She was undoubtedly married, then. She must have been snaffled up off the marriage mart ten or twelve years ago. She probably had half a dozen children. A pity that. But fate was ever a joker. He must not expect his search to be /this/ easily or happily concluded.

There was no ring on the left hand that was splayed over his chest, though, he noticed.

All of which thoughts and observations flashed through his head in a matter of moments. "Excuse me," she said, flushing and looking even more beautiful, if that were possible.

She was pushing at his chest. Trying to get away.

There was no harm in being hopeful, was there? "Why?" he asked her. "What is your hurry? Why not stay and dance with me? And then marry me and live happily ever after with me?" He felt her body grow still and watched the arrested look on her face.

Then her eyebrows arched above her eyes – and even /they/ were lovely. It was no wonder some poets wrote poems to their ladies' eyebrows. "Does it /have/ to be in that order?" she asked him.

Ah. An intriguing answer indeed. An answer in the form of a question.

Duncan pursed his lips.

She had bowled him over after all – and rendered him temporarily speechless.

4

MARGARET almost laughed, though more with hysteria than with amusement. /What/ had he said?

And /what/ had she answered?

Gracious heaven, he was a total stranger, and not a very reputable-looking one at that. Was anyone observing them? Whatever would they /think/?

His hands had loosened their hold on her arms though they still remained there. She could have broken away quite easily and hurried on her way out of the ballroom. Instead she looked up at him and waited to see what he would say next.

He had pursed his lips, and his very dark eyes – surely they could not be literally black? – gazed steadily and boldly back at her.

He appeared to be quite alone. Some instinct told Margaret that he was not the sort of man with whom she ought to be talking, especially without a formal introduction. But here she was standing very close to him, her hands splayed on his chest, his clasping the bare flesh of her upper arms between her sleeves and her gloves. And they had been standing thus for more seconds than any ordinary collision ought to have occasioned. They ought to have sprung apart, both embarrassed and both apologizing profusely.

Oh, goodness.

She pushed at his chest again and, when he still did not release his hold on her arms, she dropped her own to her sides. Her back prickled.

Half the /ton/ was somewhere behind her. Including her family. And including Crispin Dew. And the Marquess of Allingham. "I am afraid it does," the stranger said at last in answer to her question. "If I dash off immediately in pursuit of a special license, you see, and then someone to perform the ceremony, this particular set will surely be over by the time I return. And someone else will have discovered you and eloped to Scotland with you and left me clutching a useless document. If we are to both dance and marry, it must be done in that order, I am afraid – much as I am flattered by your eagerness to proceed to the nuptials without further delay." How very outrageous he was, whoever he might be. Margaret ought not to have laughed – she ought to have been offended by the levity of his words, absurd and quick-witted though they were.

But she laughed. /He/ did not. He gazed intently at her and dropped his hands to his sides at last. "Dance with me now," he said, "and tomorrow morning I will procure that special license. It is a promise." It was a strange joke. Yet he showed no sign of finding it amusing.

Margaret found herself shivering slightly despite the fact that the smile lingered on her face.

She really ought to run from him as fast as her feet would carry her and keep the whole width or length of the ballroom between them for the rest of the evening. Her own words had been very indiscreet. /Does it have to/ /be in that order/? Had she really spoken them aloud? But his answer, alas, proved that she had.

Who on earth /was/ he? She had never set eyes on him before tonight. She was sure of that.

She did not run. "Thank you, sir," she said instead. "I /will/ dance with you." It would be better to do that than run away simply because the Marquess of Allingham, whose hand she had refused three separate times, had chosen to betroth himself to someone else. And because Crispin was at the ball, and she had told him she was betrothed.

The stranger inclined his head and offered his arm to lead her out to join the other dancers. It surprised Margaret to discover that the dancing had still not begun. That collision and the bizarre exchange of words that had followed it must all have happened within a minute or two at the longest.

The arm beneath her hand was very solid indeed, she noticed. She also noticed as she walked beside him that her initial impression of his physique had not been mistaken. His black evening coat molded a powerful frame like a second skin. His long legs looked equally well muscled. He was taller than she by several inches, though she was a tall woman. And then there was that harsh, dark, almost ugly face.

It struck her that he might be a frightening adversary. "It occurs to me," he said, "that if I am to be granted a special license tomorrow, I ought to know the name of my bride. And her place of residence. It would be mildly irritating to pry myself away from my bed at some ungodly hour of the morning only to have my application denied on account of my inability to name my bride or explain where she lives." Oh, the absurd man. He was going to continue with the joke, though his grim face had not relaxed into even the suggestion of a smile. "I suppose it would," she agreed.

The orchestra struck up with a lively country dance tune at that moment, and after a short spell of dancing together they moved away from each other in order to perform a series of steps with the couple adjacent to them. When they came together again, it was with the same couple, and there was no chance for private conversation, absurd or otherwise.

This was really very improper, Margaret thought. As he had just reminded her, he did not know her and she did not know him. Yet they were dancing with each other. How on earth would she explain the lapse to Vanessa and Katherine? Or to Stephen? She had always been a stickler for the social niceties.

But she discovered that she did not much care. She was almost enjoying herself. The marquess's announcement – and his assumption that she already knew – had seriously discomposed her. So had the appearance of Crispin.

But here she was dancing and smiling anyway. And there was something definitely amusing about the joke the stranger had set in motion.

How many ladies could boast of meeting a total stranger and being asked to dance with him and marry him – all in one breath?

Her smile widened. "/Might/ I be permitted," the stranger asked her when they were dancing exclusively with each other again, "to know the name of my prospective bride?" She was tempted to withhold it. But that would be pointless. He could quite easily discover it for himself after they had finished dancing. "I am Margaret Huxtable," she told him, "sister of the Earl of Merton." "Ah, excellent," he said. "It is important to marry someone of impeccable lineage – important to one's family anyway." "Absolutely, sir," she agreed. "And you are…?" But she had to wait another couple of minutes while the pattern of the dance drew other couples within earshot again. "Duncan Pennethorne, Earl of Sheringford," he said without preamble when they were alone again. "The title, I must warn you before you get too excited about marrying it, is a courtesy one and therefore of no real value whatsoever except that it sounds good – and except that it is an indicator that a more real and illustrious title is to follow if and when the incumbent should predecease me. The Marquess of Claverbrook, my grandfather, may well not do so even though he is eighty – or will be in two weeks' time – and fifty years my senior." He had offered a great deal more information than she had asked for. But it was surprising she had not met him before. And yet… /the Earl of Sheringford/. Something tugged at the corners of her memory, but she could not pull it into focus. She had the impression that it was something not too pleasant. Something scandalous. "And where," he asked, "may I come to claim you tomorrow, Miss Huxtable, marriage license in hand?" She hesitated again. But it would take him only a moment after he had left her to discover it for himself. "At Merton House on Berkeley Square," she said.