uring the next few weeks, Emma's life settled into something of a routine, albeit a rather exciting and entertaining one. Overnight, she had become one of the most sought-after members of London society. It was quickly decided (by whomever

it is that decides these things) that, while her red hair was regrettable, the rest of her certainly wasn't, and so she was hailed

a beauty, despite those fiery locks. Some of the more conservative matrons deemed her a little too bold (especially with "that

red hair"), but most of the ton decided they rather liked talking with a female who could converse on topics other than ribbons

and petticoats. And so Emma and Belle (who had acquired a similar although blonder reputation the previous year) went laughingly from party to party, enjoying their popularity immensely. For Emma, this time was a delightful interlude in a life that would surely take her back to her father in Boston where she, as his only child, would eventually defy current industry

standards and take over his shipping business.

The only complication was, of course, the duke of Ashbourne, who had emerged from his self-imposed exile and taken his

place in society with a vengeance. No one had any doubts as to the reason for his sudden reappearance.

"He is positively stalking Emma," Lady Caroline once grumbled.

To which his "prey" had shrewdly replied, "I'm not sure if he likes me or if he just likes to stalk."

Of course that statement was only half true. During the previous few weeks, Emma had seen Alex almost every day, and the friendship between them had developed into a fairly strong one. Emma was certain that Alex truly cared for her as a person

and not just as some sort of prize to be won. Still, the friendship was often fraught with sexual tension, and, well, Alex did

seem to enjoy stalking.

He was as quick as a lion and enjoyed surprising her. Once Emma had gone to a musicale he had said he did not plan to

attend. She had been standing idly next to an open window when she felt a warm hand grab hers. She had jerked away,

but the hand held firm, and she had heard a familiar voice whisper, "Don't make a scene."

"Alex?" Her eyes darted about. Surely someone noticed a hand snaking through the window.

But the rest of the partygoers had been involved in their own flirtations and didn't notice Emma's flustered expression.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered urgently, keeping a benign smile pasted on her face.

"Come out to the garden," he had ordered.

"Are you crazy?"

"Maybe. Come out to the garden."

Emma, cursing herself fifty times for a fool, had made up a story about a tear in her dress and stolen away. Alex was

waiting for her in the garden, hidden among the trees.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated as soon as she found him.

He grabbed her hand and yanked her deeper into the shadows. "I figured you missed me," he replied cheekily.

"I most certainly did not!" Emma had tried to pull her arm back, but he wouldn't let go.

"Now, now, of course you did. It's all right to admit it."

Emma had grumbled and muttered something underneath her breath about overbearing aristocrats, but one look at his

wicked smile was all it took to force her to admit to herself that she had missed him. "Did you miss me?" she countered.

"What do you think?"

She felt herself grow bold. "I think you did."

He had looked at her mouth then, looked at it with such longing and intensity that Emma was sure he was going to kiss her.

Her mouth went dry, her lips parted, and she felt herself sway toward him. But all he had done was drop her hand with

startling abruptness, flash her a smile, and murmur, "Until tomorrow, love."

In a blink of an eye, he had disappeared.

It was moments like these that had tied Emma's feelings into a tangled knot of confusion. No matter how many nights she

laid awake thinking about him, she could not seem to sort out her thoughts about Alex.

On the one hand, his domineering attitude provoked her to no end. He was constantly trying to boss her around, although, Emma thought smugly, he was finding that to be no simple task. On the other hand, he was proving to be quite convenient as his mere presence effectively scared off most of her persistent suitors, which was fortunate since she hadn't wanted any suitors in the

first place. She was always in demand at parties, but she had skillfully managed to avoid any awkward proposals of marriage.

