Page 9 of Twice Upon a Midnight

“To run into interesting ladies in the gardens.”

“Me, too.” She laughed at herself. “Well, interestingmen, that is.”

The devil inside him made him ask, “And did you find one?”

“I don’t know…” She tilted her head as she studied him. “What do you think of Shakespeare?”

“Wonderful.”

“Chaucer?”

“Hilarious.”

“Spenser?”

He leaned in, bringing his chocolate brown eyes level with hers and enjoying his private joke. “The best of the lot.” He winked at her from behind his mask. “A very interesting man from all accounts and more attractive than at least half the men in attendance tonight.”

She blinked, bewildered. “Pardon?”

He gave a low chuckle and pulled up to his full height again. “He was my mother’s favorite author. I have memories of her readingThe Faerie Queeneto me when I was little.”

“Memories?” she asked, hesitantly.

What a polite way to ask… “She died when I was six.”

She rested her hand apologetically on his arm. “I’m sorry. It must have been terrible for you.”

No, not terrible.Simply hell.But this woman’s kind touch brought a comfort that warmed through him and kept the grief at bay.

“What’s your name?” he murmured, very much wanting to know.

She hesitated. “Ella.”

“And your surname?”

Her lips parted, then closed. She gave a sassy tilt of her head and brought the conversation back from the edge of seriousness to the teasing banter of before. “Why should I tell you my name when I don’t know yours?”

“Spenser.”

Her mouth twisted. “LikeThe Faerie Queene?”

“Something like that.”Exactlylike that.

A small pang of guilt pricked him for letting her believe he was lying. But he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t belong in her world, and a lovely woman like her certainly didn’t belong in his. She probably wouldn’t have given him a passing glance—let alone one of those beautiful smiles or soft laughs—if they met in the bright light of day.

The sound of the orchestra reached them, distant but clear, as the first flourishes of a waltz drifted from the house.

With a melancholy smile, she turned her head to listen. “When I lived in France,” she whispered, as if afraid to speak any louder for fear of drowning out the music, “I used to waltz and loved it. It started there much earlier than here, you know, and there it’s not scandalous. Even if I were in the ballroom right now, I wouldn’t be able to waltz with anyone tonight but my father.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not in the ballroom.” He held out his gloved hand. “May I have this dance?”

She stared at him, as if unable to discern if he were teasing or not.

“It might still be scandalous,” he cajoled, “but no one will see us here in the darkness. No one will ever know we waltzed but us.”

Her eyes gleamed at the temptation he offered, and she slipped her hand into his.

He gave her a low bow, which she returned with a curtsey, then pulled her into position, and whirled her into the dance.