Morgan Dunover stood at the farthest end of the room clutching a champagne flute for dear life.

            This was a place where he should be in his element. He has been raised in functions like this. His earliest memories were of well-dressed, well-bred people milling around the enormous, medieval reception hall at Ashfield House, a sea of black formal clothing and crystal. He had played the piano, the perfect little earl, in the drawing room, amusement for the parties. When he had been very little, his indulgent parents had let him sit underneath the enormous dining room table and listen to the conversation above him, staring at the well-clad legs, always with the stipulation that he was not to touch. He remembered the dimness of the sanctuary below the dining room table vividly. It had been a splendid place to hide out. He had done it even when there weren't dinner parties, when the tours went through the house.

            So he should have been in his element. He normally was thoroughly in his element. He was not a man who minded formal clothing, knew how to knot a cravat and wear a proper jacket. But he was feeling distinctly out of his element, because he was fearing that Colin might actually be right. And Colin was so very seldom right. Not that Colin was right about him being in love with Vivvie. The idea was downright foolish. But Colin might be right about the fact that he had always tried to avoid Vivvie. The force of her frightened him. She had more personality than he felt quite able to handle. Even from acros the room, the magnetism that radiated around her was tangible. She was dressed in a color the exact shade of the merlot they'd served at dinner. It swooped low and daring over her cleavage and wrapped itself snugly around those hips. Colin was also right about that. Vivvie Westcott had the sort of lush, full figure men dreamed about, those perfect breasts, the pinch at the waist, the hips his hands actually itched to grab. Yes, he had to avoid Vivvie Westcott, because he had a case of outrageous lust regarding her.

            He thought he needed more champagne. Whole swimming pools worth of champagne might not be enough.

=======

She loved this. Vivvie stood next to Evan, making clever small talk with the wife of a prominent MP, and thought how she loved this. Her feet ached from the heels, and she was hungry because she hadn't eaten much dinner, and the smile on her face was beginning to feel fixed, but nevertheless, she loved this. All of it. She loved the challenge of meeting new people, entertaining even those she disliked. She loved it. And she especially liked the light-headed feeling of the bubbles of champagne hitting her empty stomach.

            "Look at you," her brother said, materializing before her, his mouth curved into a fond smile. "I didn't even recognize you. I had to have one of the lovestruck young bucks tell me who you were."

            "Stop," she said, as he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

            "Really, Vivvie, the dress is divine. You look absolutely lovely."

            "Where's the new girl?" Vivvie asked, craning her head around Geoff to try to catch sight of Victoria, the pretty, ambitious blonde Geoff had recently begun dating. Evan had known Victoria. It had been Vivvie's idea to introduce the two of them, and she was anxious to see how her latest matchmaking endeavour had worked out.

            "Vivvie, you're absolutely right," Geoff informed her, solemnly.

            "What?" Vivvie stopped looking for Victoria, blinked up at her brother. "About what?"

            "Victoria's perfect. I've already proposed to her."

            Vivvie was speechless. It had worked! She had done it! She had successfully set somebody up! "Oh, Geoff-" she began, at which point he burst out laughing. She scowled at him.

            "I had to do it. The look on your face. I haven't seen you look so triumphant since you tricked Michael into taking that mousy little girl on a date."

            "Her name was Linda, and she was sweet."

            "Right. And Michael had the most beautiful girls on earth chasing after him. He's not even mature enough to be looking past looks to personality now, never mind back then."

            "I thought it was worth a shot. Seriously, do you like Victoria?"

            He smiled indulgently. "Yes, I like her."

            "She's ambitious. Like you. I thought that might-"

            "I'm not ambitious. That's a misconception-"

            "I'm sorry, Geoff," Evan interrupted, smoothly, "but the Duke and Duchess of Ashfield, Vivvie-"

            "The Duke and Duchess of Ashfield?" Vivvie stood up a little straighter, looked past Geoff to the couple standing just beyond him. Richly and conservatively dressed, the Duke and Duchess of Ashfield looked as if they had just stepped out of an oil portrait. They were both tall. The Duke had a touch of Morgan about him, in the crinkly hazel eyes, the confidence of the bearing, the casual tilt of the head. The Duchess had been a beauty in her day, and still retained an air of dazzle. She did not need to be dressed in haute couture to make heads turn after her. She had an air of elegance that lingered around her, unforced, unprepossessing, totally lacking in arrogance or pretension, an air so unthreatening that Vivvie, looking at her, couldn't help but think that she must be a wonderful mother. Or, at the very least, a normal mother. "Your Graces," she said, sending them her most smooth and practiced smile.