To complicate matters, Emma was discovering that Alex was truly an entertaining escort and companion. He constantly challenged her intellect and, although he said the most outrageous things to her, she never tired of his company. She privately vowed, however, that he would never hear such high praise from her lips—his ego certainly did not need any polishing. But

what most confused Emma was her physical reaction to the man. The mere sight of him somehow set her entire body quivering with expectation. Expectation for what, she wasn't exactly sure, although she imagined Alex knew. Once, when she was

confiding her feelings to Belle (who was already up to Hamlet in her grand Shakespearean quest), she said that the only way

she could describe her reaction to him was that she experienced a "heightened sense of reality."

"It's corny and trite, I know," Emma had remarked, "but it just seems that I'm so aware of everything when he's near. The

scent of the flowers is stronger. My lemonade tastes sweeter, my champagne more potent. And it's so difficult not to look at

him, don't you think? It's those green eyes of his; he should have been a cat. And then I get short of breath, and my skin tingles."

Belle was blunt. "I think you're in love."

"Absolutely not!" Emma protested, aghast.

"You might as well accept it," Belle advised, pragmatic as usual. "In this day and age it's a rare thing to find someone you

love, and it's even rarer to have enough money to be able to do something about it. Most people have to marry for family considerations, you know."

"Don't be silly. I certainly don't want to marry the man. He'd be absolute hell to live with. Can you imagine? He's insufferable, overbearing, domineering—"

"And he makes you tingle."

"The point is," Emma said, ignoring her cousin, "that I don't want to get married to an Englishman. And he doesn't want to

get married at all."

The duke of Ashbourne's lack of interest in the matrimonial state, however, did not prevent him in the least from flirting with Emma outrageously and on every possible occasion. To be fair, Emma did her share of flirting, too, although she had to admit

she wasn't nearly as skilled at it as he was. It was becoming great sport among the ton to watch Alex and Emma spar with

each other, and wagers had already begun to appear in the books of all of London's most elite gentlemen's clubs as to whether

and when the couple would finally marry.

But if any of the young lords who had made such bets had actually taken the time to ask Emma about the situation, she could easily have informed them that wedding bells were certainly not forthcoming in the foreseeable future. First of all, she didn't

want to get married. Second of all, Alex didn't want to get married. But the most telling clue was that Alex hadn't even tried to kiss her once since that first night when he had stolen into her bedroom. That was what left Emma most puzzled. She suspected that it was all part of some master plan, for she was fairly certain he still desired her. Every now and then she'd catch him looking at her with a fiery gleam in his eye that made her tremble. At such times his gaze would burn hotly into her, leaving her breathless and dazed. Then after a few moments, he'd look sharply away, and the next time Emma saw his face, his cool, unflappable facade would be back in place.

* * *

Their sometimes easygoing, sometimes tense relationship continued quite peacefully in this manner until the night of the Lindworthys' ball.

Emma never suspected that the evening wouldn't be like every other. She was particularly excited to attend the ball because

Ned had just returned from a month-long jaunt to Amsterdam with his university friends, and she had missed his companionship during his absence. The entire Blydon household was a flurry of activity as everyone prepared for the evening.

"Emma Dunster! Did you take my pearl earrings?" Belle suddenly appeared in the doorway of Emma's room, resplendent in

a low-cut gown of ice-blue silk.

Emma, who was seated at her dressing table, fussed with her hair and ignored Belle's question as she reached for a crystal

vial of perfume. "Your father will kill you when he sees that gown."

Belle tugged at the bodice. "It's no worse than yours."

"Yes, but you'll note that I've got a shawl on." Emma smiled blithely.

"Which you will undoubtedly remove when we arrive at the Lindworthys'?"

"Undoubtedly." Emma dabbed a few drops of the scent on the side of her neck.

"But I don't have a shawl that matches this gown. Do you?"

"Only the one I'm wearing." Emma motioned to the ivory shawl that was draped over her bare shoulders. The pale material glowed against the dark green silk gown she had donned for the evening.

"Hell and damnation!" Belle swore, a little too loudly.

"I heard that!" Lady Caroline called from her bedroom down the hall.

Belle groaned. "I swear, she must have six sets of ears, her hearing is so good."

"I heard that, too!"

Emma laughed. "I'd be quiet now before you're really sorry."

