“It seems you are just where you wished to be,” he commented. “Standing alone at the sidelines, watching over your aunt so she does not feel lonely or mournful.”

They observed Miss Darlington swirl past, batting her eyelashes at the English prince.

“Go away, Ned,” Cecilia muttered.

“Ned? Who is this Ned of whom you speak? Madam, may I have the honor of introducing myself? Dr. Edward Lumes at your service. Just back in town from a sojourn in the countryside and available to—um, service you.”

“Dr. Lumes,” she echoed scathingly. “I suppose you are going to suggest giving me a complete physical inspection.”

“Oh, I’m not that kind of doctor,” he replied in a languid voice, and leaned even closer to whisper, “I’m a doctor of literature, madam.”

She nearly swooned into his arms.

“Have you missed me?” he asked.

“Oh God yes,” she answered before she could prevent herself, and then blushed violently as he grinned. She opened her fan with such vehemence that its concealed blades dropped to the floor with a clatter. She began to employ it with the vigor of one whose nostrils (or in this case, hormones) are ablaze, but to no discernible effect other than sending a breeze through Ned’s hair. One strand slid over his forehead and Cecilia’s internal heat grew so intense she gave up on the fan and reached for a glass of lemonade instead.

A long, unladylike gulp informed her too late that the cordial had been mixed with wine. She hastily set down the glass and, anticipating a dreadful headache, retrieved the cocaine pill from her purse. She swallowed it without further hesitation, sipping alcoholic lemonade by necessity to wash it down. Then she turned to favor Captain Lightbourne with a censorious glare.

He appeared to be standing next to the specters of Signor de Luca and Teddy Luxe, but when she blinked he resolved into one, slightly blurry, figure. “While I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor,” she said coolly, “I believe myself to be literate enough without any service you may provide. Thank you and have a good Easter. Er, evening. Where did I put my fan?” She opened her fan to fan herself while futilely searching purse, table, and floor for the fan.

“Dance with me,” Ned whispered, stroking a gloved finger down the bare skin of her upper back.

She shrugged him away. “The music has stopped.”

“It’s going to start again. I’ve put in a special request with the band.”

He took the fan from her and tossed it over his shoulder, where it fell into a grand display of roses. Then he held out a hand, and Cecilia’s good manners (or inebriation) saw her taking it before she even knew what she was doing. Almost immediately she tried to relinquish her grip, but he had her now and would not let her go.

“Very well,” she relented. “One dance. But this is most impertinent of you, Captain Lightbourne. We have said our farewells.”