            "Please," replied the Duke of Ashfield. "I am David, and my wife is Gwendolen. It is foolish to call us Graces."

            "Considering he has never had any grace," contributed Gwendolen Dunover, the Duchess of Ashfield. "I have been so anxious to meet you, Vivvie. May I call you Vivvie?"

            "Naturally-"

            "I have been told that you're a psychologist, is that true?"

            Vivvie had the dazed feeling that she was being interrogated. "Yes-"

            "You work with children, yes?"

            "Yes." This was true. Not her dream job by any stretch of the imagination, awful as it was to admit it. There were some people who had the temperament to work with the desperate youths that inhabited London. She, unfortunately, had a mind more scientific than compassionate. She wasn't sure if it was possible to make one's mind more compassionate by subjecting it to the constant tension of the place where she currently worked.

            "I would love to tag along with you one day," said Gwendolen Dunover, Duchess of Ashfield.

            "W-What?" stammered Vivvie, caught entirely off-guard. Her workplace did not seem like the ideal place for the Duchess of Ashfield to be.

            "I think my readers would be interested in it. I think it would make a fascinating column."

            Readers? Column? There was obviously something here that Vivvie was missing. Rather than admitting her ignorance, she smiled charmingly. "Well, if you think so. You would know better than I. We should definitely set a day for when you could come down."

            Gwendolen fairly beamed with pleasure, and Vivvie was relieved. For some reason, she felt it was important to make the best impression on these people. She could not understand why, but it was a nagging instinct inside her.

            She decided to change the subject. "I was at Oxford with your son," she said, which was chiefly what she was interested in at that moment, anyway.

            A bit of surprise showed on their faces. "Were you?" said David, and then, "Well, yes, I suppose the two of you are of similar ages."

            "We were actually the same year at Oxford. And I was wondering if you would send him my regards. I wanted to thank him for an apricot tart he bought me." There! Morgan Dunover would realize that she had recognized him that day in the bakery. She had just been a little slow on the uptake.

            "Did he buy you an apricot tart?" Gwendolen asked. "He bought me some, too. It was very sweet of him, as they are my absolute favorite."

            "Mine, too," Vivvie admitted.

            "If you want to thank him for the tart," remarked David, "why don't you thank him in person?"

            "Well, I-" Vivvie began.

            Gwendolen frowned in annoyance. "You mean, he hasn't been through the receiving line yet?" She looked out over the crowd. "You would think we never taught him any manners."

            "Morgan is here?" She hadn't seen him, and they had been through dinner. She had probably thought he was a waiter or something. My God, why couldn't she just recognize the man?

            "Right here, in fact," announced Morgan's voice, drily.

            And there he was. Right in front of her. Apparently snagged out of the crowd by his father, because David's hand was dropping from his son's sleeve. And she did recognize him. Relief flooded her. She had thought maybe he was some sort of sorcerer, constantly capable of erasing her memory of him. But here he was in front of her, just as she recalled him from the day at the bakery, except better-dressed, and looking a little miserable.

            "Morgan," she said, sending him her best smile.

            He frowned, sent her that quick, anachronistic bow he had. "Miss Westcott."

            "Vivvie, please. I was asking your parents to thank you for the tart."

            "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said, a little stiffly.

            She kept smiling, undeterred. Some men were difficult to charm. She invariably liked these men. "We didn't get to catch up at the bakery."

            He smiled now, but it was a dry, sardonic smile. "No, we didn't. It was such a shame, too. We've so many friends in common to discuss."

            She almost laughed. There was something unaccountably amusing about this man. "We should catch up. Would you grant me a dance?"

            He took a literal step back, alarm written on his posture. "Would I grant you a what?"

            "A dance. A dance with the hostess. Cannot be turned down." She winked at the Duke and Duchess of Ashfield, who looked as frankly astonished as their son. "If you would excuse us for a second...?" Evan was deeply engrossed with a fellow MP a few feet away. She glanced at her brother for help.

            "Your Grace," he said, instantly, stepping forward. "I read with great interest your column on the National Portrait Gallery's curator."

