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it flit away, turning her mind to more pleasantly nerve-racking topics.
    She had spent the last ten minutes constantly flitting her eyes back to the main doors, all the while dancing and being admired and appearing uninterested and blasé about the attention. Truly exhausting work. But her observational devotion paid off, for just as Mr. Worth passed through the main doors, the massive portals swung open again, this time admitting the Marquis of Broughton.
    Phillippa couldn’t help it; she audibly sucked in her breath. Her dance partner, a Mr. Green, looked at her askance but wisely kept his countenance. Luckily, Phillippa was too graceful a partner to let a little thing like the entry of her new conquest cause her to miss a single step.
    Broughton was a glowing, golden god. Light seemed to reflect off of his achingly beautiful self, let alone from the diamonds at his cuffs and neckcloth. It was rumored one young lady fainted at the sight of his glowing, golden hair, certain she had seen an angel’s halo. But the reason he attracted so much of Phillippa’s attention was that dastardly twinkle in his eyes. As if he were bored by what he saw and longed for trouble.
    And it seemed that she attracted his eye, Broughton having wound his way through the throng of admiring people to her side just as the dance ended. She curtsied politely to Mr. Green, who, seeing the lay of the land, again showed his intelligence and took himself off without another word.
    “Mrs. Benning.” Broughton spoke, his voice a throaty rumble. “I’m pleased to see you here.”
    She let his voice run down her spine in that pleasant little shiver only Broughton seemed able to produce and gave him a sultry smile. Even better than his voice, even better than his presence, was the fact that the entire hall had begun buzzing like bees roused from their nest.
    “Is that Broughton?”
    “Aye, I believe so. He’s bowing to Mrs. Benning!”
    “Did he kiss her hand?”
    “He’ll kiss more than that if he can—the utter rake!”
    It was quite impossible to not hear this last exchange, as it was voiced by the shrill Mrs. Croyton, who, having three daughters out in the dangerous waters of society (and none with much hope of prospect, Phillippa thought wryly), felt it necessary to voice her disapproval of unacceptable behavior at a high, loud pitch.
    Broughton smirked, amused, and then brought Phillippa’s gloved hand to his mouth, holding it there for such a length of time, until he heard a gasp of “My word!” from Mrs. Croyton, and the inevitable shuffling of her and her gawking daughters’ skirts. But his eyes—his eyes never strayed from Phillippa’s.
    Then, without another word, he smoothly tucked her hand in his arm and led her to the floor.
    Almack’s had only recently allowed the waltz, it being seen as scandalous for a good number of years due to the contact it allowed men of women’s bodies and the proximity in which the dancers stood. But as the dance grew in popularity, standards became relaxed, until grudgingly, the patronesses had to allow it, if only because there was so much popular music written in its three-quarter time.
    But scandal could still be awoken from a three-step rhythm.
    For, as Broughton laid one hand high on Phillippa’s waist, its size and strength wrapping around to her spine, his eyes widened in surprise.
    Phillippa’s lovely white dress was completely backless.
    From the front and side, the dress looked perfectly respectable, with a front neckline one would even call demure. But the neckline at the back was now closer to a waistline, the fabric coming down in straight lines over her shoulder blades and ending at the waist belt. Broughton’s ungloved fingers had landed squarely on the warmth of the valley of her spine.
    Phillippa looked up with sinful innocence into Broughton’s suddenly intense icy blue eyes, and she knew that all the extra money she had paid Madame Le Trois to have a removable panel installed