Maxwell Buchanan, the Marquis of Hasley, had observed many beautiful women in his thirty years. He’d conversed with them, danced with them, bedded them. But no woman had ever frozen him in place before tonight. He stood entranced, ignoring people who brushed past him, and stared at her, unable to tear his gaze away. With her slender, slight figure, delicate features, and crown of thick blond hair, she was beautiful, but not uncommonly so, at least to the other men populating the ballroom. As far as Max knew, the only head that had turned when she’d entered the room was his own. The difference, he supposed, the singular element that clearly set her apart from the rest of the women here, was in the reserved way she held herself. There was nothing brazen about her, but nothing diffident or nervous, either. It was as though she held a confidence within herself that she didn’t feel any desire to share with the world. She didn’t need to display her beauty like all the other unattached ladies present.
