His muscles flexed in anticipation, barely contained within his starched evening clothes. He was liked a caged lion, prowling the confines of his prison. The black mask his valet had procured for him lay on a side table, its crisp ribbons trailing down the side. Another masquerade. Thoughts of the masked woman filtered through his mind. He could remember her so clearly, so accurately, there was no need for a portrait of her. Her glossy flaxen curls glimmered in the candlelight, her red lips ripe for his kiss. And her figure—he cursed as he felt his body responding to the image his mind created. Would he see her tonight? Would the torment he had felt over the last several weeks finally be at an end? Since the masquerade had been announced by Lady Victoria three days ago, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else. If she was at Viscount Lawrence’s estate, and if she decided to attend, he would see her again. He had to believe that he would know her the moment he saw her in another costume.