Belle made a face. "About those earrings..."

"I don't see why you think I'd take them when I've a perfectly good pair of my own. You probably just misplaced them."

Belle sighed dramatically. "Well, I don't know where—"

"Oh, there you are!" Ned's voice called from down the hallway. He poked his head into Emma's room. "You two look ravishing,

as usual." He eyed his sister a little more closely. "Belle, are you sure you should be out in that gown? If I crane my neck just so"—he craned his neck in demonstration—"I can see straight down to your navel."

Belle's mouth dropped in horror. "You cannot!" she screeched, punching her brother in the arm.

"Well, maybe not quite, but almost," Ned grinned. "Besides, Father will never let you out of the house dressed like that."

"Half the women in the ton are wearing gowns like this. This is a perfectly acceptable style."

"Maybe to you and me," Ned replied, "but not to Mother and Father."

Belle planted her hands on her hips. "Did you come in here for a reason or were you just hoping to torture me?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you were sure that Clarissa Trent would not be attending the ball tonight."

"It would serve you right if she did show up, you miserable excuse for a brother," Belle snapped. "But you can relax,

I'm completely certain she's gone to the country for an extended stay."

"Emma?" Ned wanted to be absolutely certain that the cruel girl who had scorned him earlier in the season would not be

present to wound him again.

"As far as I know, she's left London," she replied offhandedly, studying her image in the mirror, trying to decide if she liked

the hairstyle Meg had created for her.

"She's probably gone to nurse her wounds," Belle guessed, settling down onto Emma's bed.

"What do you mean?" Ned asked, striding into the room and perching next to his sister.

"I'm afraid Clarissa was a little miffed when she realized that Ashbourne was quite determinedly pursuing Emma," Belle

smirked. "Clarissa kept throwing herself at him shamelessly, and I must say that his grace was very polite to her at first. Uncharacteristically polite, if you ask me. I think he was trying to impress Emma with his good manners."

"I doubt it," Emma said dryly.

"Well, what happened?" Ned asked impatiently.

"This is the good part." Belle leaned forward and smiled with glee. "About a week ago she absolutely pressed herself up

against him, and believe me, her gown was far lower-cut than mine."

"And?" Ned urged.

"And Ashbourne simply gave her one of those cold stares he's so famous for and said—"

Emma cut in, lowering her voice in imitation of Alex's, '"Miss Trent, I can see down to your navel.'"

Ned's mouth fell open. "He didn't!"

"No, but I wish he had." Emma laughed uproariously, and Belle exploded into giggles.

"What did he really say?" Ned urged.

"I believe it was: 'Miss Trent, kindly remove yourself from my person.'"

Ned was ecstatic. "And then what happened?"

"For a moment I thought Clarissa was going to faint," Belle said animatedly. "At least a dozen people heard the remark, and

she'd been telling everyone that she was out to snag him. Which was ridiculous, of course, because it's obvious to everyone

that Ashbourne is only interested in Emma. Anyway, after giving everyone the most murderous glare, she fled the ballroom,

and no one has seen her since. My guess is that she'll spend a month or so rusticating before she comes back to try to sink

her claws into the duke of Stanton."

"But he's well over sixty!" Ned exclaimed.

"And thrice widowed," Emma added.

"You know how women like Clarissa are," Belle sighed. "She's got it into her head that she wants a duke. Ashbourne was obviously the top choice since he's still young, but I doubt that Clarissa will be choosy now. She wants a title, and she wants

it now. If she doesn't get a duke, mark my words, she'll start on the marquesses and earls. That's when you had better watch

out, Ned."

"But I'm only a viscount."

"Don't be obtuse. You'll be an earl eventually, and Clarissa knows that."

"Well, you can be sure I'll avoid her assiduously now that I know what she's really like."

"You know, Ned, I think that you owe me a favor," Emma declared. "You'd probably still be pining over her if I hadn't sent

you that fake love note."

