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To get a lover, on-the-shelf Camila has to learn the art of seduction and there's no better teacher than the charming Frederick Knightley. She's an eager student, he's a marvelous tutor. But what happens when they get to the lesson on kisses?

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DAINTY DALLIANCE - I. LADY CAMILA COMHAR

Once upon a masquerade ball in Brierwell, a lady sat peacefully inside a little cottage far from the manor, her white mask sitting quietly on a table.

The wind carried the distant music and cheers from the party. She could picture the masked guests dancing around the grand ballroom, the orchestra playing their instruments, gossips being whispered around, marriages being concocted.

For fourteen years now, Lady Camila Comhar had been witness to how the Remington Masked Ball grew from being just a night of gathering to a week-long party. She was there when guests came to honor a precious soul taken too soon. And she was there when everyone else forgot about him.

She folded the letter in her hand with a sigh and her eyes wandered to the small window, seeing nothing but a vast land lined by trees in the distance. Moonlight beamed on her white dress. She absently played with the top layer, staring as it sparkled in the light.

Her fingers froze when she looked up and found a silhouetted figure of a man crossing the yard toward the cottage. Snatching her white mask from the table, she stood and rushed to the wall by the window. Blinking, waiting, she hoped he'd pass by.

She peeked and her lips pursed when the man entered the garden. At the sound of the hinge of the gate, her jaw twitched. Maybe he was just curious. Or maybe he was here for a tryst.

Not here.

Camila put on her mask and exited through the back door, her steps gaining speed when she saw him looking down Philippa's grave.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice just above a whisper.

The man jumped back in surprise.

She could not clearly see his face in the darkness of the garden, but she could tell they weren't acquainted.

"Looking for a friend," he said, his surprise gone, replaced by a small smile as his eyes boldly assessed her from head to foot. "He left the gaming hall an hour ago. Couldn't find him since."

"Unless your friend is dead, you won't find him here."

"Ah, yes." He looked down at the grave, then at her. "And what are you doing here?" he asked, almost teasingly. His eyes wandered behind her. "Am I interrupting something, my lady?"

"You can't be here," she said, advancing toward him, ignoring the question.

He stepped back, stared at her from head to foot with interest, and asked, "Do you own Brierwell?"

Her hands formed into fists inside the folds of her dress. "No."

His brow arched. "Then I suppose we equally have no rights to be here." Without giving her a chance to argue, he pointed at Philippa's tombstone. "Who is Philippa?"

"You don't know her?"

He scoffed. "I wouldn't ask if I do."

"Then I suppose you have lesser right to be here than I do."

He chuckled, shoulders shaking.

Camila frowned. "You're foxed."

"I am. Quite." He straightened, and only then did she realize how imposing his frame was. If she walked any closer, her head would fall under his chin. And even closer, she'd fit into his shadow. But it was not his height. It was how he tilted his head and gazed at her that made her feel small. "Did you come from inside the cottage?"

"No," she lied, glad for the mask and the thin layer of tact and confidence it provided.

She lifted her chin as he looked down at her, staring squarely back at his eyes. His face was shadowed by the moonlight behind him, but she could tell his hair was dark, his eyes darker. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Why are you here?" he asked back.

"Answer my question first."

"If you give me your name, I will."

She pursed her lips, steadying the furious hammering inside her chest with practiced quiet breaths. "I'm here to meet someone. I'd appreciate if you leave."

"A tryst now, is it?" he said, narrowing his eyes. "You don't look like someone who escapes a masked ball to meet a lover."

"And what do I look like?" The question slipped out of her before she could stop them.

"Let's see," he murmured thoughtfully as he assessed her from head to foot. "Someone who doesn't enjoy the ball, obviously. Maybe you don't know anyone at the party?"

She scoffed.

"Or maybe you do, and it's simply too crowded for you. Which makes me wonder... Are you a foreigner? But you don't sound like one." He took a step closer in front of her. "You look like a rich girl who grew up secluded from the rest of society."

Camila's lips pursed.

He grinned and peered down at her, his gaze boring through her mask. "You've never had a lover, but you look like you need one."

Camila's let out a sigh. She had humored him long enough. "Please step back. I don't like brandy in my air."

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Kindly leave. The cottage and the garden are very dear to the Remingtons."

He stumbled back, and she scowled at his drunken state. Brushing hair off his forehead, he let his laughter die down before asking, "Are you friends with the Remingtons?"

"No."

"Then what right do you have to be the self-proclaimed protector of their precious cottage and its garden?"

Camila smiled. "I was born and raised here."

His smile completely vanished. "You said Brierwell doesn't belong to you."

"I'm a woman. I own nothing." It was her turn to eye him from head to foot. "And you're one step away from stepping over my niece's grave."

He looked behind him and stepped away from Philippa's gravestone. He broke into a smile and spread his arms wide. With a bow, he said, "I yield."

"Thank you," she said, stiffly stepping back.

He looked at her for a few more seconds before finally moving. Then he stopped, giving her a proper bow. "To answer your question, the name is Frederick Knightley, Viscount of Hamford."

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