Iris smiled widely, quite incapable of feigning sophisticated nonchalance. She placed her hand in his and followed him to the dance floor, where couples were lining up for a minuet.

The steps were intricate, but for the first time in her life, Iris felt as if she were moving through the dance without having to think about what to do. Her feet knew where to go, and her arms reached out at precisely the right moments, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—they never left hers, even when the dance sent them to different partners.

Iris had never felt so treasured. She had never felt so . . .

Desired.

A shiver ran through her, and she stumbled. Was this what it felt like, to be wanted by a gentleman? To want one in return? She had watched her cousins fall in love, shaken her head in dismay as infatuation made fools of them all. They had spoken of breathless anticipation, of searing kisses, and then, after their marriages, it had all dropped to a low whisper among themselves. There were secrets—very pleasant ones, it seemed—that were not spoken of among unmarried ladies.

Iris had not understood. When her cousins had spoken of that perfect moment of desire, right before a kiss, she could only think that it sounded dreadful. To kiss someone on the mouth . . . Why on earth would she wish to do that? It seemed rather sloppy business to her.

But now, as she circled through the dance, taking Sir Richard’s hand and allowing him to spin her about, she could not help but stare at his lips. Something awakened within her, a strange yearning, a hunger from deep inside that stole her breath.

Dear God, this was desire. She wanted him. She, who had never even so much as wished to hold a man’s hand, wanted to know him.

She froze.

“Miss Smythe-Smith?” Sir Richard was immediately at her side. “Is something amiss?”

She blinked, and then finally remembered to breathe. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I feel a bit faint, that is all.”

He led her away from the other dancers. “Allow me to get you something to drink.”

She thanked him, then waited in one of the chaperones’ chairs until he returned with a glass of lemonade.

“It’s not cold,” he said, “but the other choice was champagne, and I don’t think that would be wise if you’re feeling light-headed.”

“No. No, of course not.” She took a sip, aware that he was studying her intently. “It was very warm out there,” she said, feeling the need to explain herself, however falsely. “Don’t you think?”

“A bit, yes.”

She took another sip, glad to have something in her hands upon which to focus her attention. “You don’t need to remain here and watch over me,” she told him.

“I know.”

She had been trying not to look at him, but the pleasant simplicity of his words caught her attention.