Ned grimaced at the thought of being in Emma's debt. "Much as I hate to admit it, you're probably right. But don't get it into

your head to continue meddling in my affairs."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Emma said innocently.

Belle and Ned both looked at her dubiously.

"It must be almost time to leave," Emma said, rising.

As if on cue, Lady Caroline swept into the room. She was dressed in a lovely midnight-blue gown that complimented the

stunning blue eyes she had passed on to both of her children. Her chestnut hair was swept up atop her head, and she certainly

did not look old enough to have mothered two adult children. "We really must be off," she announced. With a quick turn of her head, she scanned the room until her eyes fell on her daughter. "Arabella Blydon!" she exclaimed, horrified. "What on earth

are you wearing? I do not recall giving you permission to wear such a low-cut gown."

"Don't you like it?" Belle countered weakly. "I think it's rather flattering."

"I told her that one could see right down to her navel," Ned drawled.

"Edward!" Caroline said sharply. Emma whacked him in the shoulder with her reticule, flaying him with a mutinous glare.

Caroline gave them only a passing glance before she continued her lecture. "I do not know what you were thinking. That

gown will give men the wrong idea."

"Mama, everyone is wearing gowns like this now."

"'Everyone' does not include my daughter. Where did you get that?"

"Emma and I bought it at Madame Lambert's shop."

Caroline whirled to face her niece. "Emma, you should have known better."

"Actually," Emma said truthfully, "I think Belle looks beautiful."

Caroline's eyes widened and she quickly turned back to her daughter. "You may wear that gown when you are married,"

she announced.

"Mama!" Belle protested.

"Fine!" Caroline huffed. "We'll ask your father. Henry!"

All three members of the younger generation groaned. "I'm sunk now," Belle mumbled.

"Yes, dear?" Henry Blydon, the earl of Worth, ambled into the room. His brown hair was liberally streaked with silver, but he

still retained the air of elegance and affability that had won Caroline's heart a quarter of a century earlier. He smiled lovingly

at his wife. She looked pointedly at their daughter. "Belle," he said simply, "you're naked."

"Oh, fine! I'll change my gown!" Belle flounced out of the room.

"Goodness, that wasn't difficult at all, was it?" Henry smiled at his wife. "I'll be waiting for you downstairs." Caroline rolled

her eyes and followed him.

"May I escort you, darling Emma?" Ned laughed, offering her his arm.

"But of course, Edward dearest." The two of them followed the older couple down the stairs. Belle proved to be quite speedy changing her gown, and within fifteen minutes the family was on its way to the Lindworthy mansion.

When they arrived, Belle, who had changed into pink silk, pulled Emma aside. "You had better be far, far away from Mother

and Father when you take off that shawl," she advised.

"Don't I know it." Emma waited for Henry and Caroline to get swept up in the crush before she turned to Ned and said with

mock imperiousness, "You may take my shawl now, Edward."

Ned responded in kind. "Oh, but you know I'm just dying to be your servant." He deftly took Emma's shawl and handed it to

one of the Lindworthys' footmen. "Emma," he asked carefully, "you do realize that your dress is every bit as low-cut as Belle's?"

"Of course. We purchased them at the same time. Can you see down to my navel?" she asked daringly.

"I'm afraid to try. Ashbourne could descend from the shadows and wring my neck."

"Don't be silly. Oh, look! There's John Millwood. Let's go say hello." Emma, Ned, and Belle wended their way toward John

and were soon lost in the crowd.

* * *

Alex arrived soon after and, as usual, mentally cursed himself for once again putting himself through the torture of a large

London ball. Such affairs were only tolerable with the knowledge that he would find Emma and hopefully whisk her off

and enjoy her company without a hundred other onlookers.

Unfortunately, Emma was always surrounded by admirers, and it was getting damned irritating. Every day he swore he'd

give up this ridiculous process of seeking Emma out and every day he found himself longing to see her—and smell her and touch her—and sure enough, he donned his midnight black evening attire and headed out to participate in the endless round of parties.

