So many times in the months he had thought Ginny dead he’d remembered his cruelty to her, her frustration, her fury and, yes, her own brand of vengeance. She knew how to hurt him in return, with a careless shrug of her shoulder and a new admirer on her arm. Now it was time they ended the games, time they came to know each other instead of indulging in the constant warfare that always seemed to lead to bed.

Yet he felt so awkward with her now, so damnably like a callow youth instead of her husband. Her lover. The man who had introduced her to the passionate side of her nature—and who had watched her blossom into an alluring woman he had not been able to forget even when he had tried.

Guiding her in a sweep of satin skirts across the ballroom floor, his hand shifted lower, palm testing the contours of the stiff corset binding her beneath the silk. He preferred the softness of her bare flesh beneath his hand, her smooth, flawless skin a welcoming cushion instead of layers of cloth and bone. Why must fashion dictate women hide their bodies behind rigid whalebone and yards of satin?

“What are you thinking about, Steve?” Her elegant head was tilted, her eyes curious as she gazed up at him, and he gave a careless shrug, his tone light.

“I noticed that the Prince of Wales could not take his eyes off you earlier. Is he another of your conquests?”

“Could he be? Oh, don’t look so black at me, Steve. I’m only teasing you. The prince is a terrible flirt, but he talked mostly about his tour to America and Canada. It is so difficult to understand his thick German accent at times.”

Not replying, he swung her about and through the open French doors onto a narrow veranda. Strains of the waltz were softer here, and his hand shifted on her back to slide down to the shelf of bunched skirts caught up with bows and lace in the ridiculous fashion called a bustle.

“Steve…?” There was a question in her eyes and tone, the pressure of her hand light on his arm as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“It’s more quiet out here.” A poor excuse. He just couldn’t stand the crowds anymore, the smell of too much perfume, the ennui and desperation that was so evident in the high voices and nervous laughter. It always made him impatient, made him want to ride out where the air was fresh and there were no staring, avid gazes. The impulse to leave the ball was nearly overpowering.