“I do not mean to detain you,” he murmured, his tone soothing.

“Lack of manners,” she repeated.

“Yes. I was staring.”

“I noticed,” she said dryly.

“Forgive me.”

“No need. I am not upset.”

She waited for him to take some action. When he stepped out of the small circle and again gestured toward the main part of the rear garden, she shook her head in denial. Her mouth curved at his apparent haste to be rid of her.

“My name is Miss Amelia Benbridge.”

The man stilled visibly, his only movement the lift and fall of his chest. After a moment’s hesitation, he showed a leg in a courtly bow and said, “A pleasure, Miss Benbridge. I am Count Reynaldo Montoya.”

“Montoya,” she breathed, testing the name on her tongue. “Spanish, yet your accent is French.”

His head lifted, and he studied her closely, his gaze caressing the length of her body from the top of her elaborate coiffure down to her kid slippers. “Your surname is English, yet your features are enhanced by a foreign touch,” he pointed out in rebuttal.

“My mother was Spanish.”

“And you are enchanting.”

Amelia inhaled sharply, startled by how the simple compliment affected her. She heard such platitudes daily, and they held as much meaning as a comment on the weather. But Montoya’s delivery altered the words, imbuing them with feeling and an underlying urgency.

“It appears I must apologize again,” the count said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Allow me to escort you back before I make a further fool of myself.”

She reached out to him, then caught herself and clutched the stick of her mask with both hands instead. “Your cloak…Are you departing?”