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Mrs. Clay jumped to her feet. “Go on with you both. I’ll be right behind.”

“We won’t be able to hear the music,” Camellia protested.

“You forget I can whistle,” the major said.

She ran out of arguments. And she didn’t want to argue. She let him lead her away, then outside where a chilly wind greeted them.

“The dance will warm you,” he said, noticing her shiver. “But if you want to go back inside…”

“Not yet. Show me the steps.”

He gave her a melting smile. “The waltz is my favorite dance. Here. Put your left hand here on my arm. Not my shoulder but close to it. Now hold my hand. Here.” He extended their arms, then slipped his right hand around to her shoulder blade, pulling her shockingly close.

He blinked, opening his eyes slowly. “Lilacs,” he said.

“I never had a favorite flower, but I think I do now. And you should always wear red. You are fiercely beautiful in red.”

Her breath caught, but she managed to exhale quietly and flirt in return. “Is flattery part of this dance? Do I have to say something back to you?”

“Not flattery. But compliments are definitely required.”

“I see.” She couldn’t say any of the things she wanted to say. It would be too revealing. “You are very…tall.”

He snickered. “We will work on that. Your compliments, I mean, not my height.” He whistled a brief tune, then said.

“Now look at my feet. We will walk through this three times, slowly, while you look at my feet and follow with yours. Then look up into my eyes and follow without looking down. The steps are quite simple. Just making a square.”

He whistled and moved through the steps, and she followed.

“Now look up,” he reminded her. “Look into my eyes so you don’t get dizzy.”

He held her right hand more securely, and pressed a little more firmly on her back. And whistled. They danced. It felt like floating. Without altering the pattern, he moved her around the balcony. The tempo of his whistling increased, and they began whirling.

Time both sped up and stood still. She wanted to keep dancing forever. But too soon, he slowed, then stopped, then ceased whistling. But he was still looking into her eyes.

“You were right,” she said, breathing hard.

“Was I? That is good to know. Right about what?”

“I am warm now.”

“You are. Quite.” He let go of her and stepped back, quickly, his expression going blank. Then he touched her elbow. “But I fear Mrs. Clay is cold. We should go back inside.”

“Yes, all right.” She walked with him, then stopped. “Thank you. That was really wonderful. Thank you, Major.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

“I have that compliment for you now.”

“What? Ha! Not if I’ve browbeaten it out of you.” He nudged her elbow to keep moving.

“You do everything well, Major Taverston. It’s quite a gift.”

“No. The trick is that I only do the things I can do well. It’s actually quite limiting.”

“La! That is untrue. Name one thing you would like to do that you can’t do well.”

“Write poetry.”

She stopped in her tracks. Then laughter bubbled out of her. “You win, Major. Arguing is one of the many things you excel at.”

He grimaced. “Tall and argumentative. Thank you.”

They continued on to Mrs. Clay, who was shivering with cold, but who nevertheless smiled at them in a knowing way. They went back inside. When they reached Neville’s table, Mr. Diakos said, “You are finished? We should go back to our rooms. I believe Colonel Harrington has been overtaxed.”

*

Camellia put on her nightdress and slipped beneath the coverlet on her bed.

Major Taverston had rented the entire floor of a large townhome, with rooms fit for an earl’s brother.

The linens were crisp. The mattress was soft and devoid of lumps.

There were coal-burning braziers in all of the bedchambers.

He lived like this. Certainly, he’d endured privation on the peninsula, but at home, he slipped right back into the pampered life of a wealthy aristocrat. It must be nice.

She rolled to her side, curled up, and closed her eyes.

What had she once thought she wanted from life? What experiences had she been missing? Attending the theater. Meeting a poet. Dancing at a ball.

But there was one more. One more.

Two facts about Major Taverston. He was wedded to the army. And he was a rake.

He would suit perfectly. But she wasn’t brave enough. She was afraid she would fall.

*

Crispin splashed his face with cold water, shed his clothes, and dropped into bed.

He stared up at the ceiling, furious with himself.

He’d been aroused. When he slept, he was likely to dream of Camellia.

Camellia. Given the way his thoughts were running, he would not be thinking of her as “Miss Harrington” in his dreams.

He’d meant what he said. She was fiercely beautiful. But that didn’t mean he should have said it. They’d been in a setting where they were supposed to flirt lightly, but he had never been able to flirt. Instead, he blurted out truths like a clumsy mooncalf.

He’d held her, breathed in lilacs, waltzed with her.

She danced with such a light step, it was hard to believe she’d never waltzed before.

And he’d become increasingly aware of how much he wanted her.

This was not the usual demand his body made at random intervals when it was healthy.

The physical need that sent him out seeking lightskirts. He wanted her .

Bloody hell.

She had been so lithe and warm in his arms…but what was he afraid he might do? Seduce her? He wouldn’t know how. Sex had always been a matter of a few coins, not compliments and coaxing.

Besides, he wasn’t some unprincipled rake, seducing innocents. He’d have to marry her if he wanted to get into her bed. And marriage was out of the question. It had always been out of the question. He didn’t want to leave a young widow behind or fatherless children.

And, of all people, Miss Harrington? He’d already established that she deserved a husband, not another sick man to nurse.