LITMIR.BIZ

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to outshine the hundreds of candles. A dozen men around him gasped and clutched their assorted chests of steel and wool and silk, but only he caught the full force of her wide-eyed astonishment.

      He bowed and gave a slight shake of his head.

      She covered her laugh with her fingers and looked away. His heart thudded wildly. The music started. A cotillion. The lion held out his arm. She placed her hand in his paw.

      A growl of protest rumbled in Robert’s chest. He almost stepped out from his pillar. Mine. The possessive thought reverberated in his mind, yet he held still, narrow eyed, watching.

      The scent of violets wafted beneath his nose. A voluptuous maiden in a veil and the garb of a sultan’s consort drifted to his side. ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘I do like a tall, strong highwayman. Who are you? Ten String Jack?’

      Damnation. Maggie.

      ‘No, yer ladyship. I be the ghost of Mad Jack. Hung I was, up on Gallows Hill yonder.’

      Maggie recoiled. ‘Lud! How gruesome.’ She eyed him up and down. ‘You know, I have the strangest feeling I know you from somewhere.’ She smiled her radiant, sophisticated, charming smile. A smile as bright as the gold coins on her bangles. The smile she used to hide her disappointments in the life she’d been handed by her parents. Married to an old man as a girl.

      He grinned back. ‘No, yer ladyship. I live in these parts. You ain’t never heard of me.’

      ‘Oh, you foolish creature. I know we have met. Who are you?’

      He flashed her a leer and waggled his brows. ‘If ye guess right, I’ll kiss you. Else ye’ll wait until the unmasking.’ When he’d be long gone.

      ‘Maggie?’ Lullington’s imperious voice jerked her head around.

      The viscount, splendid as the Sun King in a gold mask and his lean body tightly encased in a suit of white embroidered with gold, crooked a finger. ‘Dance, my lady?’

      ‘Coming, Lull.’ She hurried off, but not before she cast a glance over her shoulder at Robert. He couldn’t resist. He bowed his appreciation. She really was a lovely sight. The loveliest woman in the room save for one.

      Not that Frederica’s partner did her justice. Pompous ninny. The man knew the steps and performed with dignity, but without grace or feel for the music. The idiot spent most of his time nodding to the other members of the set, or shouting raillery to the other square when all his attention should have been fixed on his partner.

      Popinjay.

      The back of Robert’s neck prickled. Someone was watching him. Nonchalantly, as if seeking refreshment, he turned away from the dance floor. A swift glance found Radthorn’s puzzled gaze fixed on his person. Robert pretended not to notice and, walking with a limp, headed for the refreshment table. Glass in hand, he looked again. John’s attention was now wholly engaged with a grey-haired lady in the full regalia of the last century and looking as if she had simply pulled out one of her old gowns and wigs. Her long chin reminded him of John’s. This must be the doughty grandmother of whom John had spoken often and with great affection. The woman who had taken Frederica in hand.

      Thank God the old dear hadn’t spoiled Frederica’s natural grace and spirit and turned her into a simpering miss like the one dressed as a shepherdess, crook in hand, heading his way.

      Robert swung away. He prowled the circumference of the ballroom, avoiding Maggie and the shepherdess with spectacular success until Maggie cornered him beside the orchestra.

      ‘Dance with me,’ she said, batting her kohl-rimmed eyelashes.

      ‘Nay, lass,’ he growled.

      She pouted. ‘La, sir. You are very rude.’

      Flags of colour flew in her cheeks, a sign of her rare temper. Not good.

      He pointed to her flimsy sandals. ‘I are mortal afeared of stepping on your pretty little toes.’

      She pointed her foot. ‘They are pretty, aren’t they?’ She gazed at his feet. ‘And you are wearing very large boots.’ She reached up and tapped his chest with her flail. ‘But I’ll not take it as an excuse, sir.’

      He grinned his defeat. ‘Then, my lady, your wish is my command.’

      He led her into a set still in need of couples and she spent the whole of the dance throwing names at him. When they promenaded down the set, she laughed up at him. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

      ‘It’s a masked ball. You ain’t supposed to know.’

      ‘Infuriating man.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘That voice…Are you related to a member of the ton?’

      ‘Arr, missy. I’m related to the King of Thieves. Aladdin.’

      She shook her fist at him, then groaned as the music concluded. ‘I give up, but I will see you later.’

      Chuckling at her boldness, Robert stalked back to his pillar. Nearby, Lady Radthorn was engaged in a heated discussion with the master of the house.

      ‘Of course it is necessary. Do you want the world to think the Wynchwoods are country bumpkins?’

      ‘I have no reason to care what the world thinks,’ Lord Wynchwood said, wiping his brow. ‘You are giving me a headache.’

      ‘Then do as I ask. You requested my help, now you will accept it. We invited all these people from town. They expect to waltz.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh, you are past bearing.’

      ‘And you are overbearing. And foolish.’

      The two of them stared at each other in silence. Any man with an iota of common sense would have known Lady Radthorn would not be gainsaid.

      Lord Wynchwood sagged. ‘All right. I’ll give the instruction. But my niece will not waltz. She will stand right here beside me.’

      ‘Nonsense. The gel must dance.’

      Robert permitted himself a small smile and positioned himself within easy range of his lordship. The Roman, with whom Frederica had danced the last set, returned her to her spot beside her uncle and Lady Radthorn, who continued to argue that Frederica must dance.

      Before anyone could instruct her either way, Robert strode forwards and led her on to the floor to the opening bars of the waltz.

      ‘I say,’ her uncle called out.

      ‘Too late,’ Robert murmured.

      Frederica laughed up at him. ‘True to your profession, sir?’

      ‘Aye,’ he murmured finding her laugh enough to set wild music soaring in his blood. What was left of his mind he needed for dancing.

      She glided in beneath the light touch of his fingers. In his hovel, she’d been earth, grounding him in the here and now. In the ballroom, with the candles playing rainbows among her diamonds and shimmering in the ocean colour of her eyes, she was pure sprite. She floated beneath his fingers, her lips curved in a smile of joy. He felt as if he could fight demons and win.

      ‘R-Robert?’

      ‘Hush,’ he murmured into hair scented with vanilla and roses. ‘I’m Mad Jack tonight.’

      Her smile grew. ‘Mad indeed.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘You remembered my story.’

      ‘I did.’

      Her face dropped. ‘But the fox…’

      ‘Safe and sound. Probably up on Gallows Hill, watching the lights and the dancing and wondering whose chickens to steal.’

      A gurgle of laughter curled around him. ‘How?’

      ‘I trapped the other fox down in the meadow.’

      They circled the floor. Despite feigned indifference, he noticed

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