The hard part was his damned foolish decision not to try to even kiss her. After seeing Emma nearly every single evening for

the last couple of months, it was growing incredibly difficult to keep his hands off of her. Just when he thought he'd memorized every turn of her lips, she would surprise him with a new kind of smile, and he was immediately overcome with the desire to

grab her and kiss her senseless. He'd wake up in the middle of the night knowing he'd been dreaming of her because his body

was hard and hot with need.

And no other woman could satisfy this ache. He'd long since stopped visiting his mistress, and she'd politely informed him that she'd found another patron. Alex had only sighed with relief, glad to be rid of the expense.

He had originally decided to keep this physical distance between Emma and himself because he wanted to give her time to learn

to trust him. When they finally did make love—and he was certain that they would; he only wondered if Emma realized the inevitability of it—he wanted it to be perfect. He wanted Emma to come to him because she wanted him and him only. He

wanted her to come to him because she, too, was waking up in the middle of the night drenched with desire.

He just hoped that happened soon, because he was slowly going insane.

"Ashbourne!"

Alex turned to see Dunford making his way through the crowd. "Hello, Dunford, good to see you tonight.

Have you seen Emma?"

"My, we have become somewhat single-minded these days."

Alex smiled with uncharacteristic sheepishness. "Sorry."

"Not at all." Dunford waved away Alex's apology.

"But have you seen her?"

"For God's sake, Ashbourne, when are you going to just marry the chit and put yourself out of this misery? Make her

your duchess and you can see her twenty-four hours a day."

"Really, Dunford, it's hardly come to that." Alex dismissed the idea of a wedding with a flick of his head. "You know how

I feel about marriage."

Dunford raised his eyebrows. "You're going to have to get married at some point, you know, if only to get yourself an heir.

Your father would turn over in his grave if the title passed out of the family."

Alex winced. "Well, at least I have Charlie. He may not be a Ridgely, but he's certainly as closely related to my father as

any child of mine would be."

"Emma's going to have to get married at some point, too. And it might not be to you."

Alex was stunned by the white hot streak of jealousy that shot through him at the thought of Emma lying in another man's

arms. But, determined to maintain his unflappable facade, he only said, "I'll deal with that if it happens."

Dunford only shook his head, convinced that his friend was denying the obvious. If Alex wasn't in love with Emma, he was certainly obsessed with her, and that was a better basis for marriage than one usually found among the ton. "I did see Emma

a few minutes ago," he said finally. "She was surrounded by men."

Alex growled.

"For God's sake, man, she's always surrounded by men. Get used to it," Dunford laughed. "You should just be thankful that

most of them are terrified of you. At least half the crowd disperses at the mere mention of your name."

"Well, that's a blessing."

"If I recall, she was over there"—Ehinford pointed to the far side of the room—"by the lemonade table."

Alex gave his friend a curt nod but tempered it with a smile. "It has, as always, been a joy, Dunford." He turned on his heel

and began to push through the crowd. As he made his way toward the area where he hoped Emma was, he was continually waylaid by men and women eager for an audience with the influential duke of Ashbourne. Alex quelled a few of them with

his famous icy stare, nodded to some, exchanged words with a couple, and merely growled at the unlucky ones who caught

him as he was finally finishing his journey.

He was not in a good mood.

That, of course, was when he finally caught sight of Emma. Her flaming hair always made her fairly easy to spot. Sure enough, she and Belle were surrounded by a pack of young men whose only problem in life seemed to be deciding to which cousin they should profess their undying love.

The sight of Emma's admirers did not improve his disposition.

He moved in a little closer. She looked ravishing, but then he'd expected that. She always looked ravishing to him. Her hair was piled atop her head, with wispy tendrils left to frame her delicate face. Her violet eyes sparkled animatedly in the candlelight.

She threw back her head and laughed at some joke, giving Alex an unobstructed view of her long, pale throat, her creamy shoulders, and the barest hint of... Alex frowned. He could definitely see a little more than the barest hint of her breasts.

