palms on her for the entirety of a dance would do. Already, she could feel the dampness between her legs and her nipples tightening in shameless arousal.
That would simply not do.
“I cannot, but thank you,” she blurted out, bringing her fan up between them and fanning herself with brisk strokes.
He frowned at the lace device and then at her. “Why not?”
In response, her fan increased its speed, her brain failing to come up with an acceptable excuse that wasn’t an outright lie. Her gaze fell on the elegant fan. “Did you know that there’s a whole language to the lady’s fan? For example, twirling it in one’s left hand means we are being watched, which we are,” she added for good measure. “Drawing it across one’s eyes says ‘I am sorry,’ while resting it upon one’s lips says the gentleman is not to be trusted.”
A slow smile curved those very sinful lips as though he could see right through her. He leaned in, his next words low. “And fanning at such a speed means you are head over heels in love.”
Both fingers and fan froze in midair, and then she snapped it shut.
“And snapping one’s fan shut, dearest, means you’re jealous.” Rhystan grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. The playful look transformed his face, leaving her breathless at the glimpse of the boy she’d known. So he wasn’t quite lost.
“No, it doesn’t,” she said and then frowned uncertainly. “Does it?”
“How should I know? I’m a man. We tend to say what we think.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Unlike your sex, women have to communicate their desires in codes or be deemed indelicate and scandalous. It’s all rather absurd, isn’t it? That a woman should be afraid to speak her mind for fear of being shunned or ostracized and outraging high society.”
“Absurd how?”
Gracious, he had a knack for riling her up. “That a female’s opinion could create such world-destroying chaos.”
“Women have been causing chaos since Eden.”
Sarani snorted. “Good gracious, are you referring to the Bible? How positively low you have sunk, Your Grace. At least base your arguments on something that wasn’t written by a horde of ancient male historians.”
“What of Darwin?” he asked.
“Well, we are discussing absurdity.” She shook her head with disdain, warming to her subject and oblivious to their now avid audience in the ballroom, straining to hear their low but impassioned conversation. “The complexity of the human brain cannot possibly be determined by sex. My brain is no less effective than yours, and my parents proved that beyond the shade of a doubt with my unconventional education. Give us women a few decades, and chaos will be the least of what we can accomplish.”
“I don’t doubt that in the slightest, my lady.”
Sarani searched his quiet reply for sarcasm, but there was none. She tapped her fan with a small grin. “We did invent an entire language around fans, after all.”
A new voice cut between them.
“Tell me, my lady, regarding the language of fans, which I find mildly fascinating, what is the movement to say that one is engaged?”
Sarani turned, despite Rhystan’s immediate glower and the impropriety of a strange gentleman interrupting their conversation, and felt the blood drain from her limbs. This particular gentleman did not require an introduction, because she knew him well, even with a half mask. She would never forget how her skin crawled whenever he looked at her, the way it did now.
An icy-cold sweat formed between her shoulder blades, dark spots threatening her vision as her legs shook beneath her dress. No, no, no… This could not be happening. But her memory was not playing tricks on her. The regent of Joor stood in this very ballroom, his familiar watery blue eyes swimming with anger and lust.
“Lord Talbot?” she whispered.
He bowed. “In the flesh. I’ve only recently discovered that my fiancée, whom I thought dead, is alive and has betrothed herself to another.”
The weight of a thousand knives crashed down upon her. The depth of her predicament suddenly became clear. It wasn’t Lord Talbot’s return that struck fear into her heart. It was the fact that he knew who she was and who she was pretending to be.
He was judge, jury, and executioner.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“What I’ve been promised.” His leer made her blood chill. “My bride.”
* * *
Rhystan had not immediately recognized the masked man. Until Sarani had whispered his name, he’d been at a loss. He fought the urge to slam his fist into the earl’s face. The fury coursing