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Philippa should be thrown into the dankest cell in Newgate.

Surely she dealt in deals with the Devil to contrive a dress for Ivy that was so wholly distracting.

The duchess was punishing him. There were countless reasons for her to do so, but he would bet it was because she knew he was entertaining lascivious fantasies about Ivy.

The insufferable woman is always right. One day, someone will prove her wrong.

But it would not be this day, and it would not be Edward.

Ivy Cavendale was quite possibly the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered. She stood next to him, her hand protected in the crook of his elbow, her lithe figure shining like a beacon of hope in a sea of debauchery as they surveyed the crush crowding the dance floor at the Widow’s Ball.

Though it was still early, wine and spirits flowed heavily as titled lords and ladies left their staid rules of propriety at the entrance to Widow Lovemore’s lavish ballroom.

Panels of crimson and cream silk draped the walls.

Innocence contrasting with heady desire.

It was Widow Lovemore’s theme for the evening.

Red and white roses – no doubt costing the wealthy widow a small fortune – filled vases and bowls throughout the spacious room, lending their heady scent to the miasma of beeswax, body odour, and cloying perfumes.

The large French doors lining the west side of the ballroom had been thrown open, welcoming revellers onto a palatial courtyard.

Torches lit pathways into the garden beyond where any number of activities could be embarked upon with some degree of privacy amongst the ornamental trees, artfully designed hedges, and whimsical fountains and lawn sculptures.

Although the patrons of this particular ball weren’t overly concerned with privacy.

The widow had placed chaises longues, large wing-back chairs, love seats and various other pieces of furniture along the edges of the ballroom in darkened corners and alcoves.

Several were already occupied with writhing bodies.

It was the one ballroom where a wallflower might find herself in far more peril sticking to the shadows than dancing a waltz on the chalked floor.

Edward followed Ivy’s gaze as she watched Lord Twining – a gentleman cresting his fifth decade and a highly respected member of the House of Lords – lead his wife and another lady to a chaise large enough for three. She turned quickly away.

‘Are they not worried about their reputations?’ she asked, her eyes firmly fixed on the couples swirling across the dance floor in what might be considered a scandalous waltz for any other event but now seemed quite tame.

‘Who would point fingers at them in this crowd?’ Edward looked around him at the sea of titled peers engaging in all manner of wickedness. ‘The widow has strict rules about her balls. What happens here stays here.’

Ivy swallowed. ‘I see.’ But based on her wide, blinking eyes, Edward wasn’t sure she did see exactly how corrupt the highest echelons of society could be when they were granted the safety of shared secrets.

‘What on earth could he possibly be doing with two women? And why would they so eagerly join him?’ She glanced at the French doors, squinting into the darkness beyond before pulling her attention back to the couples swirling to a talented pianist playing Strauss. A stringed quartet accompanied her.

Something cracked in Edward’s mind as he tried to come up with a suitable answer. How did he explain to an innocent woman all the ways one could find pleasure with a willing partner, or partners in the case of Lord Twining?

Thankfully, she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Perhaps we should take a turn around the dance floor?’ Ivy suggested.

Edward was never more relieved to dance.

He held his arms out in a practised frame.

When Ivy hesitantly placed her hand on his shoulder and he slid his fingers around her waist, something shifted into place within him.

Like a dovetail joint fitting perfectly into its carved partner. They locked together seamlessly.

Ivy inhaled a sharp breath as Edward closed his hand over hers and swept her into the stream of flowing couples on the dance floor.

The crush was too close to allow much space between them. He flexed his fingers against her waist, shifting her closer as they flew through the intricate steps.

‘I haven’t danced a waltz in years,’ Ivy breathed.

Any response died on his lips as the couple to his right bumped into them, pressing Ivy flush against him.

He tightened his grip to steady her, crushing her against his chest. It was impossible to ignore her shape and how sweetly she fit within his arms. Need filled him, hardening his body in ways she would not be able to ignore given their unintended embrace.

Ivy froze against him.

‘Forgive me.’ Edward cursed his body for betraying him. He leaned back to gauge her expression. Her eyes were wide, the pupils almost encompassing the crystal blue. Her breaths came in short gasps, and she licked her lips even as she stared at his mouth. ‘Lady Ivy, are you well?’