Not that her dress was indecent, of course. Emma had far too much taste to appear vulgar. But if he could see the ample

swell of her bosom, damn it, that meant every other man in the ballroom could see it, too.

Alex's already bad mood deteriorated rapidly.

He pushed his way into the crowd surrounding Emma and Belle. "Hello, Emma," he said sharply.

"Alex!" she exclaimed, her eyes glowing with unfeigned enthusiasm.

He strode to her without acknowledging her companions. "I believe you saved this dance for me," he stated, taking her hand

and leading her somewhat forcefully to the dance floor.

"Really, Alex, you've got to stop being so autocratic," Emma scolded good-naturedly.

"Ah, a waltz," Alex commented as the orchestra began to play. "How fortunate." He swept her into his arms, and they

began to twirl slowly around the room.

Emma briefly wondered why Alex was in such a strange mood but quickly dismissed such concerns, preferring to savor the delicious warmth she could find only in his arms. One of his hands rested lightly on her hip, but from the heat of it, Emma felt

like she'd been branded. His other hand held her own, and Emma was convinced that a thousand tiny lightning bolts were

shooting up her arm, straight to her heart. She closed her eyes and unwittingly made a soft, mewling sound from deep in her throat. She was completely and utterly content.

Alex heard the tiny sound and looked down at Emma. Her face was slightly turned up to his, her eyes were closed—she

looked as if she'd just been thoroughly made love to. Alex's body reacted instantaneously. Every muscle clenched, and he

felt himself growing painfully hard. He groaned.

"Did you say something?" Emma's eyes flew open.

"Nothing I can tell you about in the middle of a crowded ballroom," Alex muttered, beginning to steer her toward the French

doors that led to the Lindworthys' garden.

"Ooooh, how intriguing."

"I wish you knew exactly how intriguing," Alex said under his breath.

"What did you say?" Amid the din of the crowded ballroom, Emma hadn't been able to understand his words.

"Nothing," Alex said in a louder voice, but the word came out more sharply than he'd intended.

"Whatever is wrong with you tonight? You're positively surly."

Before Alex could reply, the orchestra finished the waltz, and he and Emma bowed and curtsied to each other reflexively.

When they were done with the social niceties, Emma repeated her question to him, this time in a more demanding tone.

"Alex! What on earth is the matter?"

"Do you really want to know what's the matter?" Alex said harshly. "Do you?"

Emma nodded weakly, not at all sure that she was taking the wisest course of action.

"For God's sake, Emma, every man in this room is ogling you," he ground out, pulling her toward the French doors.

"Really, Alex, you say that to me every night."

"This time I mean it," he hissed. "You're practically falling out of that dress."

"Alex, you're making a scene," Emma shot back. He stopped dragging her but nevertheless continued out into the garden at a more respectable pace. "I don't see what has you so angry. At least half the women here under the age of thirty are wearing dresses which are far more revealing than mine."

"I don't care about those other women, damn it. I won't have you flaunting your charms for the whole world to see."

"Flaunting my charms? You make me sound like a loose woman. Don't insult me," Emma warned, her voice strained.

"Don't push me, Emma. You've led me a merry chase for damn near two months now, and I'm at my wit's end." He pulled

her behind a large hedge that shielded them from view of the ballroom.

"Don't try to blame this on me. You're the one who is overly sensitive to my dress style!"

Suddenly, Alex reached out and grabbed her upper arms, pulling her close. "Damn it, Emma, you are mine.

It's time you understood that."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. Although his actions during the previous weeks certainly demonstrated his possessive

nature, this was the first time he had actually verbalized the sentiment. His green eyes were blazing with anger and desire,

but there was something else there, too. Desperation.

Emma was suddenly very uneasy. "Alex, I don't think you know what you're saying."

"Oh, God, I wish I didn't!" Alex suddenly crushed her to him, his strong hands sinking into her fiery hair.

