Or actually, never. Nor enjoyed it so, not really. A swinging Yorkshire country reel was ever so much more fun than a rigidly executed quadrille, no matter how elegant.

Lysander had probably attended a hundred balls in London, yet he'd seemed to actually enjoy skipping madly in circles to Jem's tireless fiddle. He'd taken his sister on several spins about the floor, as had his brother, Mr. Button and Mr. Cabot.

Atalanta had danced with a few village children, girls as well as boys, but none older than ten or eleven. Ah, perhaps Miss Atalanta was more well supervised than she seemed, or even knew. Well, good luck on that one, to all the gentlemen concerned. In a few years, breathtaking Miss Atalanta would make quite an impact on the London social scene and every male within five miles of that young miss was going to feel the ground shift beneath his feet.

"I wonder how Mr. Lysander Worthington is going to bear up under that," she muttered to herself as she entered the library.

"Bear up under what?"

Gemma grabbed the quilt up high to her bosom in surprise, as if to defend herself from a stranger — which seemed doubly ridiculous because in the first place she remained fully dressed, and in the second, she wasn't likely to do much damage to an intruder with a few layers of faded chintz stitched over thinly carded felt.

"Mr. Worthington!"

He rose to his feet, for he'd been crouched by the hearth, poking at the fire. Over his hard-wearing riding breeches, he wore only his shirt, untucked and with the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal his muscled forearms. His boots abided near the hearth, precisely positioned as if a soldier still stood in them. There was something in their regimental placement that made her ache a little inside, but her attention swiftly fastened itself on his bare feet.

She tore her gaze away, forcing herself to look at his face instead. It wasn't that his feet were particular in any way, although they were perfectly handsome feet indeed, and very large. It was the intimacy of seeing them bare, of being alone in the dim room with him in this state of undress, with new parts exposed to her eyes — which her wayward thoughts followed that should he become further undressed, there would be even more fascinating new parts to see.

The placket of his shirt lay open, revealing his throat and a deep vee of his torso, reminding her of his manly amount of chest hair that narrowed over his rippled stomach to a dark vee that pointed farther south.

Fascinating parts indeed.

She had absurd urge to remove some of her own clothing. It was simply the well-conditioned urge for a lady to make her guest feel more comfortable, to feel as if they fitted in.

That was her reason, and by heaven, she'd swear to it to the grave!

Sweet heaven, he was beautiful.