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She was smiling naturally now and the stiff feeling between them ebbed away. “A tricorne?” Adam suggested, “instead of the fine beaver hat that he usually wears? And if Thorpe goes to Almack's, I would suggest he might try breeches.”

“Or else the Patronesses might bar his entry, as they did Wellington’s,” Miss Wilton agreed solemnly, her eyes beginning to twinkle. “So did Thorpe put any black marks upon my person?” His gaze made her shiver as it swept her from her slippers to the pins upon her head.

“You are perfect, Miss Wilton,” he whispered. “Entirely perfect.”

The band struck up the opening air of a waltz.

“I know the steps, in theory, but I’ve never waltzed before,” she whispered. “The dance had not yet become popular during my Season, but I have obtained permission from the doyennes of Almack's. As my mother said, there is no need to tempt the Fates that are not yet aligned against us.”

“Then let us put theory into practice, Miss Wilton. Follow where I lead.” Adam took her into his arms, holding her as close as the bounds of propriety allowed.

Miranda stared up into his eyes, trying to read his intent, following the gentle pressure of his hands as he guided her steps.

But this was not a recalcitrant Damien, forced to drag his sister about at a dancing master’s command.

The marquess led with authority, surprising her with his agility and grace.

Within a minute or two, she had picked up the rhythm.

“You have it now,” he said encouragingly. “Keep your mind off your feet and look at me. Pretend that I am someone else, the man of your dreams. Imagine that my arms are his and I shall whisper adoring words in your ears, as he would no doubt do if he had this opportunity.”

Obediently, Miranda tried to conjure up Martin's face, but somehow, that was impossible.

Try as she might, she could not imagine Allworth whirling her about the room or holding her so close.

The tip of her ear tickled as Lord Brand whispered nonsensical nothings, tidbits of gossip about the arbiters of society, making them appear foolish and capricious, causing her to stifle her laughter more than once.

Never could she picture Allworth making light of those who ate and spat out reputations for their supper.

“You are allowing them to vex you again,” he said.

“And I thought I was masking it so well.” She forced a smile.

“You are not betraying your feelings by so much as a hair,” Lord Brand reassured her quietly as they moved in tandem across the floor. “But I feel the tension in your spine, in the way your hand touches my shoulder.”

“They are watching, like jackals on the prowl. Waiting for me to stumble, to make a mistake so that they can pounce upon me and tear me to shreds,” she whispered.

“Perhaps you might care to borrow a trick of mine, Miss Wilton? When circumstances threatened to overwhelm me, I would imagine that I was in a vision of my own creation,” Lord Brand suggested.

“I would dream that what I thought was negative was positive. That the boy who was bullying me could somehow become my friend.”

“And . . .?”

“Mostly, I got beaten into the dirt,” he admitted. “But I did not let them see my fear, and on rare occasions, my dream came true. I will not let them touch you or allow you to stumble. Tonight, pretend I am your champion.”

“My champion . . .” Miranda echoed softly, trying once more to conjure the dim shade of Martin, but he faded into the recesses of her mind.

Although she had known him for most of her life, she could not recall if he had once walked into her sleeping hours.

But she had dreamed, only last night . .

. Miranda nearly missed a step as she recalled disturbing visions lost in the waking and realized that the man of her dreams wore Lord Brand’s face, even though she had known him for less than a week.

But that was entirely natural, she told herself.

Once Mama’s prophecy came to pass, things would sort themselves out and she would be free of Lord Brand, free to return to her life at the Wode, to marry Martin, to work in the library.

Suddenly, the emptiness of that vision stretched ahead of her like a long, endless tunnel.

With all the force of her imagination, she concentrated on Lord Brand’s face, pretending for this instant, that she was his dream as he was hers.

Weaving a false spell, she substituted affection for the emotion in his eyes that was certainly pity; doubt and cynicism gave way to respect; and his light formal touch was transformed into the genuine tenderness of a lover’s hand.

Although she knew that no spell of hers would ever work upon another, mortal or mage, Miranda succeeded in bewitching herself.

