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had been worth it.
    The music began, pulling the couples into spinning swirls of black and white, Phillippa and Broughton along with them. Once he had recovered his surprise, Phillippa was again shot with a thrill of pleasure; Broughton danced marvelously. His pace was strong but not too fast, and oh! His ungloved fingers on her unclothed flesh made it so the slightest bit of pressure moved her according to his whim.
    Reveling in the dance and musing on how well she and Broughton must look together, their matching blond hair and crisp blue eyes, their individual beauty combining to outshine the stars, Phillippa almost did not hear Broughton speak.
    “I’m glad to find you accepted my challenge,” he began, his voice pitched just above a murmur, for Phillippa’s ears only.
    “Challenge?” she replied innocently.
    “To come to Almack’s tonight.” He smiled sardonically. “Rumor has it you despise it almost as much as I do.”
    Phillippa smiled, blushing prettily as she gave the slightest of shrugs. Broughton’s hand tightened ever so slightly on her back, drawing her barely closer.
    “I find Almack’s confining, don’t you?” he said, his voice conversational again.
    “Somewhat,” Phillippa replied, arching her brow, “but most Society likes a little confinement.”
    “And you do not count yourself among them,” Broughton stated.
    “How do you know that?”
    He leaned in, his voice caressing her ear.
    “Because you’re not wearing a corset.”
    Phillippa sucked in her breath and felt his fingers flex and resettle against her skin. Broughton’s touch, the air around them, all of it crackled with electricity. Phillippa was very good at this game, the cat and mouse of flirtation, but rarely had it been as exciting to play as it was with Broughton. Impulsively, she decided to play a little deeper.
    “I don’t require one.” She spoke breathily. “Besides, its impossible to wear with this dress. Its impossible to wear almost any undergarment with this dress.”
    Now was Broughton’s turn to suck in his breath. Phillippa gave him one of her half smiles and followed him through the turn. His eyes turned positively black, like a hawk about to swoop in on its prey.
    “Mrs. Benning, I find your conversation refreshing. I do hope we have the chance to continue it. Perhaps this evening?” She held his gaze. “Perhaps at the Iversons’ ball?” Broughton spoke, his voice pitched low and calm, the perfectly polite gentleman. But still it caressed her skin more intimately than his hand was allowed. “I understand their library is very exclusive. And very private.”
    Was he . . . was he suggesting what Phillippa thought he was suggesting? Oh goodness! But that sparkle in his eyes—that deep-down wickedness—he did court trouble, and he knew how to have the best time with it.
    Perhaps . . . perhaps she could play a little deeper. She was a widow, after all. Perhaps it was time that she partook of all that widowhood afforded.
    But it would be on her terms, of course.
    “Oh, my lord, I am engaged at the Fieldstone affair after Almack’s,” Phillippa replied, aiming for a note of palpable sorrow in her voice.
    “Your plans can be changed, surely. Nothing is ever set in stone,” he growled.
    “My plans are as readily changed as yours, my lord,” she countered with an arched brow.
    “Now, now; you responded to my invitation to meet me here. Why not follow me to the next step? Have a little adventure.” As the music finished, the whirling couples came to a stop on the floor, polite applause masking his next words from all ears except hers. “Phillippa, am I not worth the chase?”
    Phillippa’s mouth went slack for the barest of moments. Then she set her expression and gave him a long, cool assessing stare.
    “You ask the wrong question,” she said after thoroughly grazing him from toe to head. “You should inquire whether or not I am worth the chase.”
    Broughton smirked, opening his mouth to