“You said farewell,” he countered as he led her toward the dance area. Behind them, the roses exploded into a shower of smoke and petals, sending bystanders scattering with screams and horrified gasps. “I said alla prossima. That’s Italian for ‘until next time.’”

“Oh, if you are going to speak Italian at me, what hope do I have?”

He smiled and, tugging gently on her hand, turned her toward him. He caught her waist with his free hand, shifted his other hand so their gloved palms lay together. “No hope at all, Miss Bassingthwaite,” he said cheerfully, and as music filled the room again he drew her even closer.

“A waltz!” she gasped. “It is too decadent.”

“Maybe seventy years ago. And you are not so old as that, my dear,” he added, looking appreciatively at her décolletage. He moved his left foot forward and Cecilia moved her right back in self-defense. Before she was conscious of it, they were gliding around the floor.

“You are a scoundrel,” she whispered furiously.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m thinking of starting a Society of Gentlemen Scoundrels.”

“You’re millennia too late. It already exists and is called the patriarchy.”

He laughed. “Touché. Alas, I will never best you in conversation, will I?”

“No.”

“Although I have rendered you wordless several times now, and that’s even more satisfying.”

She stared at him aghast.

“And I see I’ve done it again. Yes, very satisfying indeed.” He grinned, and as he lifted their hands she spun away beneath his arm and returned. He slipped his hand around her waist again and she tried not to shiver. Summoning her wits, she demanded from them a suitably acerbic comment—

But her wits had dressed themselves in pink sparkling tulle and danced away with their eyes closed, their faces turned up to the starry chandeliers, blissfully ignoring her. Cecilia was left mute (and a little dizzy).

Ned was a magnificent dancer. Lithe and confident, he held her with a firmness that made her feel delicate in his arms. But she was not delicate, she reminded herself. She could kill him with one swift movement should she choose.

And yet—the intoxicating lemonade, or the intoxicating gorgeousness of the occasion, convinced her for once to let go, to let herself feel—to surrender in this dreaming moment to the handsome, seductive, and altogether dangerous man who led her in the dance. She closed her eyes and joined her wits in bliss, waltzing the night to freedom.

“While I have you quiet,” Ned murmured, “I must make a confession.”

“No, don’t talk,” she whispered. “You’ll ruin everything.”

He dipped her, and when she came up, her mind full of stars, he sighed. “I must, I’m afraid. Forgive me, Cecilia, but I’ve stolen Pleasance.”

She opened her eyes, the dream wavering. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve stolen Pleasance,” he repeated. “You know—young housemaid, deceased vampirical baroness, and a few subsidiary ghosts too, I suspect? I thought it would take some doing, but as it turned out all I needed was to mention I’m friends with Robert Louis Stevenson, and she fell immediately in with my scheme.”