At Last Comes Love by Mary Balogh

though they still remained there. She could have broken away quite easily and hurried on her way out of the ballroom. Instead she looked up at him and waited to see what he would say next.

    He had pursed his lips, and his very dark eyes—surely they could not be literally black?—gazed steadily and boldly back at her.

    He appeared to be quite alone. Some instinct told Margaret that he was not the sort of man with whom she ought to be talking, especially without a formal introduction. But here she was standing very close to him, her hands splayed on his chest, his clasping the bare flesh of her upper arms between her sleeves and her gloves. And they had been standing thus for more seconds than any ordinary collision ought to have occasioned. They ought to have sprung apart, both embarrassed and both apologizing profusely.

    Oh, goodness.

    She pushed at his chest again and, when he still did not release his hold on her arms, she dropped her own to her sides. Her back prickled. Half the ton was somewhere behind her. Including her family. And including Crispin Dew. And the Marquess of Allingham.

    “I am afraid it does,” the stranger said at last in answer to her question. “If I dash off immediately in pursuit of a special license, you see, and then someone to perform the ceremony, this particular set will surely be over by the time I return. And someone else will have discovered you and eloped toScotland with you and left me clutching a useless document. If we are to both dance and marry, it must be done in that order, I am afraid—much as I am flattered by your eagerness to proceed to the nuptials without further delay.”

    How very outrageous he was, whoever he might be. Margaret ought not to have laughed—she ought to have been offended by the levity of his words, absurd and quick-witted though they were.

    But she laughed.

    Hedid not. He gazed intently at her and dropped his hands to his sides at last.

    “Dance with me now,” he said, “and tomorrow morning I will procure that special license. It is a promise.”

    It was a strange joke. Yet he showed no sign of finding it amusing.
    Margaret found herself shivering slightly despite the fact that the smile lingered on her face.

    She really ought to run from him as fast as her feet would carry her and keep the whole width or length of the ballroom between them for the rest of the evening. Her own words had been very indiscreet.
    Does it have to be in that order ? Had she really spoken them aloud?
    But his answer, alas, proved that she had.

    Who on earth was he? She had never set eyes on him before tonight.

    She was sure of that.

    She did not run.

    “Thank you, sir,” she said instead. “I will dance with you.”

    It would be better to do that than run away simply because the Marquess of Allingham, whose hand she had refused three separate times, had chosen to betroth himself to someone else. And because Crispin was at the ball, and she had told him she was betrothed.

    The stranger inclined his head and offered his arm to lead her out to join the other dancers. It surprised Margaret to discover that the dancing had still not begun. That collision and the bizarre exchange of words that had followed it must all have happened within a minute or two at the longest.

    The arm beneath her hand was very solid indeed, she noticed. She also noticed as she walked beside him that her initial impression of his physique had not been mistaken. His black evening coat molded a powerful frame like a second skin. His long legs looked equally well muscled. He was taller than she by several inches, though she was a tall woman. And then there was that harsh, dark, almost ugly face.

    It struck her that he might be a frightening adversary.

    “It occurs to me,” he said, “that if I am to be granted a special license tomorrow, I ought to know the name of my bride. And her place of residence. It would be mildly irritating to pry myself away from my bed at some ungodly