With enormous effort, Adam kept himself from pulling her closer, from allowing his hand to stray to the fine spider web of filmy filigree that held the green silk gown tantalizingly suspended.

Instead, he concentrated upon putting at her ease.

Slowly, the tension seeped away until she was supple in his arms. Every smile became a victory and each butterfly flutter of her fingers set his heart to pounding.

Within the space of seconds, Adam came to regret his rash proposal, growing jealous of the unknown phantom that he had asked her to conjure.

He wanted the look in those sapphire depths to be for him, the throaty chuckles that tickled softly at his ear to be his by right.

. . .

They whirled in each other’s arms, each unaware of the spells that they were weaving for themselves, the magic no less powerful for being available to ordinary mortals.

From his place behind the doors to the terrace, Thorpe absently licked the last bit of coal-color from his paws, wondering what The Lady would think of this turn of events.

. . .

The music stopped, shattering the enchantment, but Adam’s thoughts were still awhirl.

While Brummel claimed Miss Wilton’s hand for a country dance, Adam went to the refreshment table, eager to find something wet to ease the sudden tightness in his throat.

He eyed her as he drank, barely tasting the liquid, watching as she gracefully wove her way through the complex patterns, till the end of the set.

“Pretty armful, ain’t she?” declared the slurred voice behind him, as the dancers were making their final bows. “Y’know, I had a bit of a sabbat with the young Wodesby witch myself,” Lord Hatfill added with a lascivious grin.

Thoughts of pistols, rapiers and bare knuckles raced through Adam’s mind, but since any choice of weapon would mean certain scandal, he dismissed the possibility of a duel.

Still, Lord Hatfill’s foul mouth would have to be silenced by some method.

The only acceptable challenge was a contest of wits.

An unfair bout, Adam knew, since the drunken lecher was quite obviously an unarmed opponent.

“I’d be wary of getting on the wrong side of the Wodesby clan,” Adam lowered his voice confidentially. “Gillray, the cartoonist did, this very afternoon. They say it was a cat that ripped him to pieces.”

Hatfill’s red proboscis turned stark white. “Never tell me so,” he whispered. “Not a marmalade, was it?”

Thorpe you busy devil. Adam quelled the nonsensical thought immediately.

“Aye,” he told Hatfill, “so I would take care what I say about the Wodesbys, you can never tell who, or what might be listening.” As that thought sank into the man’s sodden brain, Adam dropped the gold piece that he had palmed, sending it rolling beneath the table.

“I say Hatfill, you had best see to your guinea. Your purse must have come undone.” Under pretext of bending for a better view, the marquess firmly hooked the lace edge of the cloth to one of Hatfill’s buttons.

“I think it went over there,” he said, pointing to the far end of the table.

As the cloth and its contents started to shift slowly towards the edge, Adam picked up his glass and strolled casually towards Miss Wilton.

It was well worth a marigold to convince Hatfill that it was not worth his while to malign her.

Well, in truth, worth a bit more than the coin when the first cascade of glass proceeded to shatter upon the floor.

Adam promised himself that he would find some way to make good the damage to Lady Pertwee.

The orgeat, however, was no loss, Adam thought as he placed the remnants on the tray of an open-mouthed footman.

The stuff was nearly as insipid as the bath water that they served at Almack’s.

In exchange for the orgeat he plucked up two glasses of wine.

Miss Wilton’s laughter served to banish the last of Adam’s regrets.

He no longer cared that he had just used superstition as a tool to manipulate a man.

Lady Pertwee’s broken glass was a small sacrifice and even the eminently edible refreshments that slid into the shards of oblivion were accounted well lost for the sight of Miss Wilton’s face.

It was like seeing her once again for the very first time, but as she truly ought to be.

Gone was the wariness, the air of constant worry that had hung about her like a cloud ever since their initial encounter in Lady Enderby’s drawing room.

Tears of mirth slid down her face as Hatfill emerged triumphant from beneath the table, clutching the guinea like a grotesque child with the Christmas plum.