            Thank God. Geoff was almost as good as her at small talk. And since she was pretty damn good, that was high praise. She tucked her hand familiarly into Morgan's elbow, and he bent his arm to accommodate her automatically. He also led her out onto the dance floor, settled his hand primly at her waist, lifted her other hand loosely, all with an air of doing it because he couldn't think what else to do.

            Objectively, he was a good dancer. At least he could hold the beat. Evan could not, which was why they never danced.

            "You're a good dancer." She sent an encouraging smile up at him.

            He narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you up to?"

            She felt the smile fade, helpless to maintain it. His suspicion irritated her. "What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

            "I have never known you not to have some sort of scheme in your head," he replied, flatly.

            "Oh, really? You and I have never exchanged two words, other than you recognizing me immediately in the bakery. It's unfair of you to behave as if we're long-term acquaintances. And I recognized you. As soon as you left the bakery, I remembered your name. You caught me off-guard. And forgive me if you weren't the foremost of my university memories. Honestly, you must admit that we weren't friends at university. The real question is why I was at the foremost of your university memories."

            "Your picture, Vivvie, is all over. It isn't a huge stretch of the imagination to think that I would recognize you."

            "No one else recognizes me."

            "It's a shame how few people make a note of what The Latest looks like."

            "'The Latest?'" she repeated, and was silent for a couple of seconds. She kept her eyes riveted on his, because that usually caused people to fidget. Morgan Dunover remained calm, swayed them to the beat, his eyes an impassive shade of brown sliced through with green. "Well," she said. "Thanks for that."

            He fidgeted then. A slight falter, dropped his eyes momentarily, cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

            "Let's call a truce, Morgan."

            He sent her a faint smile. "I'm not sure we know each other well enough to be fighting."

            She returned the smile, more strongly. "Your parents are lovely."

            "You have Evan's knack of saying the right thing, but with a lot more charm."

            "I'm going to take that as a compliment. They are lovely."

            "Thank you. They are."

            "And they're pretty good at locating you when you're trying to hide," she grinned.

            "I wasn't hiding. I hadn't gotten around to the receiving line yet."

            "You were pretty inconspicuous during dinner."

            "It's a talent I have."

            "I've noticed. I was actually looking for you and I couldn't spot you. Where were you?"

            "Let's just say I was close enough to notice that you matched the wine."

            She looked confused. "How's that?"

            "Your dress. Matched the wine."

            "Oh." She looked down at her dress. "Not purposely."

            "Also, you didn't eat much."

            "Ladies don't eat in public."

            He laughed, a sound that caught her off-guard. It was a pleasant sound, rich, warm, like audible velvet. She blinked up at him. "What century are you from? ‘Ladies don't eat in public.'"

            She decided it was time to change the subject. "Can I ask you a question?"

            "I would be glad to share any twenty-first century mores you might wish to learn."

            "This is quite something coming from a man who's an earl."

            "I can't help that."

            "You could help bowing all over the place."

            His face was blank. "Bowing?"

            She didn't think Morgan Dunover was that good a liar, so the bowing could only be a habit he was completely unaware of. To spare him the embarassment, she quickly asked him her originally intended question. "Your mother writes a column?"

            He looked reluctant to follow the subject change but went along with it. "Yes. She's Gwen Longworth."

            "'London Personality?'"

            "Yes."

            "I had no idea. Oh, no." Her face fell.

            "'Oh, no' what?"

            "She wants to do a column on me."

            "Really?" Morgan arched an eyebrow. "I should think you'd be delighted."

            "Delighted?" Vivvie worried at her lower lip. "I'm just not that-"

            Morgan took an abrupt step backward, and she realized at that moment that they had, in the course of dancing, drifted closer together. The step backward put air between them, but startled her. She stopped talking, looked up at him. His gaze was riveted on her mouth, and those impassive hazel eyes no longer looked quite so impassive. Not quite so hazel, either. Greener, suddenly. A nice, woodsy, foresty green. Like sunlight in a forest. Only a good deal hotter. And the realization burst over her sharply. Morgan Dunover wanted very badly to kiss her.

            "Miss Westcott?"

            She jumped back, out of Morgan's touch, and he immediately stuck his hands deep in his pockets and tried to regain that cool impassivity that usually lingered around him. She turned quickly to the waiter who had called her name. "Yes?" Dammit, why did she sound breathless? "What is it?"

            "Mr. Thorne-Brighton requests your presence."

