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in Kennington after taking in the opera. There were only four of them in her ladyship’s carriage, because Lydia had begged off to visit an old friend in Marylebone. The two older ladies did most of the talking; Eve and Anna listened absently to their chatter as they gazed out the coach windows at the crush of carriages, pedestrians, linkboys, and lackeys that choked the streets.
    Their coach moved at a snail’s pace, which suited Eve just fine. She was making mental notes on the passing scene to add color to the book she was writing.
    The lamps on every front portico had been lit, as well as the streetlamps, and she had a good view of the comings and goings of late-night revelers. One couple in particular held her interest. The gentleman was leaving the house, though the lady seemed reluctant to let him go. Eve was not naive. This was not a husband taking an affectionate leave of his wife. This woman’s scarlet gown, her unbound hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and her free and easy manners clearly indicated that she was a member of the
demimonde,
that hidden sphere of society that catered to gentlemen of rank and fortune, a sphere that no well-bred lady was supposed to know anything about.
    Eve’s eyes danced. A writer had to fall back on her imagination to fill the void. She could hardly appeal to her male relatives to divulge what went on behind closed doors. Her boldness would shock them, and they would only deny that the
demimonde
existed. Stuff and nonsense! She was no shrinking violet. She was a woman of the world, as anyone who had read her books would know.
    Their carriage had stopped, and angry voices were raised as coachmen cursed other coachmen for blocking their way. Eve’s gaze was still fixed on the couple standing under the lamp on the top step of the house on the corner of Haymarket and Pall Mall. It was very amusing. The lady was trying to coax the gentleman to go back inside. The gentleman stopped her words with a kiss, a thoroughly passionate kiss as far as Eve could tell, then the gentleman turned on his heel and quickly descended the stairs.
    That’s when Eve’s smile froze. He was none other than Ash Denison, the gentleman who had made fun of her books at the symposium; Ash Denison, making a spectacle of himself on a public street! It was too funny for words.
    “What’s wrong, Eve? Why do you look so fierce?”
    Eve’s frown smoothed out and she answered her aunt’s question with a smile. “I was thinking about Dexter,” she said, dredging up the first thing that came to her mind. “I hope he isn’t pining for me. We’ve been gone a long time, and he’s not used to someone else looking after him.”
    She wasn’t sure what she was saying, since she was more intent on keeping her head turned away so that Lord Denison would not see her face. She was also loath to mention his name in case Lady Sayers called him over. The only thing Eve wanted to say to that libertine wasn’t fit for the ears of polite company.
    The coach began to move, and the conversation shifted to the performance they had just attended. Eve suppressed every stray thought that led to Ash Denison, no easy task when the opera in question was about the most notorious libertine of his age, Don Giovanni, but she persevered and managed to laugh and make observations in all the right places.

    In her dreams that night, Ash Denison would not be suppressed. He was sitting at her escritoire, reading the pages of the novel she was currently writing and making copious notes in the margins. She was there, too, dressed from head to toe in shimmering crimson satin.
    “What are you doing?” she asked.
    She wasn’t angry. The Eve of her dreams seemed to float on air. She loved the feel of the satin against her skin and the rustle of her skirts as she moved. Her hair was unbound, and she fluffed it out with her fingers.
    He continued to make notes. “I’m making suggestions. You don’t have to follow them if you don’t