At the moment she was leaning back against the balcony, smiling up at Lord Holland. His eyes were sparkling, looking back at her. He was standing in front of her, just a fraction of an inch from her thigh, and she knew he was doing it on purpose. He put his hands on the balcony railing on either side of her. Charlotte tapped his chest with her fan.

“Ho, ho, sir,” she said. “Not too close.”

“What am I doing?” Will complained. “I’m not even touching your sleeve.” He leaned a trifle closer.

“I think you have an insect on your face,” he said seriously, with just a tiny quirk at the side of his lips.

“Oh?” Charlotte said. “What kind of insect?”

“A bee,” he breathed, very close to her lips now. “Do you want me to kill it?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, smiling.

“Think of it this way,” he said. “Your lips are honey and mine are the bee—” But wherever that rather strained metaphor was going, it was rudely broken off by Lady Sophie York, the daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg.

“Charlotte!” she said, elbowing Lord Holland to the side. “Your mother is coming across the ballroom as if she were parting the Red Sea. You’d better go back inside and draw her fire; I’ll stay with Will for a minute and you pretend you were just taking air.”

Charlotte grimaced. She said, “Thank you, Sophie!” and slipped past Will’s shoulder through the curtain, without even a farewell glance.

Sophie looked up at Will, her eyes wide and innocent. Even though he felt a little cross, he had to smile back. She was such a perfect little person—probably not much over five feet tall, and delectably shaped.

“Oh, Will,” Sophie said mournfully. “Don’t tell me that Charlotte’s lips are as honey-sweet as mine….” She looked utterly dejected.

Will looked at her suspiciously. He knew Sophie York by now. “Well, you know how it is, Sophie. I did adore you, but then I saw Charlotte and she’s so tall, so willowy and statuesque, and somehow small girls just faded—” He stopped suddenly as a small fist punched into his stomach.

“Come on, Sophie! Give over!” he demanded, pulling a fragrant armful into the crook of his right arm.

“Your lips,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes, “are sweeter than honey grown by Tasmanian bees.”

She gurgled with laughter. “Are you sure I’m not the bee, Will? I did sting you, didn’t I?”

“Tasmanian bees in the Alps,” Will insisted, laughing back. He was thinking how much he liked these new French dresses. Sophie might be small, but her body was perfectly rounded, and he liked having her pressed against his side. His eyes darkened.