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swooned,” he answered, seizing a pair of pillows from a nearby chair. “It was likely Belkadi. He occasionally has that effect on females.”
    The lady merely blinked her blue eyes at him in stupefaction as he lifted her ankles—her very slender, well-turned ankles—then propped her feet upon the pillows. Suddenly her gray hems slithered away to reveal her foamy undergarments and rather too much of her fine ankles. Against his better judgment, he twitched them back into place again.
    Elegant ankles, thought Ruthveyn. Gorgeous eyes. Beautiful, strong cheekbones.
    And still, he felt was nothing.
    Nothing, that was, save good, old-fashioned lust…

CHAPTER 2
It Must Be Magic
    S pirits. Again.
    Did men imagine them the solution to all the world’s ills? Grace wondered, choking down another swallow.
    â€œMerci, I am feeling quite myself again,” she lied, pushing the glass away.
    But the two dark-eyed men still knelt beside her, their gazes affixed on her face. Absent the rush of panic, Grace looked at the first, the more broad-shouldered of the two. He looked almost satanic in his severe, obviously expensive attire, with eyes that burned black as night. The second—the one who had admitted her—was younger; his face less harsh and strikingly handsome.
    â€œ Belkadi ,” she muttered, recognition dawning. “A Kabyle name.”
    â€œIt can be.”
    As if he found her words intrusive, the man’s face shuttered, and he rose to go.
    The second man stood as well, but instead of leaving, drew a rattan footstool to the foot of her chaise, its legs rumbling over the flagstone terrace. Grace looked about, not at all sure where she was. The man settled himself on the stool, set his knees wide, then propped his elbows upon them.
    â€œNow,” he said, his voice quiet but commanding, “tell me who you are and why you are here.”
    Grace looked about, blinking against the sun. “Wh-Where is here, precisely?”
    A look of frustration passed over his face.
    â€œI mean, is this still Sergeant Welham’s club?” she clarified. “Indeed, I very much fear you had to carry me out here.”
    â€œQuite so. On both counts.”
    Grace felt her cheeks flush. “I did not know gentlemen’s clubs had gardens,” she said inanely. “And I never swoon. How mortifying.”
    The man smiled faintly, but it did little to soften his face. “How long has it been, ma’am, since you slept?” he asked. “Or ate?”
    â€œI had dinner.” She tried to think. “But that was yesterday, I suppose. And last night… non, I did not sleep.”
    The faint smile turned inward, then melted. “I know the feeling.”
    â€œI beg your pardon.” Grace extended a less-than-steady hand. “I am Grace Gauthier. Thank you for your help.”
    After an instant’s hesitation, he took it but instead of shaking it, bowed his head and lifted it almost to his lips. “Ruthveyn,” he said, his voice low and a little raspy. “At your service.”
    â€œThank you,” she managed. “Tell me, do you know Sergeant Welham?”
    â€œVery well,” said the dark man. “I believe I can safely claim to be his best friend in all the world.”
    Grace lifted her eyebrows at that. “Can you indeed?”
    â€œHow long has it been, ma’am, since you last saw him?” the man asked. “My esteem of him not withstanding, Rance—Lord Lazonby—is not the sort of man gently bred ladies ordinarily claim to know.”
    Grace lowered her gaze. “You mean because he was once in prison.”
    â€œAmongst other reasons, yes.”
    â€œI never believed him guilty,” she said hotly. “I never did. Nor did my father. Sergeant Welham was a gentleman through and through.”
    â€œAh!” said the dark man.
    Grace looked up to see recognition dawning in his eyes.
    â€œYour father