentley choose?”

Fitzwilliam turned back, still smiling. “She is a golden-faced Medusa, with a hundred silky serpents braided into her hair. Magnificent.”

From the dark came Saye’s sigh. “You would think so. I suppose it is marginally better than appearing in my ballroom as a giant cockchafer.”

Sarah’s first instinct was to flee, as her colonel had.

Was he as bewildered as she was? But no, that was impossible.

She did not need to be experienced herself to recognise when a man knew what he was about.

Had she been at home, she would have headed for the kitchen and calmed herself with kneading and mixing and simmering and baking, but if the Matlock cook was as high in the instep as its butler, she would never be welcome there.

To her left, she saw a man in a plain black domino heading her way with determined purpose—was it Mr Wigsby, or Mr Emerson, of equivalent weak chin?

Neither of whom had ever before looked at her twice?

The thought of pretending to enjoy either’s company was beyond her.

Quickly, she slipped behind a stand of potted trees, discovering a door on the other side, and upon opening it, found some sort of utility corridor for the ease of delivering trays to the ballroom.

She unhesitatingly traversed it, fortunately encountering no one.

At a juncture, she listened; the noises of busy servants sounded to her left, so she took the right turning.

At length, she found herself in a well-lit vestibule she had never before seen, probably a side entrance for use by the family.

It should be easy enough to find her way to the front of the house again from here, but there was a low, cushioned chair and a perfect emptiness that appealed to her frayed senses.

With a deep sense of relief, she sat and simply…

remembered. Remembered that first hum of attraction, the many ways she had talked herself out of it, and the many times he had returned to haunt her feelings again and again.

His kisses, of course, spiked her every sense, but it was more than that.

That entire carriage ride back from the pleasure gardens, they had talked, learning about and coming to know each other—she, agreeing to ca ll him ‘Richard’, and he, expressing delight at hearing his name upon her lips. The drive had seemed mere moments.

If she paired with the colonel again on that dance floor, she was as much as announcing her acceptance of his suit. Should she?

She was startled from her thoughts by the opening of the heavy door, bringing with it a rush of cold air.

To her surprise, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, clothed in simple dominos, carrying their masks, entered, both laughing at some private joke, his eyes on hers, her eyes bright with mirth and love, and she with the look of a woman who has recently been thoroughly kissed.

That is what I want , Sarah thought. Neither of them noticed her, so rapt were they in each other. She stood.

“Sarah!” Elizabeth started, hand at her throat. “How you surprised me!”

“Miss Bentley,” Mr Darcy said, bowing, suddenly again grave and severe as ever.