“I think that you’re the most interesting young lady I’ve met so far this Season,” he responded, without a trace of mockery on his face or in his voice. Why was it that interesting seemed like the nicest thing that any gentleman had ever said to her? Why was interesting on his lips so vastly preferable to beautiful or charming or amusing, all compliments that had already been paid her this Season?

His eyes caught hers and held them, and her heart began to race even more quickly, until she felt certain that he must be able to hear it, too, so loudly did it pound in her ears. Was this normal? Should she summon a physician? In everything she’d ever read about courting, there had been no mention of a moonlit scene on a balcony concluding with a swoon due to some sort of malady of the heart.

“I’m certain my mother would be appalled if she heard you say that,” Violet managed, forcing a laugh, still not breaking their gaze. “She’s always worried that I’m too interesting for my own good.”

He smiled again, just a flash before it vanished, and Violet once more had the curious sensation that everything around them dimmed in comparison to the brightness of that smile. Even after it was gone, its presence somehow lingered, making the sharp-angled intensity of his face less severe, more welcoming. It was as though once she’d seen that smile on his face, she could never forget the impression it had left.

“Well, I think you’re just interesting enough for my own good.” He took a step forward and extended his hand.

“Lady Violet,” he said, “would you do me the honor of this dance?”

“Here?” Violet asked with a laugh. “On a balcony? Alone?” There was, after all, a perfectly good ballroom a few feet away—one to which he was supposed to be escorting her, in fact.

“I actually thought we would go back indoors,” he said, his mouth quirking up the slightest bit at the side. “But . . .” He hesitated, and Violet knew that he felt it, too, this pull between them. She didn’t want to return to a noisy, crowded ballroom and discuss the weather with him.

“You can still hear the music,” she said before she could convince herself not to, and it was true—she could catch strains of music filtering out through the French doors, spreading through the cool night air around them.

“Yes, you can,” he agreed, so quickly that she nearly laughed aloud. “Please say you’ll dance with me,” he added, taking yet another step forward, and by now he was standing far too close for propriety. Violet tilted her head back and looked at him, finding herself caught in the intensity of that green gaze yet again. The word please sounded incredibly appealing on his lips.

“If I must dance with you twice before any discussion of your undergarments can ensue,” he added, “I had better not waste any time—it’s a conversation I suddenly find myself quite desperate to have.”

A startled laugh burst out of Violet and he seized the opportunity to sweep her into his arms—she had always thought the expression a bit absurd when encountered in a novel and yet there, on that balcony, on that particular moonlit night, it seemed entirely accurate.

Violet had danced with gentlemen before, of course, and until this moment she would have said that she had enjoyed those dances thoroughly. Some had been better than others, naturally—such was the way of life, her mother had once noted with a heavy sigh—but on the whole, Violet would have considered herself a lady who liked dancing.

But now, waltzing around on a balcony in the arms of a man she barely knew, she realized that all of those previous dances had been mere flickering candle flames compared to this one, which blazed like the sun. His arms were strong around her, turning her deftly in time with the music. This close, she could smell the particular scent that clung to him, some combination of freshly pressed linen and shaving soap and the faint note of spirits—brandy, perhaps? Whatever it was, the mixture was thoroughly intoxicating. Wild, mad thoughts flitted through her head: would it be strange to press her nose to his immaculately pressed jacket and sniff?

She decided that yes, it would.

She looked up at his impossibly handsome face as they slowly rotated, her eyes catching and holding his. His smile had not made a reappearance, but she could somehow sense its presence in his eyes, in the way he looked down at her. It made her feel warm and itchy in a way that she could not precisely explain, but which was not at all unpleasant.

Over the past weeks of the Season, Violet had danced many dances, spoken to many gentlemen, worn many beautiful gowns—but it was here, in a not-particularly-spectacular evening gown of blush-pink silk (which, in her opinion, didn’t flatter her complexion), on a secluded balcony, that Violet found herself at last thinking, Yes, this.

“You know, this might be the most enjoyable ten minutes I’ve spent at a ball all year,” Lord James said, eerily echoing Violet’s own thoughts.

“I can hardly believe that,” Violet said lightly, attempting to ignore the thrill that had gone through her at the words. “Gentlemen are allowed to engage in all sorts of activities that are unsuitable for young ladies, some of which I imagine must be more enjoyable than standing outdoors on a rather chilly evening.”

“True,” he agreed. “And yet, I find myself with a strong preference for this evening’s company.”

She looked up at him then, as they turned slowly about the balcony, his hand warm and steady in her own, the other burning through layers of fabric at her back.