            "Oh. Right. Yes." She looked at Morgan. "I-"

            "Please." One of those silly bows again. "Of course."

            She started to hurry away, stopped and looked back at him. He was standing exactly where she'd left him, in the middle of the dance floor, hands in his pockets. He was not looking at her.

-------

Morgan took a couple of deep breaths in the center of the dance floor, where he was sure he now looked like an idiot, and surely everyone had noticed, because he had been dancing with a woman who nobody could take their eyes off of. He was recalling now why he had always avoided her. There was nothing about her that he could resist. She announced they were dancing, tucked her perfect hand against his arm, and he could do nothing but lead her to the dance floor, despite the fact that he didn't really want to dance with her. Up close, hands full of the heat of her, brain cloudy with the scent of her, he realized again how terrifyingly perfect she was. There was nothing about her that wasn't appealing to him. Not the freckles dotted playfully over her skin, not the slightly crooked mouth that fascinated him, not the impossibly bright brown eyes, not the rich dark hair that swung tantalizingly just above her shoulders. Nothing about her didn't call to him, and he hated her for it.

            He hated her because they were so  incompatible. He was ridiculously attracted to her in a physical sense, but he didn't like her. He disliked the way everything to her was always a game. He disliked how she simpered and smiled at everyone, batting those eyelashes and swaying those hips and getting exactly what she wanted. He disliked it especially because he fell for it so easily, even knowing he was being played. He thoroughly disliked the woman.

            And, my God, he would sell his soul for an hour with Vivvie Westcott, sans clothing.

            Gathering himself, he walked stiffly off the dance floor. His parents were still talking with Vivvie's brother, which didn't really surprise him. His father was formally trained as a barrister. That gave him plenty in common with Geoff. The group of them all looked up when he walked over, and Geoff asked, looking past Morgan, "Where's Viv?"

            "Evan requested her presence," Morgan replied, making a conscious effort not to sound as if he disapproved of a woman who jumped up and ran whenever Evan Thorne-Brighton snapped his fingers.

            "Ah." Geoff, frowning, glanced out over the crowd, apparently in search of his sister, then turned back to the cluster of Dunovers. "It was a pleasure meeting all of you," he assured them, with a charming smile that resembled his sister's.

            "And you." Morgan watched his mother shake Geoff's hand effusively. Young and old succumbed to the Westcott charm.

            "I didn't realize you and Vivvie Westcott were such good friends," his father said to him, after Geoff had moved away.

            "We're not," Morgan denied, simply.

            "Take your hands out of your pockets," his mother fussed, momentarily. "You're wrinkling the line of your coat. And what do you mean you're not friends with Vivvie Westcott? You bought her an apricot tart-"

"I was being polite-"

"And she hasn't danced with anyone all night. But you."

"That's because she's up to something."

            His mother laughed merrily, dismissing his suspicions lightly. "'Up to something?' What could the girl possibly be up to, Morgan?"

            "I don't know the particulars of what she's up to, but I do know for a fact that Vivvie Westcott is always up to something," Morgan replied, darkly.

            "Oh, you're being-" began his mother, but she was cut off by a female purring at him, "Lord Airesdale."

            Normally Morgan's manners were not only impeccable but also automatic. He had forgotten that another effect Vivvie Westcott had on him was to cause him to forget these manners. He actually had to work to suppress rolling his eyes before he turned to the woman, smiling politely. She was about Vivvie's age, a little shorter, hair and eyes a shade lighter and glossier, and she was sending him one of those promising smiles that Morgan had been getting since he was thirteen.

            He wasn't in the mood for it, but he smiled anyhow and said, "Yes?"

            "It's so good to see you again," she squealed, and instantly tossed her arms around his neck and gave him a violent hug.

            Morgan closed his eyes. Bloody hell. How did this woman think she knew him? Did she know him at all? Or was this her brilliant way of starting a conversation with him? "Um, thanks," said Morgan, weakly.

            She drew back, looked at him with two perfectly plucked eyebrows drawn together in admonishment. "You don't remember me!"

            "I-" stammered Morgan, trying to place her face. But there was nothing remarkable about it that would have made her stand out from the crowd. She was so conventionally, predictably beautiful, so immaculately presented, that he would never have given her a second glance. There was nothing of interest for him to latch onto.

            "Rachel St. James!" she exclaimed, giving him a playful shove that he felt was completely inappropriate under the circumstances. "We were at Oxford together!"

