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When the movement next brought them close, he murmured, “I had not hoped to see you here.”
“No?” She raised her eyebrows behind her mask.
“You seem to favor the day.”
“Do I?”
The dance took them apart while she thought on that odd statement. When they drew close again, she laid her palm against his as they paced in a semicircle. “Perhaps you mistake habit for love.”
His eyes seemed to spark behind his mask. “Explain.”
She shrugged. “My usual social rounds are in the day; yours are in the night—but this does not mean that you love the night and I the day.”
A line appeared between his brows.
“Perh Csizsizaps,” she whispered as they moved apart again, “you play in the night because that is what you’re used to. Perhaps you actually prefer the day.”
He tilted his head in query as they paced together. “And you, my sweet wife?”
“Perhaps my domain is really the night.”
They parted and glided away. She moved through the figures of the dance until they came together again, the touch of his hand on hers sending a thrill through her.
He smiled as if he knew what his touch did to her. “What would you do with me, then, my mistress of the night?” They paced around each other, only the fingertips of their hands touching. “Will you lead me? Taunt me? Teach me about the night?”
They separated and dipped. She watched him the entire time. His eyes glinted with green and blue lights. They advanced, and he bent his head to her ear, their bodies not touching at all. “Tell me, madam, will you dare to seduce a sinner such as I?”
Her breath was coming fast, her heart fluttering in her chest, alive with excitement, but her face was serene. “Is that really the question?”
“What question do you prefer?”
“Will you allow yourself to be seduced by me?”
They halted as the dance concluded and the music died away. Her eyes on his, Melisande sank into a curtsy. She rose, her gaze still locked with her husband’s.
He took her hand and bent over the knuckles, murmuring as he kissed her hand, “Oh, yes.”
He guided her from the dance floor, and they were immediately surrounded.
A gentleman in a scarlet domino pressed into Melisande’s side. “Who is this delectable creature, Vale?”
“My wife,” Vale said lightly as he adroitly maneuvered Melisande to his other side, “and I’ll thank you not to forget it, Fowler.”
Fowler laughed drunkenly, and someone else shouted a quip that Vale responded to easily, but Melisande couldn’t hear the words. She was too conscious of the press of hot bodies, of the leer of unkind eyes. Mrs. Redd had disappeared—for good, she hoped. She’d found Vale and danced with him, and now only wished to go home.
But he was guiding her farther into the crowd, his hand firm and strong on her elbow.
“Where are we going, my lord?” Melisande asked.
“I thought . . .” He glanced at her distractedly. “Lord Hasselthorpe just came in, and I had some business to discuss with him. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
They’d reached the knot of gentlemen standing by the entrance to the ballroom. They were a noticeably more somber group than the one Vale had been with earlier.
“Hasselthorpe! How fortuitous to meet you here,” Vale called.
Lord Hasselthorpe turned, and even Melisande could see his confusion. But Vale held out his hand, and the other man was forced to take it, eyeing him warily. Hasselthorpe was a nondescript man of medium height with heavy-lidded eyes and deep lines incising his cheeks about his mouth. His habitual expression was grave as befitted a leading member of Parliament. Beside him was the Duke of Lister, a tall, heavyset man in a gray wig. Hovering several paces away was a beautiful blond woman, Lister’s longtime mistress, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She didn’t look to be enjoying the ball, standing all by herself.
