Of the many rules of thieving her father had taught her, that one was key. Emmy Danvers broke it the night of Lady Carlton’s masked ball; she touched Alexander Harland.
She had no intention of stealing him, except from the other eager women in the room. She was simply borrowing him for a single dance.
She was wearing a dress Camille had once worn to Versailles, a gorgeous concoction of watered blue silk adorned with gold braiding. A wig, powdered blue-grey and fixed with silk flowers, hid the true color of her hair. She’d added a coquettish patch to the corner of her mouth, the one the books called “the kissing.” She was hopeful. And since it was a masquerade, she’d worn a cream leather mask which covered the top half of her face. Only her lips and chin were visible. Harland would never know who she was.
Emmy’s heart pounded against her ribs. This was just like a heist. The same nervous excitement as she eyed the prize, the same pulse-pounding fear of discovery. Harland drew her like the shimmering facets of a well-cut sapphire, a tug of attraction she was helpless to ignore.
He was standing with his two constant companions, Benedict Wylde and Sebastien Wolff. The three of them together were a sight to gladden any girl’s heart, each one as handsome as the next.
With a fortifying breath, she stepped in front of the three men and executed a deep curtsey. They had been in the middle of a conversation, but Harland trailed off midsentence when he noticed her, and all three of them turned to stare, no doubt amazed by her shameless effrontery. Women were not supposed to approach men. Then again, women weren’t supposed to steal jewels either. Emmy had never been terribly good at following the rules.
“Mister Harland,” she said. “I believe this is my dance.”
An intrigued smile touched his lips. He gave her a slight bow in return, and she willed him not to refuse her. His blue eyes, through the black mask he wore, regarded her speculatively.
“I don’t recall agreeing to a dance, Miss—?” He let the end of the sentence hang, urging her to provide her name. She gave a light laugh.
“Oh, no! This is a masquerade. Names are forbidden.”
“And yet you have mine.”
“Yes. You are already at a disadvantage.” He would hate that. He struck her as a man who would always want the upper hand. “Perhaps you’ll be able to discover my identity during the course of the dance?”
Wolff nudged him. “You can’t possibly turn down a challenge like that, Alex. Take the lady onto the floor.” His appreciative gaze raked her, and he flashed her an easy smile. “Because if you don’t, then I certainly will.”
“How can I refuse?” Harland chuckled. He stepped forward and offered her his elbow. “You have intrigued me, my lady.”
Emmy’s stomach gave a little flip. He’d accepted!
With his slow, wicked smile and easy charm, he’d been her secret fantasy for so long. A few years older than herself, he’d always been part of a slightly different social set, a glittering, roguish, dangerously thrilling presence at any event he attended. She’d watched from the shadows as he danced with the prettiest girls and cut a swathe through the debutantes, flirting impartially but without serious intent. Having an older brother who was heir to the title, he was the quintessential carefree second son, free to pursue a life of youthful excess.
Emmy had stayed out of his way, wary of his reputation and of his keen intelligence. She’d been afraid he’d take one look at her with those piercing blue eyes of his and see right through the demure wallflower she played in public, to the reckless criminal beneath. She’d been content to watch him from afar and dream impossible dreams. Until she’d heard he was off to fight Napoleon.
What if he was wounded, as her brother, Luc, had been at Trafalgar? What if he was killed? The thought of a world without Alexander Harland in it, even on the periphery of her life, seemed very bleak indeed.
Seize the day, her grandmother Camille had adjured her. Go after what you want, my love, but be careful. Emmy gave a wry smile. Not carpe diem. Carpe hominem. She would seize the man.
She curled her fingers on Harland’s sleeve and allowed him to lead her into the throng of couples forming in preparation of the next dance. The opening strains of a waltz sounded, and she