“Oh, yes,” Annabelle said breathlessly. “I beg your pardon. Yes, I’m perfectly…”

She couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, her voice dwindling into bewildered silence as awareness flooded her. Never in her life had she experienced this reaction to a man. Just what this immediate sense of urgency entailed, or how to satisfy it, was far beyond the scope of her limited knowledge. All she knew was that for a moment, she had desperately wanted to continue leaning on him, against a body so spare and firm as to be wholly invulnerable, providing a safe harbor as the floor shifted beneath her feet. The scent of him; clean male skin, polished leather, and the hint of starched linen, aroused all her senses with pleasurable expectation. He was completely unlike the cologned and pomaded aristocrats she had been trying to ensnare during the past two seasons.

Profoundly troubled, Annabelle stared straight ahead at the canvas, neither seeing nor caring about the fluctuations of light and color that conveyed impressions of approaching nightfall…the dusk of the Roman Empire. Hunt seemed similarly indifferent to the show, his head inclined toward hers, his gaze locked on her face. Though his breathing remained soft and disciplined, it seemed to her that its rhythm had changed ever so slightly.

Annabelle moistened her dry lips. “You…you mustn’t stare at me like that.”

Soft as the murmur was, he caught it. “With you here, nothing else is worth looking at.”

She didn’t move or speak, pretending that she hadn’t heard the gentle devil-whisper, while her heart lurched in an unsteady meter, and her toes curled inside her shoes. How could this be happening in a theater full of people, with her brother right by her side? She closed her eyes briefly against a sensation of spinning that had nothing to do with the progress of the roundabout.

“Watch!” Jeremy said, nudging her eagerly. “They’re about to show the volcanoes.”

Suddenly the theater was plunged into utter blinding darkness, while an ominous rumbling rose from beneath the platform. There were several little screams of alarm, a scattering of laughter, and loud gasps of anticipation. Annabelle’s spine went rigid as she felt the brush of a hand on her back. His hand, sliding with slow deliberateness up her spine…his scent, fresh and beguiling in her nostrils…and before she could make a sound, his mouth, possessing hers in a warm, softly ravishing kiss. She was too stunned to move, her hands in the air like butterflies suspended in midflight, her swaying body anchored by his light clasp on her waist, while his other hand cradled the back of her neck.

Annabelle had been kissed before, by brash young men who had stolen a quick embrace during a walk in the garden, or in a corner of the parlor when they would not be observed. But none of those brief, flirtatious encounters had been like this…a kiss so slow and dizzying that it filled her with delirium. Sensations rushed through her, far too strong to manage, and she quivered helplessly in his hold. Compelled by instinct, she lifted blindly into the tenderly restless caress of his lips. The pressure of his lips increased as he demanded more, rewarding her helpless response with a voluptuous exploration that set her senses on fire.

Just as she began to lose all sanity, his mouth released hers with startling suddenness, leaving her dazed. Keeping his supportive hand on the downy-soft nape of her neck, he bent his head until a rueful murmur tickled her ear. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” His touch withdrew completely, and when red-filtered light finally invaded the theater, he was gone.

“Will you look at that?” Jeremy enthused, pointing with glee at a simulated volcano in front of them, with brilliant molten rock appearing to course down its sides. “Incredible!” Noticing that Hunt was no longer there, he frowned quizzically. “Where did Mr. Hunt go? I suppose he must have seen his friends.” Shrugging, Jeremy returned to his excited observation of the volcanoes, lending his exclamations to those of the awestruck audience.

Wide-eyed and completely bereft of speech, Annabelle wondered if what she thought had just happened had in fact really happened. Surely she had not been kissed in the middle of a theater by a stranger. And kissed in that way…

Well, that was what came of allowing unknown gentlemen to pay for things—it gave them the license to take advantage of you. But as to her own behavior…Shamed and bewildered, Annabelle struggled to understand why she had allowed Mr. Hunt to kiss her. She should have protested and pushed him away. Instead, she had stood there in a mindless daze while he—oh, the thought made her cringe. It didn’t really matter how or why Simon Hunt had been able to shatter all her well-constructed defenses. The fact was, he had…and, therefore, he was a man to be avoided at all cost.

CHAPTER 1

London, 1843 The end of the season

A marriage-minded girl could overcome practically any obstacle, except the lack of a dowry.

Annabelle swung her foot impatiently beneath the frothy white mass of her skirts while she kept her expression composed. During her past three failed seasons, she had become accustomed to being a wallflower. Accustomed, but not resigned. More than once it had occurred to her that she deserved far better than to sit at the side of the room in a spindly chair. Hoping, hoping, hoping, for an invitation that would never come. And trying to pretend that she didn’t care—that she was perfectly happy to be watching others dancing and being courted.

Letting out a long sigh, Annabelle fiddled with the tiny silver dance card that hung from a ribbon on her wrist. The cover slid open to reveal a book of near-translucent ivory leaves that spread out in a fan. A girl was supposed to pencil the names of her dance partners on those delicate slips of ivory. To Annabelle, the fan of empty cards seemed to resemble a row of teeth, grinning at her mockingly. Snapping the silver case shut, she glanced at the three girls who sat next to her, all endeavoring to look similarly unconcerned with their fates.