At the sound of Lynetta’s laugh, the man in front instantly lifted his head, almost like a beast sniffing the wind. His eyes locked on Margot. Her breath caught; even from this distance she could see that his gaze was ice blue and piercing. He held her gaze as he methodically removed his riding gloves. She thought she ought to look away, but she couldn’t. A shiver slipped down her spine; she had the terrible thought that those eyes could see right into her soul.

Someone spoke, and the five men began to move forward. But just before the man in front disappeared under the balcony and from view completely, he looked up at Margot once more, his gaze frighteningly intelligent and potent.

Another shiver ran down her spine.

Once they were gone, Margot and Lynetta returned to the ballroom, jointly disappointed that the arrival of strangers had not brought Montclare into their midst, and quickly fixed their attentions elsewhere.

Lynetta danced, while Margot stood about, trying not to appear anxious. Was her dancing really as horrible as that? Apparently so—no one had asked her to stand up.

After what seemed like hours of waiting about, a bell was rung and the cake was served. A footman handed Margot a flute of champagne. She liked how it tickled her nose and sipped liberally as she and Lynetta stood together, waiting for Quint, the Norwood Park butler, to bring them a piece of the cake.

“Oh my!” Lynetta whispered frantically, nudging Margot with her shoulder.

“What?”

“It’s Fitzgerald.”

“Where?” Margot whispered just as frantically and dabbed at her upper lip to blot away any champagne.

“He’s coming this way!”

“Is he looking at me? Is it me he approaches?” Margot begged, but before Lynetta could answer, Mr. Fitzgerald had reached her side.

“Miss Armstrong,” he said, and bowed over his extended leg, his arm swirling out to the side. She’d noted lately that several young men just up from London bowed in that fashion. “Miss Beauly, may I offer felicitations on the occasion of your birthday?”

“Thank you,” Lynetta said. “Umm... I do beg your pardon, but I mean to, ah... I think I shall have some cake.” She awkwardly stepped away, leaving Margot and Fitzgerald standing together.

“Ah...” Good God, Margot’s heart was fluttering. “How do you find the ball?”

“Magnificent,” he said. “You are to be commended.”

“Not at all.” She could feel an absurd grin forming at the compliment. “Lynetta has helped me, of course.”

“Of course.” Mr. Fitzgerald shifted to stand beside her, and through the tight sleeve of her gown, Margot could feel her skin sizzling where his arm brushed hers. “Miss Armstrong, would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next dance?”

Margot ignored the swell of panic that she might very well break one of his toes. “I would be delighted—”

“Miss Armstrong.”