She’d always sworn that she would never become a man’s mistress, that she’d never bring a child into this world to suffer her fate as a bastard. But she wasn’t planning anything quite so brazen. This was one dance, one evening, perhaps one kiss.

It was enough to ruin a reputation, but what sort of reputation did she have to begin with? She was outside society, beyond  the pale. And she wanted one night of fantasy. She looked up.

“You’re not going to run, then,” he murmured, his dark eyes flaring with something hot and exciting.

She shook her head, realizing that once again, he’d known what she was thinking. It should have scared her that he so effortlessly read her thoughts, but in the dark seduction of the night, with the wind tugging at the loose strands of her hair, and the music floating up from below, it was somehow thrilling instead. “Where do I put my hand?” she asked. “I want to dance.”

“Right here on my shoulder,” he instructed. “No, just a touch lower. There you are.”

“You must think me the veriest ninny,” she said, “not knowing how to dance.”

“I think you’re very brave, actually, for admitting it.” His free hand found hers and slowly lifted it into the air. “Most women  of my acquaintance would have feigned an injury or disinterest.”

She looked up into his eyes even though she knew it would leave her breathless. “I haven’t the acting skills to feign disinterest,” she admitted.

The hand at the small of her back tightened.

“Listen to the music,” he instructed, his voice oddly hoarse. “Do you feel it rising and falling?”

She shook her head.

“Listen harder,” he whispered, his lips drawing closer to her ear. “One, two, three; one, two, three.”

Sophie closed her eyes and somehow filtered out the endless chatter of the guests below them until all she heard was the soft swell of the music. Her breathing slowed, and she found herself swaying in time with the orchestra, her head rocking back  and forth with Benedict’s softly uttered numerical instructions.

“One, two, three; one two three.”

“I feel it,” she whispered.

He smiled. She wasn’t sure how she knew that; her eyes were still closed. But she felt the smile, heard it in the tenor of his breath.

“Good,” he said. “Now watch my feet and allow me to lead you.”

Sophie opened her eyes and looked down. “One, two, three; one, two, three.”

Hesitantly, she stepped along with him—right onto his foot.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” she blurted out.

“My sisters have done far worse,” he assured her. “Don’t give up.”

She tried again, and suddenly her feet knew what to do. “Oh!” she breathed in surprise. “This is wonderful!” “Look up,” he ordered gently. “But I’ll stumble.”

“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let you. Look into my eyes.”

Sophie did as he asked, and the moment her eyes touched his, something inside her seemed to lock into place, and she  could not look away. He twirled her in circles and spirals around the terrace, slowly at first, then picking up speed, until  she was breathless and giddy.

And all the while, her eyes remained locked on his.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Everything!” she said, laughing.

“What do you hear?”

“The music.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “I hear the music as I’ve never heard it before.”

His hands tightened, and the space between them diminished by several inches. “What do you see?” he asked.

Sophie stumbled, but she never took her eyes off his. “My soul,” she whispered. “I see my very soul.”

He stopped dancing. “What did you say?” he whispered.

She held silent. The moment seemed too charged, too meaningful, and she was afraid she’d spoil it.

No, that wasn’t true. She was afraid she’d make it even better, and that would make it hurt all the more when she returned  to reality at midnight.

How on earth was she going to go back to polishing Araminta’s shoes after this?

“I know what you said,” Benedict said hoarsely. “I heard you, and—”

“Don’t say anything,” Sophie cut in. She didn’t want him to tell her that he felt the same way, didn’t want to hear anything that would leave her pining for this man forever.

But it was probably already too late for that.

He stared at her for an agonizingly long moment, then murmured, “I won’t speak. I won’t say a word.” And then, before she even had a second to breathe, his lips were on hers, exquisitely gentle and achingly tender.

With deliberate slowness, he brushed his lips back and forth across hers, the bare hint of friction sending shivers and tingles spiraling through her body.

He touched her lips and she felt it in her toes. It was a singularly odd—and singularly wonderful—sensation.

Then his hand at the small of her back—the one that had guided her so effortlessly in their waltz—started to pull her toward him. The pressure was slow but inexorable, and Sophie grew hot as their bodies grew closer, then positively burned when she suddenly felt the length of him pressing against her.

He seemed very large, and very powerful, and in his arms she felt like she must be the most beautiful woman in the world.

Suddenly anything seemed possible, maybe even a life free of servitude and stigma.