And yet he has little hope that the new day will bring with it any cheer. He closes his eyes against the gloom of his dreary home and at once Lilith’s face swims before him. She has shunned him, he is certain of it. Going to the ball was a mistake. She did not want him there. He did not fit. It was as simple as that. He watched her dance, first with the viscount, and then with a man he did not know. And then she left. Left the ballroom, left the house, left him. Just like that, without a word. What else could he make of it, other than that his presence was not welcome? Perhaps the truth was that she had only ever considered him someone to be kept a secret. Bram noticed that Louis Harcourt also left the ball, not long after Lilith.

The pain in his head will not let him sleep, so he sits up, rubbing his eyes. He strikes a match and puts it to the oil lamp hanging from a hook above him, turning the wick low to save fuel.

She looked so wonderful, so very beautiful. Among all those glamorous people she still stood out, still shone with some special light.

He reaches over to the table and picks up a sketchbook and stick of charcoal. Narrowing his eyes, he recalls the way she wore her hair, and the cut of her gown. He starts to draw, timidly at first, and then with growing confidence. He can see her so clearly, the tilt of her head, the graceful line of her neck, the neatness of her back, the curve of her hip as she danced. He finishes one sketch, tears it from the block, letting it fall to the floor, and starts another. This time he tries to catch the way she holds herself when she stands still, shoulders back, but not stiff, her dark eyes watchful, always watchful. He draws another picture, and another, and another, until his hands and cuffs are black with charcoal smudges. At last he sketches her mouth, only her mouth, full and sensual, lips slightly parted. As the oil in the lamp dwindles and burns out, Bram lets his hand rest on the paper, his eyes closing again, as he drops into a fitful, dream-ridden sleep.

*   *   *