She found herself gazing up into very black eyes set in a harsh, narrow, angular, dark-hued face – an almost ugly face framed by hair as dark as his eyes. "Excuse me," she said when his grip on her arms did not loosen. "Why?" he asked her, his eyes roaming boldly over her face. "What is your hurry? Why not stay and dance with me? And then marry me and live happily ever after with me?" Margaret was startled out of her panic.

His breath smelled of liquor.

There had been no ball the evening after Duncan's interview with his grandfather. Not one single one. London positively teemed with lavish entertainments every day and night of the Season, but for that one infernal evening there had been nothing to choose among except a soiree that was being hosted by a lady who was a notable bluestocking and that would doubtless be attended by politicians and scholars and poets and in telligent ladies, and a concert with a program clearly designed for the musically discerning and not for anyone who happened to be shopping in a hurry at the marriage mart.

Duncan had not attended either but had been forced to waste one of his precious fifteen days. He had gone to Jackson's Boxing Salon yesterday afternoon when he might, he thought too late, have joined the afternoon promenade in Hyde Park to look over the crop of prospective brides. And today, when he /had/ thought of going there, rain had been spitting intermittently from low gray clouds, and all he met were a few hardy fellow riders – all male – and one closed carriage filled with dowagers.

He had been reminded of those dreams in which one tried to run but found it impossible to move even as fast as a crawl.

But tonight there was Lady Tindell's ball to attend, and it was a promising event. According to his mother, who planned to be there, it was always one of the grand squeezes of the Season since Lady Tindell was renowned for her lavish suppers. Everyone who was anyone would be there, including, Duncan fervently hoped, armies of young, marriageable hopefuls who were running out of time in the Season to find husbands.

It was enough to make him feel positively ill.

He had not told his mother about his grandfather's ultimatum though he might have to enlist her help if he found himself unable to come up with a bride on his own within the next few days. His mother knew everybody.

She would be sure to know which girls – and, more important, which parents – were desperate enough to take a man of such notorious reputation in such indecent haste.

He arrived late. It was perhaps not a wise thing to do when time was of the very essence, but earlier in the evening he had acquired cold feet – the almost inevitable consequence of having been forced to wait more than twenty-four hours to begin implementing his search – and had stayed at White's long after he had finished his dinner and his companions had left to go about their evening business, some of them to attend this very ball. He might have come with them and hoped to enter the ballroom almost unnoticed. Instead he had stayed to fortify himself with another glass of port – only to discover that fortification had demanded several more glasses of port than just one.

He did not have an invitation to the ball, but he did not fear being turned away – not after a few glasses of port, anyway. He was, after all, the Earl of Sheringford. And if anyone remembered the rather spectacular scandal of five years ago, as everyone surely would – well, they would undoubtedly be avid with curiosity to discover what had become of him in the intervening years and how he would behave now that he was back.

Duncan wondered suddenly if any of the Turners were in town this year, and fervently hoped not. It would not be a comfortable thing to come face to face with Randolph Turner in particular – the man he had cuckolded.

He was /not/ turned away from the ball. But of course he had arrived late enough that there was no longer any sign of a receiving line or even of a majordomo to announce him. He stepped into the ballroom, having left his hat and cloak downstairs in the care of a footman, and looked about him.

He felt very much on display and half expected that after all there would be a rush of outraged persons, led by ladies, to expel him into outer darkness. It did not happen, though undoubtedly he /was/ attracting some attention. He could hear a slightly heightened buzz of sound off to his right.

He ignored it.

It was indeed a squeeze of a ball. If everyone decided to dance, they would have to push out the walls. And if everyone decided to rush him… Well, he would be squashed as flat as a pancake.

He had arrived between sets, but couples were gathering on the floor for the next one. Good! He would be able to view the matrimonial prospects at his leisure provided that buzz of interest to his right did not develop into a swell of outrage to fill the ballroom.

He could see Con Huxtable and a few other male acquaintances some distance away, but he made no move to join them. He would become too involved in conversation if he did and perhaps allow himself to be borne off to the card room. He would be willing enough, by God. He could feel his mood turn bleaker and blacker with every passing second. This ought not to be happening.

He had /not/ planned to go wife hunting yet – or perhaps ever. He had /certainly/ not planned to come to London any year soon.

How the devil was he to begin?

There were pretty women and plain ones, young ones and old ones, animated ones and listless ones – that last group being the wallflowers, he suspected. Most of them, indeed, were still standing on the sidelines, nary a partner in sight though the dancing was about to resume. He should probably concentrate his attention upon them.

It was one devil of a way to choose a bride! Pick the most bored-looking wallflower and offer to brighten her life. Offer her marriage with a man who had abandoned his last bride almost literally at the altar in order to run off with her married sister-in-law and live in sin with her for almost five years. A man who had no wish whatsoever to marry but was being forced into it by the threat of penury. A man who no longer believed in romantic love and had never practiced fidelity. A man with an illegitimate child he refused to hide away in some dark corner of the country.

He had fixed his narrowed gaze upon a mousy-haired young girl who, if his eyes did not deceive him from this distance, had a flat chest and a bad case of facial spots, and who was beginning to notice his scrutiny and look decidedly frightened by it, when he was distracted.

A missile almost bowled him off his feet – something hurled his way in order to expel him after all, perhaps?

He clamped his hands about the two arms of the missile in order to save himself from landing flat on his back – what a spectacular reentry into society /that/ would be! – and realized that it was a human missile.

A female human, to be exact. /Very/ female.

She was all generously sized breasts and delicious curves and subtly fragrant dark hair. And when she tipped back her head to apologize, she revealed a face that did the body full justice, by thunder. She had wide eyes and a porcelain complexion and features that had been arranged on her face for maximum effect. She was loveliness personified from head to toe.

He held her against him longer than was necessary – and far longer than was wise in such a public setting, when his sudden appearance was already provoking attention. But she would surely fall over if he released her too soon, he reasoned.

She had long legs – he could feel them against his own.

She was beautiful and voluptuous – and pressed by some happy chance to his body. Could any warmblooded male ask for more? Privacy and nakedness and a soft bed, perhaps?

The only negative thing that could be said about her – on the spur of the moment anyway – was that she was not young. She was probably his own age, give or take a couple of years. That was not at all young for a woman.