I shook my head, out of breath. “It’s too hot, even for a waltz.”

Colin Hargreaves, a man always capable of anticipating a lady’s every need, whim, and—sometimes more importantly—desire, steered me through the crowds in both the main room and its antechamber until we’d reached the landing of the grand staircase. Here, leaning against the gilded railing, I was considerably less cramped. I could almost breathe.

“Better?” Colin asked, removing two champagne flutes from the tray held by a waiter who disappeared with swift precision before we could thank him.

“Much.” I lowered my fan—cerise silk to match my dress—and gulped the cool drink.

Colin touched my cheek. “Easy, my dear, or I’ll have to carry you home in disgrace.”

“The thought of you throwing me over your shoulder is hardly a disincentive.” I tilted the glass again and drained it, marveling at how handsome my husband was. His neat black jacket was perfectly tailored, his crisp shirt and narrow tie both spotless white, his skin tanned from the summer sun and flushed from dancing.

“I should hope not,” he said, his dark eyes full of the sort of heat to which, unlike that caused by extremes of weather, I would not object.

“If anything, it encourages me to overindulge. I may need quite a bit more champagne.”

“Champagne or not, I’ve plans for you when we get home,” he said. “Dancing with you always has a profound effect on me.” In the early days of our acquaintance, after the death of my first husband, Colin had inquired whether the conventions of mourning helped me manage my grief. I’d told him no, and admitted to keenly missing dancing. He’d taken me in his arms at once, there in my drawing room, and the waltz we shared left me breathless, tingling, and more than a little confused. All these years later, the memory of that evening never failed to make me tremble with desire. My eyes met his and I felt the delicious anticipation that comes with waiting for a kiss.