One Night for Love

was afraid of seeing her—afraid of seeing her paralyzed by the embarrassment that even he was finding almost intolerable.

'To your far left, Nev,' his cousin said.

Portfrey was immediately visible, and beside him, Elizabeth. There was a cluster of people making up their group—almost exclusively male, though there appeared to be a female somewhere in their midst. Lily? Being subjected to a mob? Neville felt himself turn cold in much the way he had always done during battle if he saw one of his men beset by a multiple number of the enemy.

The mob had obviously not noticed him. Everyone else had. Everyone else watched him avidly—though he guessed he would not have caught a single one of them at it if he had turned his head to look—as he strode across the ballroom in the direction of the crowd.

'Steady, Nev,' the marquess said from the vicinity of his right shoulder. 'You look as if you are about to lay about you with both fists. It would not be good ton, old chap. The scene would be lapped up, of course, with all the enthusiasm of a cat for cream and would make you notorious for a decade or so. But it would do the same for Lily, you see.'

Elizabeth saw them coming and smiled graciously. 'Joseph? Neville?' she said. 'How delightful to see you both.'

Good manners took over. Neville bowed, as did his cousin. They exchanged bows with the Duke of Portfrey, who had also turned to greet them.

'You left your mother well, I trust, Neville?' Elizabeth asked. 'And Gwendoline and Lauren too?'

'All three,' Neville assured her. 'They all send their regards.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'Have you met Miss Doyle? May I present you?'

The gall of the woman, Neville thought. She was enjoying herself. The mob, he was aware, had fallen quieter. Several of them had melted away. And then stupidly, he was afraid to turn his head. It was physically difficult to do so. But he did it—rather jerkily.

He forgot that he was being observed by half the ton—and that she was too.

She was all in white—all delicate simplicity. She looked like an angel. She wore a high-waisted, square-necked, short-sleeved satin gown with a netted tunic, and white fan and slippers and long gloves. Even the ribbon threaded through her hair was white—her hair! It had been cut short and curled softly about her face, making it look more heart-shaped, making her blues eyes look larger. She looked dainty and innocent and exquisitely alluring.

Lily. Ah, dear God, Lily! He had missed her every minute of every hour since she had left. But he had not realized quite how painfully until he saw her again.

'May I present the Marquess of Attingsborough and the Earl of Kilbourne to you, Lily?' Elizabeth said. 'Miss Doyle, gentlemen.'

What farce was this? Neville wondered, not taking his eyes from her face. Her own eyes had widened at the sight of him and become fixed on him and she flushed—she had not been warned that he was to be here, then. But she did not lose her composure. Instead, she curtsied prettily.

'My lord,' she said, first to Joseph and then to him.

He found himself bowing formally, becoming an actor in the farce. 'Miss Doyle?'

He had never called her that, he realized. He had always liked her and always respected her as Sergeant Doyle's daughter, but he had always called her just Lily, as he would surely not have done if she had been the daughter of a fellow officer. He had always treated her, then, as less than a lady. Had he?

'Yes,' she was saying in response to some question Joseph had asked her. 'Very much, thank you, my lord. Everyone has been most obliging and I have danced all three sets so far. His grace was kind enough to lead me into the first.'

How was she different—apart from her hair, which looked very pretty indeed, though Neville felt that he would mourn the loss of the wild mane once he had been given a chance to think about it. She was different in another way—oh, in a thousand other ways. She had always been graceful. But tonight she seemed elegantly graceful. There was something too about her speech. It had always been correct—she had never spoken with a vulgar accent. But tonight there was a suggestion of refinement to her voice. The main difference, though, he realized without having to give the matter a great deal of thought, was that she did not look lost or bewildered as she had always looked at Newbury Abbey. She looked poised, at her ease. She looked as if she belonged here.

'Will you dance with me… Miss Doyle?' he asked abruptly. The sets were forming, he could see.

'I am sorry, my lord,' she informed him. 'I have already promised this set to Mr. Farnhope.'

And sure enough, there was Freddie Farnhope, hovering and looking uncomfortable but determined to stand his ground.

'Perhaps the next,' Neville said.

'Thank you,' she said, placing her hand on Farnhope's outstretched wrist—where had she learned to do that? 'That would be pleasant, my lord.'

My lord. It was the first time she had called him that. She was being formal and impersonal, as he had been with her. As if they had just met for the first time. Could Lily dance a quadrille? But it was clear to him from the first measure of music that she could. She danced it with competence and even grace— and with an endearing look of concentration on her face. As if, he thought, she had only recently learned the steps —as was doubtless the case.

Elizabeth and Lily, he understood then, had not been idle during their month in London.

The realization hurt in a strange way. He had carried on with his life at Newbury out of necessity, but he had pictured Elizabeth carrying on with hers while Lily hovered unhappily and awkwardly in the background. All month he had been contriving ways of persuading her to come back to him, ways of making life at Newbury Abbey less daunting to her. Or, failing that, he had been trying to think of what kind of life and environment would suit a young woman who had lived a sort of nomadic existence away from England all her life. He had been determined to settle