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She had no intention of marrying merely to recover those pleasures any more than she did to have children... Perhaps she did not need to. The thought sent a quiet thrill through her, half daring, half alarm. She drew a slow breath and lifted her chin. “I shall come,” she said, setting the invitation beside her. “But you will refrain from introducing me to anyone as a woman in need of companionship.”

Charlotte’s smile widened, slow and satisfied. “I shall introduce you as a woman capable of making a gentleman regret his first sentence.”

She grinned. “That would be more accurate.”

Eight days later, Amelia stood beneath a chandelier in Lady Haviland’s gallery and reconsidered the merits of Charlotte’s promise. Candlelight spilled over the polished floor and glittered against a hundred masks. The supper smelled excellent, rich with roasted meats and warm spice, and the company had been agreeable so far. Her gown whispered against her legs with every movement, and beneath the silk her skin felt unusually thrilling. The gentleman speaking beyond the open doors of the adjoining card room, however, appeared determined to become an exception.

“A widow,” he said, “is generally the most sensible choice.”

Amelia had stopped beside a table to set down her empty glass. At the word “widow,” her hand remained on the stem, her fingers going still. Another man gave a quiet laugh. “You speak as though selecting a horse.”

“Then I have expressed myself poorly. I prefer a woman who knows what she wants and has no patience for a lengthy performance of innocence.”

The voice was pleasant. Deep, amused, and entirely too confident. It slid along her nerves in a way that irritated her deeply. Amelia looked through the doorway. Two gentlemen stood near the card table. One was short and fair, wearing a silver-edged mask. The other had his back partly turned toward her, his black coat fitted closely across broad shoulders. The fabric shifted with each easy movement. A gold mask concealed the upper portion of his face, but his mouth was visible in profile, and curved with lazy humor.

It was a very attractive mouth. She found that an aggravating addition to his other offenses.

“And no expectations?” the fair gentleman asked.

“Fewer complications, at any rate,” the man said.

Amelia set down her glass, and a heat of a different sort rose in her chest. How convenient for him. Experience without expectations. Pleasure without inconvenience. A woman who ought to be grateful a gentleman had chosen her for the arrangement's ease. Her spine straightened, and the old, familiar anger sharpened her thoughts until they were bright and clear.

She had heard enough variations of that argument to recognize it beneath a well-cut coat. “Forgive me,” she said, stepping into the doorway, her heels clicking once against the floor, “I believe you have mistaken widowhood for a reference supplied by a previous employer.”

Both men turned. The fair gentleman’s smile vanished, and he took half a step back as though the air had cooled. His companion’s smile did not vanish, though it altered as his attention settled upon her, slowly, from the crown of her head to the hem of her gown and back again. A lecherous fool then…

Amelia knew that look. Her black silk gown bore gold embroidery on the bodice and sleeves, catching the candlelight with every breath. Her maid had arranged her pale blonde hair with fewer pins than usual, letting a few soft strands brush her neck. She had been pleased with the result before leaving home. She refused to be less pleased merely because this man appreciated it. Still, she felt the weight of his gaze like a hand upon her skin, and she lifted her chin higher to hide the shiver.

He set his glass upon the card table, unhurried. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you? You sounded quite certain a moment ago.”

His gaze returned to her face, and something more attentive replaced the easy amusement. The change was subtle, but she saw it. A faint stillness settled over him, his eyes sharpening behind the gold mask. “Then I owe you an apology. I had no intention of giving offense.”

She rolled her eyes. “How fortunate that you managed it without exerting yourself.”

The fair gentleman cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat. “I believe I am expected elsewhere.”

Amelia barely glanced at him as he passed. The other man watched him retreat with a faintly rueful expression before looking back at her, a corner of his mouth lifting. “He has never been expected anywhere with such urgency.”

“He possesses a useful instinct for survival,” she quipped. “Perhaps he isn’t as much of a fool as I first thought.

“So do I, ordinarily.” He inclined his head, and a lock of dark hair fell forward before he tucked it back. “I’m Hartwick.”

That explained the confidence, though it did nothing to excuse it. Dominic Vale, Earl of Hartwick. She knew his name and had heard enough about his charm to regard it with caution. Charm was a lovely thing. It was also remarkably effective at disguising intentions.

“Lady Covington,” she introduced herself.

Recognition flickered across his face, and his eyes warmed. “I have been hoping for an introduction.”

Whatever for? What did he hope he would find with her? “Then you should have taken greater care with the conversation preceding it.”

“Yes,” he said. “I should.”

The simple agreement unsettled her more than a clever evasion would have. Her fingers curled against her skirts. Amelia had prepared herself to dislike him thoroughly and, in truth, had been looking forward to it. An apology delivered without argument complicated the task.

The opening notes of another dance, light and lilting, echoed around them. A couple passed behind her, laughing softly together, and she moved farther into the card room to let them by. Hartwick stepped aside, clearing the doorway, and as he did so, the faint scent of sandalwood and clean linen drifted past her. She was annoyed to discover that she liked it.