With Bennett, she walked across an Aubusson carpet to look back in time. This painting was of a ball, festive in bright colors and bold strokes. Women, gloriously feminine in mid-nineteenth-century gowns, were whirled around a gleaming floor by dashing men. There were mirrors that reflected the dancers and doubled them while a trio of chandeliers glistened overhead. As Hannah studied it, she could almost hear the waltz.

“How lovely. Is this room here, in the palace?”

“Yes. It has hardly changed. We’ll have the Christmas Ball there next month.”

Only a month, she thought. There was so much to be done. In a matter of hours Deboque would be out of prison, and she would soon learn if her groundwork had been clever enough.

“This is a beautiful room.” Hannah turned. Keep your conversation light, she warned herself. Keep your mind light, for now. “In our country house there’s a small music room. Nothing like this, of course, but I’ve always found it so relaxing.” She wandered to the piano, not so much to examine it as to give herself distance. “Do you play, Your Highness?”

“Hannah, we’re alone. It isn’t necessary to be so formal.”

“I’ve always considered the use of titles as proper rather than formal.” She didn’t want this, she thought quickly. She didn’t want him to close that gap of rank between them.

“I’ve always considered it annoying between friends.” He walked behind her to touch her lightly on the shoulder. “I thought we were.”

She could feel his hand right through the neat linen of her dress, through the skinny silk strap beneath and onto her flesh. Fighting her own private war, she kept her back to him. “Were what, sir?”

He laughed, then both hands were on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Friends, Hannah. I find you good company. That’s one of the first requirements of friendship, isn’t it?”

She was looking up at him, solemn-eyed, with the faintest blush of color along her cheekbones. Her shoulders seemed so strong under his hands, yet he remembered how soft, how delicate the skin along her jawline had seemed.

Her dress was brown and dull, her face unpainted and unframed. Not a hair was out of place and yet he got a flash of her laughing, her hair unbound and her shoulders bare. And the laughter would be for only him.

“What the devil is it about you?” Bennett muttered.

“I beg your pardon—”

“Wait.” Impatient, as annoyed with himself as he was with her, Bennett stepped closer. As she stiffened, he held his hands up, palms out as if to reassure her he meant her no harm. “Just be still a moment, would you?” he asked as he lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers.