The Humbrick Ball differed from other parties during the social season. It was not the scandals that happened there, nor the number of aristocrats who attended, their mistresses and the other activities throughout the duration of the ball. It was the secrecy attached to the week-long party; the simple rule everyone had to abide: Everyone leaves Humbrick, but everything else is left behind.

This year, everyone was eager to be rid of watchful eyes that were constantly present elsewhere. People were ready to indulge.

Belles from Belcourt were everywhere. So were the Royals. Ellise felt odd, standing in a ballroom filled with people who could easily plunge a dagger through her, and no one would be none the wiser until it was too late. Like walking around a chessboard, wary of everyone around you, expecting each piece and their likely moves, wondering which one they would take. Would they be wiser than her and surprise her? Or was she simply overestimating them and they were nothing but average players she could easily outfox?

The same questions had been bothering her for days. No—weeks. The constant anticipation was making her restless. She should have been using the time to make more plans, but thus far, she had done nothing but wait.

"You are doing it again," Dior said beside her, his voice loud enough only for her to hear. "Killing everyone with your eyes."

"Only those who look like they want to approach me." She looked around, aware that there were at least ten Belles in the room. "I wonder if it is safe to be around you. These Belles could very well be here to kill you."

His hand went to the small of her back, guiding her toward a group of gentlemen. "Then I should have invited Rothsker. He is the much preferred victim."

"Lady Renee has just declared her nephew missing again. Why would he be here?"

"I was jesting."

"I know." Her eyes caught sight of the black-haired beauty across the room. "Emsworth is here," she said, admiring Ruby in her vibrant red gown, standing beside Aaron Stanway, her flower. "She is beautiful. I quite liked her the first time we met." She looked up at him. "You should have at least tried bedding her. I heard she does not service Emsworth with sexual gratification."

"They are friends." He frowned at her. "You are interested in her."

She shrugged. "She is beautiful."

"She is a Belle, Elle."

"I know." She reached up to fix his cravat, deliberately sliding her palm over his chest before dropping her hand to her side. "But you would have to do."

He scoffed, shaking his head. Then his jaw tightened. She followed her gaze and found Sheridan Garmont in one corner, dressed in puce purple gown, smiling at a gentleman. "Why is she here?"

"To collect stories."

"You give her the stories. She is not supposed to be out in the open, Dior."

He sighed. "She believes she is already compromised."

"Then she might as well join the game?" she snapped. "This is a reckless move."

"Everything is reckless in Humbrick." He tore his eyes off Garmont and looked down at her as she picked up a glass of wine from a server.

She gulped it down, eliciting an amused frown from him. Handing the empty glass to a passing footman, she growled under her breath. "I hate this music."

He grabbed her hand. "We should walk around," he said, leading her into a lazy pace around the ballroom.

"What I need is for Macmier to get here."

"He will arrive on time," he said.

"He should be here by now—"

"Elle," he interrupted, squeezing her hand. "Stop."

"I did not wear this horrible, heavy gown to stop, Dior. We should—"

"You look beautiful in your gown," he said. "I would love to tear it off you later."

She threw him a mocking smile. "Other than a good sword fight with a woman from Belcourt, that is the only thing I'm looking forward to."

"We will get to that later," he said, voice thick with promise. "But first, walk and blow off steam. I would not want a restless lover tonight."

His words took her mind elsewhere then, giving her a promise of something she should not even anticipate, but she did because she trusted him enough to give it. As they walked, she could imagine the dipping mattress, the feel of skin and release.

"Lord Chester!" A young woman blocked their path, her face breaking into a big smile. "Miss St. Vincent," she added curtly, eyes flickering to their hands, before turning her charming smile back to Dior. "I am terribly glad you attended. I was told you have gone to Herst."

Ellise stared at the lady, who was obviously ignoring her presence. Lady Barbara Mathews. Of course, the same woman—and probably the only one—who had been stalking Dior since she first laid eyes on him when she debuted two years past.

A daughter of a viscount who tolerated her every whim, Lady Barbara had always told people she would be the future Lady Chester. Tonight, the woman was wearing too much colored feathers on her sleeves that she could easily float and take flight at any moment. Her fiery red hair was down, like many of the women in this ball, displaying just how woman she was. She adorned it with a tiny tiara of pearls and diamonds.

The lively music was suddenly too loud for Ellise, being in the same room as the enemies, in a silent battle of spying and waiting, weapons at the ready; and then confronted by one desperate soldier with a needle as her weapon, pricking her patience at the wrong places, pulling her away from her satisfying imagination mere seconds ago. Worse, the music grew louder, crescendoing through her threshold of patience, burgeoning her anxiety.

"Yes," Dior replied to the woman. "I hope you are enjoying your evening, my lady," he added, pulling Ellise to the side to circle the woman. But of course, Lady Barbara was relentless. She stepped—or jumped—and blocked their path again.

Ellise forced a tight smile. From the corner of her eye, she could see Robert doing the same. "Would you care for a dance, my lord?" Lady Barbara asked.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I have promised Miss St. Vincent a walk around the ballroom," Dior replied, pulling Ellise with him. But she remained rooted to the ground, staring at Lady Barbara, trapping the woman's gaze with hers. Was it because they were in Humbrick that this woman thought it was fine to openly ask an affianced man to schottische? "Elle," Dior said, clearing his throat.

"Then can I ask Lord Chester for a dance, Miss St. Vincent?" Lady Barbara asked, gaze and smile as shameful as her question.

"You just did, woman." Her lips barely moved as she spoke. "And he declined."

The lady's smile wavered slightly. "Did you just address me informally, Miss St. Vincent?"

"Would you prefer I call you by another name? I have quite a few better words."

"Good evening, Lady Barbara," Dior abruptly interrupted with a tight smile at the woman, tugging at Ellise's hand. "Elle."

She finally let him pull her away, giving Lady Barbara a taunting smile. The woman's face was flushed red by then, eyes as fiery as her hair.

Moments later, after two trips around the ballroom, the tips of her shoes kicking the seams of her ivory ballgown, Ellise was still restless. She could feel the leather straps around her ankle tighten as she dug her heels with each step.

"This is unlike you," Dior said near her ear.

"I know."

When he kept silent, she turned to him and threw him a questioning look. "You should take it easy. We just arrived from Herst yesterday."

She looked around. There was no sign that Macmier would be arriving. And if he were, she could not easily meet the man.

"Yesterday was my most productive thus far, to be honest," she grumbled under her breath.

"Putting on that gown, I believe, is also quite productive," he said. "It serves its purpose."

She stopped walking and held his gaze, her thoughts back to mattresses and pillows. "We should retire," she whispered.

His gaze darkened. "Are you certain?"

"Of course."

His hand went to the small of her back as he stepped closer, lips brushing against her temple as he murmured, "My chamber. Five minutes."

And without a word, he turned around and left.

Ellise grabbed another glass of wine as she waited. As she downed its contents, she saw Barbara rushing through the crowd, eyes on the vestibule of the ballroom where Dior just exited. She swallowed hard and set her empty glass on a nearby table and swiftly shadowed the woman.

As she expected, Barbara led her down upstairs and into the corridor that led to Dior's chamber. She could feel the leather straps around her ankle again. She could easily reach for it, perhaps teach this woman a lesson.

"Do you know what day it is?" Her question caused Barbara to jump in surprise and whirl around, facing her with wide eyes. "It's Monday night," she said, smiling at the woman. She stopped, just a few feet away, looking at Barbara up and down. "You should know the days I had to endure for this one particular Monday."

Barbara frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you lost?" she asked instead of addressing the woman's question.

"N-no."

"Are you here to knock on my fiancé's door?"

The woman sneered. "He is not your husband. And this is Humbrick."

"And it is Monday."

"Why do you blabber about Monday and—"

The woman stopped when Ellise stepped closer without warning, saying, "Lord Chester reserves Mondays for me, darling," she said, leaning closer until her mouth were almost touching the woman's cheek. "You are welcome to join us if you wish."

Barbara jumped away, face scarlet, eyes frantic. "Y-you—W-why would you suggest such repugnant act—"

"Then you are welcome to leave," she droned with mock disappointment, walking past the woman. "If I see you anywhere around my gentleman again, woman, I would be far less accommodating."

The woman's face crumpled. "You are as they say you are, you odd... strange... wench."

"Find better words, Barbara," she droned. "Now, move along."

She scoffed when Barbara spun on her heels and stalked away. Then she turned and stood outside Dior's chamber. And she knocked.

*****

"Surely it will not hurt," she said. Robert bit a smile as he loosened his cravat. Ellise was staring at the giant bed in the center of the room, her form almost a silhouette against the candle at the head of the bed. It was not entirely dark. Apart from the candle, the faint blue moonlight filtering through the open window also provided guidance, but not enough to reveal colors.

She faced him fully. "How many women have you had?"

"Not a lot. I keep my lovers longer than most."

"Because you get attached to them or you simply do not find a reason to find more?"

"The latter. And also because I know how to satisfy."

She nodded. "Then you are better at this than I."

"Apparently so."

She moistened her lips and fell quiet.

Robert eyed her carefully. "Elle, we do not have to do this if you are unsure—"

"I want to," she snapped. "Then I shall decide if I would like to do it again."

"I may have to work harder then."

"I know you will."

His body was starting to notice her presence, and it was reacting as it should. "How would you like me to go? Slow?"

For some odd reason, this was not like their previous trysts. Because this time they knew it was actually going to happen.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I doubt I would want that."

He took a breath and slowly let it out, holding her gaze, seeing the play of many things there: curiosity and uncertainty wrapped in confidence.

He stood just close enough so he could feel her heat. "I will not stop the moment I kiss you. Take this as a warning. Are you certain?" he asked with an amused smile.

She nodded, swallowed. The determined look in her eyes flooded him with images of things he wanted to do to her, of the different ways she would beg.

Robert slowly bent his head, and her smell quickly filled him. Books. Coat. Shaving lather. Linen—everything familiar. A fever ran through him, slowly centering to where he needed her.

The tip of his nose touched hers, nuzzled. His eyes wandered down to her mouth. And slowly he dipped lower, lips touching hers to tease and test. Moist, soft. He kissed her then, tasting her. For that's what she was his arms—not a woman, but simply Ellise St. Vincent. An entirely different being.

She opened wider, both of them by now too familiar with the act. But it still felt different every time. Their breaths turned heavier. He sucked her tongue into his and they found, bringing them one step closer, one step needy.

"I always liked your kisses," she confessed against his mouth, hands on his nape, playing with his hair.

"I know. So do I." He tugged at her lower lip and she smiled, doing the same before their mouths opened wide for another kiss. She pressed closer and pulled her hair free from its band while he unbuttoned her dress restlessly, then slowly as he pulled back to stare, mesmerized.

He cursed then, raking his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer to drag his mouth along her jaw, leaving a wet trail of tongue and teeth. "I think I want you naked," she said, panting.

"I believe I want you the same." He whispered, popping the last button. Then he stepped back, just enough to pull the dress down. She did not even flinch, her confidence disarming. Of course, she was not wearing a corset. This was Ellise St. Vincent, after all—friend, comrade, rival in some way. Soon-to-be-lover.

The thought caused his chest to blow. With pride? Passion? Lust? It could be anything, really.

The heavy gown pooled around her feet, and she stepped out of them in naught but her shift. His gaze faltered because the sight of Ellise in a shift was more than magnificent; because she was robed in confidence that only she could exude. The desire was intense as the pride he would often feel every time she held a weapon. And one was strapped around an ankle.

"Of course, you have a dagger," he drawled, shrugging out of his coat. His shirt followed, falling on the floor over her gown.

She watched as he did so, calm and poised. That and her current state of undress made him want to devour her there and then, to bury himself deep inside her, to discover how warm she was, how she would clasp around him. How they would fit. But also he wanted to hear her sounds as he slowly tormented her. He wanted to destroy the calm and strong façade; to witness her struggle for release. He wanted her writhing and helpless beneath him for once in his life. Or more if she would allow it.

He stepped closer, hands on her hips, her heat searing through the thin material of her shift, giving him a hint of flesh underneath. "Do you know how this goes?" he asked, clasping the fabric into his fist.

A shaky breath escaped her lips. "I have an idea on the subject."

He nuzzled her nose with his, moving away when she sought his mouth, then moved back in to steal a kiss. "And what have you found?"

Her lids fluttered halfway as his hands kneaded her hips, gathering more fabric of her shift in his fists as he did so, inching them higher, exposing her. "That a man enjoys it."

"We do. And what for the woman?"

"I would have to write the book myself."

He chuckled. "Not very helpful books."

"Very unhelpful."

One hand slithered between her legs and her hands clutched his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin; her breathing came out short, hitching as he moved his hand. His mouth sought hers in a soft, lazy kiss, mirroring his fingers, slowly building an ember. Ellise wound one arm around his shoulder and she looked down between them, boldly staring at where his hand disappeared beneath the bundle of fabric. He sought her lower lip, nibbled and tugged.

He hissed a curse. He needed her now. But she felt so good he did not want to end this; she sounded beautiful, gasping softly in his mouth, sharing his hot breath. It was musical, Robert thought, how their pants echoed in the room, following a natural rhythm, disappearing in the shadowed corners.

He backed her to the foot of the bed and pushed her to sit. She clutched his arm when he withdrew his hand, nails digging, and he gave it back to her, this time a little near enough. A strangled sound escaped her parted lips when he gave just a little more. Seeking. Deeper. Firm.

He leaned down and kissed her, guiding her on her back. "No..." she protested when he withdrew his fingers and hovered over her.

"What do you want?" he asked, taking her hands in his, sliding them high over her head, stretching her beneath him. She squirmed and tried to tug free. Of course, she would; she never enjoyed being vulnerable. And right now, her hands pinned on the mattress, his wide form looming over her, she was helpless.

"What do you want?" he asked against her mouth, stepping between her legs, spreading them wider. He grazed her thighs with the rough material of his trousers.

"This... and more," she said through gritted teeth.

A grunt rumbled out of him, feeling her softness against his heavy arousal. She was just a fabric away, moist and within his reach. Her breath hitched when he slid against it once. She whimpered when he did it again. And again. Then more, unable to help himself. He growled another curse into her neck, and more guttural sounds escaped him as he moved against her, loving the torture. "Good God, Elle..." He swallowed, voice strained, "... so good."

Her hands tugged free and he let her because he was as restless. Perhaps later there would be time for slow. She clutched the sheets above her and tugged. Her head arched back, her hips moving frantically beneath the friction of his trousers, of her shift against her breast as he took it into his mouth, soaking the thin material. Not quite satisfied, he shoved her shift higher to capture her bare breast into his mouth, and a deep groan of relief vibrated from both of them.

Who would have thought they would be like this? He meant to tell her that, but her hand clasped his hair, and he forgot because the torture was becoming relentless. Grinding against her as if he was already inside her, he built a fire.

"I think it's time," she choked out, her words laced with uncertainty because she was just as lost. It was there in her half-opened eyes which reflected the flickering candlelight, in the flush of her cheeks, the open mouth, the heaving chest.

"Not quite," he said, kissing her hungrily again before he left her to kneel on the floor between her legs. He pulled her hips closer and claimed her with his mouth, laving as if it was what he intended to do from the start.

He pushed her back on the bed with one hand flat on her abdomen when she writhed beneath him, hissing orders to stop.

No, don't.

Please, there.

Stop it. I can't.

Yes.

"Dior," she called, rising on her elbows, mouth open, nostrils flared, her brown hair a glorious mess as she stared down at him between her legs, as if she was trying to decide if she should murder him now or later. Then she fell back in surrender, a helpless heap on the bed, her digging deep into the mattress as she moved in rhythm with his mouth and hands, utterly shameless in taking pleasure, just like the many times they tortured each other in the last few weeks.

While she was heady with passion, Robert freed himself from his trousers and swiftly slid higher to find her mouth, swallowing her cries of protest, taking her knees, pressed them over her chest, and buried himself into her in one swift motion.

She stiffened.

Panting, then swallowed. "Does it hurt?"

"You could have warned me." She gritted out, biting his lip. "But no, it does not hurt as much as I expected."

"Good," he smiled before taking her mouth, moving slow. Another torture; sliding in and out in long, painful strokes.

"This feels so good." He shook above her, shoulders taut as tried to master himself.