            Nothing, thought Morgan, and tried to come up with something gracious to say.

            "I was friends with Vivvie!" she continued.

            Ah. Well, there you had it. That explained everything. No wonder he didn't remember her. There was no question who she meant when she referred to Vivvie, and there was also no question that nobody would notice a woman like Rachel St. James if she was standing in the vicinity of a woman like Vivvie Westcott.

            But no need to tell her that. "Of course," Morgan smiled at her. "Rachel St. James. I'm sorry. You simply surprised me."

            Rachel St. James didn't look too happy about this, and frowned at him. He was saved by the clinking of a glass at the front of the room. Thank God! A toast! "Champagne," he said, as the waiter went by, and thrust a glass into Rachel's hand. Rachel took it but she didn't look too happy about that either.

            Evan Thorne-Brighton was standing at the front of the room, waiting with expectant calmness for the room to quiet and listen raptly to whatever he had to say. He looked smug, which was his perpetual look. The light was blinding off his golden blonde hair and perfect white teeth. The saying went that Evan was as bright as his name, so much so that Morgan wondered that anyone could even stand to look at him. As usual, most of the people in the room couldn't seem to take their eyes off him.

            Morgan looked for Vivvie, found her in her customary spot. He had been surprised, to say the least, when she had begun appearing to Thorne-Brighton's left and a little behind him in the tabloids. The background had never seemed to him an appropriate place for Vivvie Westcott. And it was hard to subjugate a girl like Vivvie Westcott to the background. Thorne-Brighton usually dated magnificently beautiful women. Morgan would grant him that. But he thought the man had made a mistake in trying to wrestle Vivvie's beauty into the vacant beauty of a girl-on-arm. For a man like Thorne-Brighton, a chameleon with no real personality of his own, Morgan could not comprehend how he could ever hope to overshadow a woman like Vivvie, whose personality bubbled over in a froth of excess of life. He had succeeded in doing it so far, but Morgan was fairly confident that half-shadows would cloak Vivvie Westcott for only so long.

            She was standing in the half-shadows at that moment, to Evan's left and a little behind him, right where he was sure Thorne-Brighton thought she should be. Morgan could think of no more inappropriate place. Then again, Vivvie didn't seem especially upset about it. She stood there, her curves sheathed in cloth the color of merlot, fairly beaming at the idiot next to her.

            Evan was thanking the crowd, self-assurance brimming over in his grin, saying, "I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to Vivvie, who has organized this wonderful party."

            Vivvie had no reaction to that, but since she was already fawning over Thorne-Brighton, Morgan didn't know what other reaction she could have. The crowd applauded. Rachel St. James next to him applauded extremely enthusiastically.

            Thorne-Brighton leaned toward the microphone, gauging the length of the applause, so he could say, with a special smile for the crowd, "Even though I am past the age when one celebrates birthdays."

            The crowd laughed. Morgan reminded himself that he shouldn't sip his champagne before the toast finished.

            Thorne-Brighton looked as somber as he could look. Morgan had the idea that he practiced the face in front of the mirror. "I often have opportunity to address large crowds of people. However, seldom do I have the privilege and pleasure of addressing a crowd composed only of my closest family," Thorne-Brighton paused meaningfully, looked solemnly around the crowd, "and my most cherished friends."

            Morgan wondered which category Thorne-Brighton would put him in.

            "For many months now," Thorne-Brighton continued, building up a rhythm, "I have been considering a decision. Well, actually, I made up my mind about this particular decision instantaneously. There are some things a man just knows. But I have been trying to determine the particulars of sharing this decision with all of you. I am happy now, the sort of happiness that I wish for all of you, and when one is confronted with such happiness, one does not turn it away. Vivvie," said Thorne-Brighton, turning to her, and dropped to one knee.

            There were murmurs of surprise throughout the crowd. Next to him, he heard Rachel St. James clamp down on an exclamation of astonishment. For his part, Morgan stared, feeling strangely frozen. Thorne-Brighton was mostly hidden by the podium, and the spotlight was full on Vivvie, who stood in it, calm and composed, smile never wavering, and Morgan wondered if she'd known, if this was all a fantastic spectacle for the benefit of the public.

            "Will you marry me?" Thorne-Brighton's voice rang out clearly, even without the benefit of the microphone, and everyone in the ballroom heard it. Everyone in the ballroom also saw Vivvie Westcott nod her head.