Emma gasped at the sheer force she felt in his body. He held her this way for a few long moments, nose to nose. His breathing was harsh and uneven, as if he were lost amidst some internal struggle. "Oh, Emma," he finally said in a ragged voice, "if you

only knew what you do to me." With that, his mouth slowly lowered that last inch to cover hers.

The first touch was unbearably sweet, and Emma could feel his body shiver as he fought to contain his passion. His lips brushed softly over hers as he waited for a response. Emma couldn't help herself, and her arms snaked up to encircle his neck. That was all the encouragement Alex needed, and his hands moved down to her back, pressing her even more tightly against him. "I have waited so long to hold you like this," he murmured against her mouth.

Emma was lost in a sea of newfound passion. "I—I think I like it," she said shyly, entwining her fingers in his thick black hair.

Alex's low growl was a sound of pure masculine satisfaction. "I knew it would be perfect. I knew you would be this responsive." He kissed these words against her jaw, then trailed his lips down to her throat.

Emma arched her head back, not understanding all of these new feelings yet unwilling to stop them, as she knew she should.

"Oh, Alex," she moaned, clutching him tightly.

Alex quickly took advantage of the soft sound that escaped her lips by capturing her open mouth with his once more. His tongue darted in, caressing her deeply. His intimate touch brought such pure pleasure, Emma was amazed that she could still stand. She simply hadn't thought it was possible to feel with such intensity. Even their earlier kiss, illicitly shared in her bedroom, could not remotely compare to this one. That first kiss had been exciting because she hadn't known Alex. But now she did. She knew him well, and the knowledge that it was him holding her close made the intimacy all that much more spectacular. All she knew was that she wanted to get closer to him, much closer. She wanted to touch him in the ways he was touching her. Hesitatingly, she rubbed her tongue against the roof of his mouth. To her delight, Alex's response was immediate. Hoarsely moaning her name,

he swiftly pulled her to him so that she was pressed intimately against his aroused manhood.

Emma was startled by the evidence of his rampant desire, and this realization of his urgency broke through her passion-induced haze. She was suddenly aware that she was swiftly heading into a situation she probably could not handle. "Alex?" she

questioned softly.

Alex took her question to be another moan of desire. "Oh, yes, Emma, yes," he responded. His lips had traveled to her earlobe, which he was sucking gently, and one of his hands had covered her breast. Everything he was doing felt terribly perfect, and

it was all Emma could do to say his name again, this time a little more forcefully.

"What, darling?" he asked, cradling her face in his hands as he prepared to tease her lips with his own again.

"I think it's time to stop," Emma said shakily.

Alex was agonized. He knew that she was right, but his body was throbbing, demanding release. But then again, he couldn't

very well make love to her in the middle of the Lindworthys' garden. He released her slowly and turned away, his hands on

his hips as he fought to regain control of himself.

"Alex? Are you angry with me?"

He didn't move. "No," he said slowly, his breathing still labored. "Just with myself."

Emma touched his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't blame yourself. I was as much at fault as you were. I could have stopped

you at any time."

Alex turned around to face her. "Could you?" His smile was wry, and it didn't reach his eyes. He took another deep breath.

"Well, Emma, you do realize that this changes things?"

Emma nodded, thinking that his words were an understatement if she'd ever heard one. She did, however, wonder just exactly how things were going to change.

"Perhaps you should sneak around to the washroom before you reenter the ballroom. Your hair is mussed," Alex advised, afraid that he'd once again lose control if he allowed himself to speak of anything other than the most mundane of matters. "I've been here before. If you go around the corner, there is a side entrance that leads to the main hallway. From there, you should be able

to find a washroom without trouble."

Emma's hand reflexively flew to her head, and she quickly tried to assess the damage. "All right. If you go back now, I'll go

fix my hair and won't show up for another fifteen minutes." Her voice sounded breathy, unnatural. "That should quell the gossip."

"It seems we have made a habit of orchestrating separate returns to ballrooms."

Emma smiled at him weakly before she turned and fled around the corner.