Monsieur de Tremblay offered her his arm with a bow. She and the handsome marquis—though in truth his attractive looks did nothing for her beyond superficial appreciation—strolled to the ballroom floor, where the orchestra was in the midst of the opening chords. Bronwyn gritted her teeth, her feet slowing. The waltz was not her favorite. Too many gentlemen in England saw it as an opportunity to get handsy. Would it be the same in France?

“Do not be nervous,” the marquis told her. “I am an excellent dancer.”

The flirtatious glint in his eye told Bronwyn everything she needed to know. The hand on her waist would slip down to the curve at the top of her buttocks; he might hold her closer than was appropriate and then brush himself indecently against her at every turn. Cringing, she braced for the inevitable, and then the hairs on her nape rose for no reason at all.

“I believe this dance is mine,” a deep voice said over her shoulder, making every nerve in her body come startlingly, shockingly alive.

He was here.

Bronwyn suppressed the shiver winding up her spine. Of course he was here. Deep down, she’d known the duke would come. That he would find her. A hunter like him would never abandon his prey, not when it had so tauntingly escaped his clutches under his very nose.

Bronwyn’s mouth dried as she turned, her blue eyes meeting burning gold. It had only been a handful of days since she’d seen him last, and yet she drank him in as though it’d been years. Square jaw, tightened lips, tousled tawny hair tumbling over his collar, and dressed to kill in raven-black superfine. Likely dressed to kill her. A hysterical giggle climbed into her throat, the urge to flee making her legs tremble beneath her skirts. At least that was what she thought it was. A desire to run, not to tumble headfirst into his arms.

“Your Grace,” she said in a delighted voice that hid her fraying composure. “What a surprise.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Tremblay said, a scowl darkening his pretty face. “I am dancing with the lady.”

“This dance is spoken for, I’m afraid,” Thornbury said without taking his eyes from hers. The possession in them spoke volumes, and she felt the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of her thighs pulse wickedly in response. “Lady Bronwyn, looks like I’ve found you just in time to claim what’s mine.”