‘Air. I need air.’

Gripping her hand, he fought through the crowd until they reached the French doors.

He sought out a deserted corner against the balustrade.

She placed both hands on the concrete half-wall as he placed himself at her back, blocking her from view of any curious eyes.

A need to touch her, to comfort, overwhelmed him.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as she took large gulps of summer night air.

‘Damn corset,’ Ivy rasped, refusing to look at him. But neither did she ask him to step away.

‘Shall I remove it for you?’ He fought for levity in a moment fraught with an undefinable tension.

Her laugh was closer to a gasp as she pressed against the bodice of her gown, no doubt seeking more space.

Edward cursed fashionable society for deeming such restrictive clothing necessary for women to wear.

For several endless seconds, they stood that way, Ivy struggling for breath and Edward helpless to assist. Eventually, her breathing slowed.

She straightened, forcing his hand to slip away as she turned to face him. ‘I am better now. I think it was just the heat and the crowd.’

Clenching his fist at his side, he tried to hold on to the sensation of silken skin against his callused fingers.

When he would have stepped back, her gaze once more caught on his mouth.

She pressed her lips together as if testing the sensation of pressure.

As if wondering what it might feel like to have him exert similar pressure there.

God, woman. You make me ache.

‘Lady Ivy, when you look at me like that, I find it difficult not to wonder what you’re thinking.’ His voice was a dark growl in the night.

The crimson stain he now knew extended along her clavicles and between the fascinating cleft of her small breasts darkened at his words. She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again.

‘Do they frighten you? Whatever thoughts you have trapped in your mind?’ Because he would rather suffer the fires of hell than scare Ivy.

‘I don’t know.’

* * *

Ivy was dizzy. Probably from lack of oxygen as her cursed dress seemed determined to crush her lungs. Or, mayhap, it was spinning on the dance floor in Edward’s strong arms.

Worthington. Not Edward.

Possibly it was the shocking image of so many lords and ladies embracing both on and off the dance floor.

She looked over Edward’s – Worthington’s – shoulder, and even in the moonlight, she could see a couple pressed against the stucco wall, just on the other side of the balcony.

The man’s back was to Ivy, but the woman’s expression was highlighted in the flickering torchlight.

He pressed kisses against her neck. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in ecstasy as she gripped his hair, guiding him lower.

One of his large hands dipped into the woman’s neckline, and she gasped.

Not in pain or revulsion, but in pleasure.

Ivy ripped her gaze away to refocus on Edward. His bottom lip was fuller than the top. How would it feel if he pressed his mouth against her neck?

Or touched my breast with his strong hands?

The idea should repulse her. But it didn’t. In fact, she found the images floating in her mind impossible to dismiss.

‘I’ve never been kissed by a man.’ The admission spilled from her before she could stop it.

Why did I say that?

Edward’s dark-blue eyes widened. He licked his bottom lip, the firm flesh glistening in moonlight. Without thought or plan, she stepped closer, reaching up to place trembling fingers against his mouth.

Why did I do that?

He closed his eyes, his expression almost pained as he covered her hand with his larger, warmer one, pressing it more firmly against his lips. In a moment of shocking intimacy, his tongue darted out, and he licked her finger. Now, she was gasping in pleasure.

Why did he do that? And how can I get him to do it again?

She wanted more. And when it came to men, Ivy never wanted more.

‘Do you wish to be kissed, Lady Ivy?’ His words tickled against the pads of her fingers, and then he nipped lightly.

Yes.

‘I don’t know,’ she said again, unable to voice such a shocking desire as her fingers brushed over his mouth once more.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, gently guiding her arm up so her hand rested on his neck.

His tightly cropped hair bristled against her fingertips in the most fascinating sensation.

He bent his head closer, their mouths almost touching.

She breathed his exhalation and tasted hints of mint and aniseed.

He is going to kiss me.

She froze. Need overwhelmed her, but old fears surged, and Ivy was caught between desire and dread. He turned his head slightly, his nose skating along her cheekbone until his mouth hovered near the shell of her ear.