Halfway through the dance, as the movements of the waltz had taken them close to the doors opening onto the terrace, Brampton had murmured into her ear, "You waltz divinely, my angel, but I think a walk in the cool garden with you would be even more heavenly at the moment."

Everything in Margaret's training directed her to put a firm end to such an obviously improper suggestion. But Margaret had been taking a night off from her training. She had stopped close to a door, consulted her booklet, shut it with a decisive snap, and smiled dazzlingly at the earl.

"But what a coincidence, monsieur," she had lied smoothly. "I see that the next six dances are free."

He had leaned closer so that he could speak directly into her ear. "You are a little minx, my angel," he had murmured, drawing her hand through his arm and stepping out onto the terrace with her.

Other couples had been walking quietly on the terrace, the ladies fanning themselves in the cool night air. Brampton had led his prize down into the garden, where they could find a more secluded walk among the trees and flowers. He had drawn to a halt among some shady trees, leaning his back against a sturdy trunk and drawing her into the circle of his arms. Margaret had suppressed a quiver of panic.

"My little angel, let us dispense with the masks, shall we?" he had said, lifting his own away from his face so that she had gasped at the closeness of his very handsome face and blue eyes.

"No, no, monsieur," she had cried in alarm, putting a protective hand, palm outward, in front of her face, "it is vital that my identity be not revealed. We French have to beware of spies, n'est-ce pas?"

He had chuckled. "Ah, yes, Madame Guillotine is not kind to French angels. Well, let me taste these lips, little one, and see if I can guess your identity. Have they been kissed before?"