“Thank you so much for helping me up, sir,” she said softly. “I apologize for knocking you to the floor.” Without waiting for his reply she turned and almost—not quite—dashed up the stairs.

Alex stood dumbfounded. One minute she was there; the next minute she was gone. He looked after her wildly. Who was she?

Suddenly he heard an anxious voice at his ear and turned to see Braddon. “What do you think?” Braddon asked. “Isn’t she devastating?”

“Oh, yes,” Alex said, grasping the whole situation in mere seconds. “I’m going to marry her. What did you say her name was?”

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

When Charlotte reappeared from the ladies’ salon she was swept into a crowd of laughing, reproachful dance partners whom she had neglected while attending her mother. Alex watched her fending off their imploring gestures for a minute or so. My God, he thought, she is beautiful.

Charlotte’s color was high. She knew the minute he entered the room. Knowing that he was watching made her feel hot and tremblingly excited. Now she could feel his large hand, just touching her bottom as he rubbed the bruise on her back. She may not have noticed at the time, but now she felt as if her flesh were burning. Thinking of his touch brought on a flood of memories. She was filled with longing to feel his hands on her again, all over her, the way he had touched her three years ago. But at the same time, Charlotte felt punishing humiliation. He had simply forgotten the whole encounter. He didn’t even notice who was in his arms that night. She could hardly think, torn between rage and desire, although none of the men surrounding her noticed her lack of attentiveness.

Thinking of the garden, Charlotte smiled at Will Holland so suggestively that he immediately dismissed all thought of marrying Sophie York. Charlotte was the one. He bent over her hand, beseeching her to allow him to take her into supper. Or—he looked at her wickedly—dance with him once more? They had already danced twice; a third dance would be akin to announcing an engagement. Charlotte laughed and shook her head reprovingly.

If Charlotte couldn’t dismiss the gardens of Stuart Hall from her mind, Alex had no thought of his long-ago encounter with a young prostitute as he watched the lovely daughter of a duke joust with her suitors. His memories of the garden, in fact, were keen: the woman’s long, silky hair and skin so white that her hair had to be red, the shape of her small breasts, upturned like champagne glasses, her soft, dusky eyes. But Charlotte had short black curls, eyes that sparkled with life and intelligence, and breasts that made you ache just to see their generous outlines. There was no similarity between memory and the duke’s daughter, even if the possibility had occurred to him.