She hoped Win couldn’t hear York huffing in her ear. The actor wore a spiffy gray silk suit, no date on his arm. But, with him was another man, wearing a green mask, a black tux.

“RJ, this is MP Hamish Fickle. He’s a member of Lauchtenland’s parliament.” He turned to Hamish. “This is RJ Marshall, my cousin.”

Fickle was a shorter man, but still held a presence. He bowed his head, and he took her hand. “Miss Marshall.”

“Actually, it’s RJ Newgate now,” she said, smiling up at Win.

“That’s right it is,” York said.

“Really. Well done, Couz. Where is your husband—he’s got to be here somewhere.” He looked around.

“Watching your every move buddy,” York said.

RJ swallowed because she hadn’t even thought of Winchester Marshall blowing their cover. “He’s…not here.” She looked at the Director. “Actually, we have to go.”

“Save me a dance?” Winchester asked.

“I’ll save you something,” York said.

“For Pete’s sake,” she snapped under her breath, then turned to Win. “Of course.” Then she directed Grey away, pushing him toward the library. “I’m not sure what kind of trouble we just got into—or averted, but we need to get this show on the road.”

She led him through the costumed crowd. Everyone wore a mask of course, the men in tuxes, the women in glittering gowns.

How was she supposed to spot an assassin in this crowd? Oh God, keep us…the thought rose inside her, and she clung to it.

She knocked on the library door, and it opened. Otis and York near the window. “Ready?” York said, tying on his mask.

RJ nodded, and only then did she realize he wasn’t talking to her because, “You’re a go,” Logan responded.

She looked at him. “You going to behave yourself?”

“Probably not.” He turned her at the door, met her eyes. “Do not leave me, whatever happens.”

“Never.”

He kissed her, his hands braced over her shoulders, against the door. Something possessive and every bit the power and taste of York.

Nope, never. “

Then he let her go and extended his arm to her. “Dance?”

“Always and Forever.”

The quadrille had started when they emerged from the library, and they stood in the crowd.

RJ tried to scan the crowd, to focus, but she was mesmerized by the movements of the royals—the Queen and her consort, Crown Prince John and Princess Gemma, Prince Gus and Princess Daffy, and another woman, regal in stature, with nearly white-blonde hair, wearing a brilliant red dress, and another man, dark hair, a solemn bearing about him.

“See anyone?” York asked.

Oh. “No. I’m not sure who to look for. Martin? Gustov?”

The crowd applauded their steps.

“That feels like a good start,” York said, then pulled her out to the floor as the band started a waltz.