And then she had seen the Earl of Brampton. He had been unmistakable, his tall, broad-shouldered figure clothed in a black domino, a glimpse of blue satin coat and knee breeches, snowy white neckcloth and stockings beneath, his rather long dark hair waving back from his face, a token black mask covering his eyes. Margaret's heart had missed a beat even before she had realized that those eyes were fixed steadily on her as she sipped her lemonade and chatted animatedly to the flushed young man beside her.

Margaret had seen Brampton before at various assemblies and had a schoolgirlish infatuation for his handsome, romantic figure. He was older than she, and she had very sensibly concluded that he was beyond her touch. She would be content to worship from afar. But now, seeing his eyes still on her, she had flirted her fan daringly in his direction and turned her back on him, swinging the wide skirt with her hips as she did so.

One minute later she had felt a hand on her arm. "Will you do me the honor of dancing the next waltz with me, mademoiselle?" his low voice murmured seductively into her left ear.

Margaret had pretended to consult her little engagement booklet. "But yes, monsieur," she had replied, with theatrical accent intact, "I see that the next waltz is free."

He had laughed, outrageously interlaced his fingers with hers, and led her onto the floor, leaving the flushed young man gaping behind them.

"I hope you have been granted permission by one of the patronesses of Almack's to waltz, my little French angel," he had said, "or there will be scandal for you at unmasking time."

"But yes, of course," she had replied, tossing her head, "I have been permitted since this age ago."

He had laughed again and moved her into the dance, holding her a little too close for strict propriety. The tips of her breasts had touched his blue coat on two separate occasions as he had whirled her into a turn, doing nothing for her equilibrium. She had never been this close to a man before.