She chased his mouth for a heated kiss. "Good..." she breathed, swallowing hard, her eyes fluttering open to gaze at him. "It's so good." Her nails dug at his back. "More."

He blindly unstrapped the dagger from her ankle, throwing it on the floor, and pushed her knees to her chest. "More," he promised as his pace raced with their heartbeats. The searing heat was unbearable now, and he could tell she was feeling it, too. She was restless beneath him, meeting each thrust, as greedy as he was, mouth open against his jaw, teeth grazing skin.

Her head fell back, and she choked on words that could have been blasphemous or pleading. He watched her flushed face. Her eyes were closed again, her face scarlet as she strained her neck, digging her head into the mattress. His fingers raked through her hair, then grasped just enough to make her love the pain.

No one else would see her this way, he thought. Not another soul could witness how she would lose control and offer herself in surrender. And he would hate to have another hear her beg like she was now, crying for them to give her what she wanted.

His muscles bunched as he lowered himself on his forearms. Thrusting her deeper into the mattress, tormenting her because this was profound and surreal. He had imagined this, yet why could he not believe it? She—her sounds, her skin, her unspoken thoughts—were as familiar as the touch of cotton fabric on his skin, but still as different with each clothing. She was like the constant changing season, but still as new as every first snowfall in winter. An inveterate part of his being that changed with each touch, shifting with each breath.

Finally, she went rigid, eyes tight as a strangled sob drifted through her lips as she shattered. And Robert let go, like he was chasing wind, racing for his own release. Mouth open against her neck in a soundless cry, he plunged himself into an endless groundswell of consciousness and sensations.

The heat was immense, scattering to the tips of his fingers. He fell onto her and his hands wound around her shoulder and waist, hips jerking a few more times as he spent himself into her.

A shudder ran through them both. Then the cool night wind. And then the wonder and surprise. They had just discovered something.

Breathless and panting, he rolled to the side, taking her with him, and met her eyes. "Unexpected?"

"I honestly thought it would be a chore," she admitted, running fingers through his hair, a small smile curling her swollen mouth.

"A bloody good chore." Robert looked over his shoulders. Spotting where their clothes were, sensing his trousers still around his ankles, he scoffed. He rolled his head back down toward her and buried his face in her neck, tasting salty sweat and heated skin. "Elle, we are both bloody fortunate. We shall enjoy being lovers."

He felt her swallow. "I expect more of this."

He kissed his way back to her mouth, rolling her on her back again. "There are many ways to do this, you know. Now that I've had a sample, I'm quite eager to show you more," he said, pressing his hips closer, reminding her they were still connected.

"Now?"

He groaned. "Later."

She squirmed beneath him. "You're not yet ready."

He smiled against her lips. "No."

She blinked impatiently. "Then when will you be?"

"A couple more minutes," he said, kissing her again.

She fell quiet. Then a curious frown. "How many ways?"

He bit her lower lip. "Many. Hours of many."

"Interesting."

"Exhilarating too."

"Perfect." She leaned away just enough to ask, "How did I do?"

He groaned into her neck. "Like the first time you beat me at fencing."

Much later, after they fell asleep, sated and completely naked, Robert's valet knocked on the door and slipped into the room. The man's eyes widened when he saw Ellise sleeping flat on her chest, her naked back and hips exposed. He stiffly turned around as Robert pulled the covers higher and asked, "What is it?"

"He has arrived, my lord," the valet murmured over his shoulder.

Robert nudged Ellise awake, and as she stirred, he pulled the covers higher to her shoulders. "And?" he asked.

"The crown prince is here with the princess."

Ellise grinned. "Perfect," she croaked.

"You can leave now, Pier."

"G-good night, my lord," the valet said, bowing at the window before he disappeared, sidestepping toward the door.

"We should go down," Ellise said, climbing over him.

He caught her in his arms, throwing her back on the bed. "No."

She glared at him. "Of course, we are."

"No. We wait until the morrow."

"Because you intend to debauch me again, or it is a bad idea to show ourselves downstairs?"

"Both. And also," he said, stripping her of the sheets. "They do not have to see us."

She wound her arms around his neck. "But you will bring me Macmier tomorrow."

"I promise," he murmured in her mouth.

She grinned against his smile. "Are you quite ready to steal a princess?"