Florence's world shrank down to a single soul. Edward stood before her. Tall Edward. Grave Edward. Edward of the burning eyes and the beautiful mouth. Peter Vance faded into insignificance, though he'd stepped a mere foot away. Freddie's older brother was all that she could see.

This was not good, she thought, not good at all.

"Oh," she said stupidly, and put one hand to her stays to keep her heart from bursting through. "Edward."

"Florence," he said, with a low, formal bow. How broad his shoulders were, and how well his black tailcoat showed off the trimness of his waist! With customary dignity, he straightened. "Might I have the honor of this dance?"

Florence blinked. "You wish to dance with me?"

He frowned and at once she felt more clearheaded. A scowling Edward she was used to.

"Yes, I wish to dance with you. Have you some objection?"

"Oh, no," she said. "I—I'd be happy to."

"Well then," he said.

As if on cue, the orchestra struck up a waltz. Her skin tingled as he took her in his arms. At once, she knew this dance was different. Edward held her with complete assurance, born to rule the ballroom. The hand he'd placed on her waist almost lifted her through the steps.

"Stop looking at your feet," he whispered, his cheek for one moment pressed to hers.

At the touch, her limbs turned to honey, liquid and warm, as if she'd been set in the sun.

"Oh," she said, enchanted in spite of every scrap of sense that spoke against it. "Oh, my, you dance divinely."

He laughed, the second time she'd heard him do so. She wanted to hear that happy sound again. She wanted to hear it every day. His arm tightened and suddenly her breasts were pressed lightly to his chest. That, she thought, was even better. His legs, so long, so sure, brushed the front of her skirts. She had only to let him lead.

"It's like flying," she said, helpless to keep her smile inside.

He grinned back at her, his face creasing upward, his bright blue eyes agleam. "It's dancing, Florence, the way it was meant to be."

She caught her breath with pleasure as he spun her even faster. The other couples seemed to part like the sea before them. The music swooped, giddy, magical. She took a firmer grip on his shoulders and closed her eyes.

"You're as lovely as a rose," he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear.

With a quiet sigh, he gathered her closer still. She felt the warmth of his body, the hardness of his chest. His breath came quickly from his exertions. In. Out. Stirring her hair. Warming her cheek. The sound put a spell on her. Something throbbed inside her: an ache, a nameless want. She thought she heard him whisper her name. Yes, she thought, and her lips moved soundlessly on the word. He must have seen her do it. His hand tightened on hers, his fingers strong, sending a message her body could not help but read. Without warning, a flood of heat washed through her flesh. Her knees wobbled and gave and she stumbled over his foot.

Edward caught her before she fell.

"Goodness," she said, mortified by her near-collapse. "I'm afraid all that twirling has made me dizzy."

For once, Edward's frown was more worried than disapproving. He put his arm around her waist to steady her. "Come. You need air."

He would not listen to her demurs, but led her from the stuffy ballroom and down a corridor to a large conservatory. Florence would have liked to see this marvel by daylight. Arched high above their heads, the white iron framework glowed faintly under the moon. Perhaps, like the Crystal Palace, the great Paxton had designed it. The structure was certainly grand enough. Small Japanese lanterns shaped like gold and black pagodas lit the winding paths. Ankleboots crunching on the pebbles, Edward guided her past towering palms and banks of ferns and a large lily pond beneath which orange fishes hung in sleep. He stopped at last under a cool dome of glass where roses of every imaginable hue grew in lushly scented profusion.

"Here." He seated her on a pretty cast iron bench. "Close your eyes and breathe." To her surprise, he sat beside her and patted her hand. "Lizzie laced you too tightly, didn't she?"

"Oh, no," she said, her eyes flying open to find his gaze. "Aunt Hypatia's maid would let her. It was the dancing, I think. All that swooping around. It was wonderful, of course, but suddenly I felt so hot."

His brows lowered, shading his eyes to blackness. His expression was most peculiar. "You felt hot."

"Yes." She fanned her face at the memory. "Astonishingly hot. As if someone had dropped me in a pot of steam. You don't suppose I've taken ill, do you?"

She knew the words were hopeful. Though the ball had not been as terrifying as she'd feared, she still would have liked to go home.

"No," he said, but he touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

"There it is again!" she gasped.

"Florence," he said, half laugh, half groan. "You cannot be so ignorant you do not know why you are flushed."

"Well, I—" she began and then her gaze caught on his smiling lips. "I'm sure it's not—I've found men appealing before, you know, and they never affected me like this!"

"Didn't they?" His eyes were heavy, his tone a soft, insinuating growl. "Didn't they make you hot from the inside out? Didn't they make you yearn and ache and feel as if you would die unless you held them?"

His lips brushed her cheek like heated satin.

"Edward," she gasped, a shiver supplanting her flush. She wished he wouldn't speak so; wished he wouldn't draw so close. "You can't—you can't be meaning to kiss me!"

"Indeed," he said with that same groaning laugh, his mouth sliding along her jaw. "I assure you I don't mean to. Common sense forbids it. And decency. And every drop of affection my brother pulls from my heart . . ."