Either way, if she did manage to learn her admirer’s identity at the Norrington Ball, she wasn’t sure if she would kiss him, or slap some sense into him for toying with someone’s emotions. But if she was to do either, she needed to dress the part. If this man were truly in love with her as he claimed, then she would put that to the test. She had heard that the French were revolutionizing the fashion industry, so she was determined to purchase a new ball gown.

Preferably something in red.

It was the Christmas season, after all.

She would likely pay an exorbitant sum to have such an extravagance ready by tomorrow evening, but it would be worth it to draw her admirer out of hiding.

Mena drew on her gloves, while Anders opened the door. She was preparing to descend to her waiting carriage, when she glanced up to see Julian standing on the front step. His presence was so unexpected that she fell back a step, and was quite sure that she would have tumbled to the ground completely if it wasn’t for his steady grip on her shoulders.

“Whoa,” he said with that heart-melting grin. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

She tensed in his embrace, and he allowed his hands to drop to his sides. “I’m not rushing anywhere. I was merely startled. However,” she added primly, “I was just on my way out. I have an appointment with my modiste in half an hour, so if you will excuse me?”

He took her elbow. “I’ll join you.”

“I’m perfectly capable—”

He waved away her coachman and opened the door for her. “Do you want me to go?”

Mena pursed her lips together. Blast. The man was entirely too charming for his own good. “No.”

“Splendid.” He climbed inside after her. After shutting the door, he tapped the roof with his gloved hand. They instantly set into motion. “So what’s the special occasion?”

Mena couldn’t help but stare at Julian. He looked positively handsome today. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that he was still a man in his mid-thirties, for not a sprinkle of gray touched the dark blond hair at his temples. Tan breeches hugged his firm body, while his bottle green waistcoat matched his eyes perfectly. His jaw was smooth and strong, while his chiseled lips — were moving.

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“I asked what the special occasion was.”

“Oh.” She forced herself to appear unaffected by his presence. “I’m going to be fitted for a new ball gown.”

“Indeed.” He nodded. “That must be for the Norrington Ball tomorrow night.”

She cocked her head to the side. “You’ve heard of it?”

He laughed richly. “I should. I received an invitation.”

Mena was taken aback by this information. Lord and Lady Norrington were distant cousins to King George. As such, they held themselves in rather high regard. It was quite rare that they invited anyone to one of their gatherings without a title, a spotless reputation, and extreme wealth. She knew that Julian didn’t carry a title, but as far as the rest, she didn’t really have any notion. Strange that she had slept with a man and she didn’t even know what he did for a living. “What exactly is your business in London?”

His lips twitched. “Ah. So your curiosity has finally made an appearance.”

“Well, only because Lady Norrington is about as stuffy as they come.”

“And you can’t imagine that she might invite such a lowborn, like myself, to her distinguished gathering? Is that it?”

Mena fidgeted with her reticule where it sat on her lap. “You make my query sound so sordid when you put it that way.”

He reached across the expanse of the carriage to tuck a stray hair behind her bonnet. “I know you didn’t ask to be unkind.” With a last, lingering look, he sat back.

But neither did he answer. Mena reluctantly laid the matter to rest. More than likely all would reveal itself in due course. “Have you decided to attend?”

“I shall definitely be there, now that I have some enticement to do so.”

His gaze warmed her from the inside out, and it was all she could do to not pounce on him. She was thankful when the carriage slowed and came to a stop or she might not have been able to hold her impulses in check. What is it about this man that causes me to lose all reason?

Julian placed his hand on her lower back as he led her into the modiste’s shop, his touch burning her long after he reluctantly moved away.

The seamstress spied her and immediately rushed over. “Ah, ma cherie, Lady Lipscomb!” the buxom, raven-haired woman gushed, and it was all Mena could do not to roll her eyes at the fake French accent. However, if that was what she had to contend with in order for some of the best work to be found in London, it was worth it.

“Madame Roquelaire,” Mena greeted politely.

“Ever since I received your message this morning, I believe I ’ave designed zee perfect dress for madam! Won’t you come this way?” She waved a hand to indicate the dressing area toward the rear of the shop. However, she paused to glance at Julian, who was lingering behind her. “If your gentleman friend would like to join, ’e iz most velcome to—”

Mena shook her head. “I’m sure Mr. Solomon would be more comfortable waiting—”

“Actually…” He strode forward. “I’m rather intrigued by such a mysterious dress. I believe I shall take a quick peek.”

He offered Mena a wink, to which she blushed and nearly scurried toward the changing area, where Madame Roquelaire’s assistant was waiting with tape measure and pins. A curtain was closed as Mena removed the blue velvet dress she was wearing. Within moments, a red satin gown was falling over her head. It was such a bright scarlet, that Mena hesitated. Would she find the courage to make such a bold statement? She had never worn anything so scandalous, and she was sure that not only would she become the object of the ton’s gossip after this, she might very well be opening doors for lecherous libertines to come calling.

Not until she was being poked and prodded by the modiste and her assistant, did Mena catch sight of Julian in the looking glass. He was standing behind her, a few feet away, but the seductive smolder to his gaze was unmistakable.

Instantly, Mena’s inhibitions flew out the window. She might not be ready to admit it to herself just yet, but the reason she was getting this dress was not to cause her mysterious suitor to come forward, or even to cause a stir, proving to the ton that a mature woman could be just as desirable as a fresh, young debutante.

No, it was for this man alone that she wanted to look beautiful.

Because she was in love with him.

The truth hit her in the center of the chest with such force that she raised her arm and put a hand to her heart.

“Iz my lady feeling well?” the modiste asked in genuine concern.

“I do feel a bit…flushed,” Mena replied, although her gaze had never wavered from Julian. Suddenly, his eyes clashed with hers in the mirror and she felt her knees go weak.

“Just a couple more pins… There! We are all done, Lady Lipscomb!” Madame Roquelaire proclaimed with an exuberant clap of her hands. “You will put every other lady to shame tomorrow night in a Roquelaire original design! Men will fall to their knees just to be in your lovely presence!”

Mena’s breath was shallow as she held Julian’s intense stare. He seemed to convey a silent demand. I want you. Now.

She was more than happy to comply.

Mena was trembling in erotic anticipation, every nerve ending alert and anticipating Julian’s touch. She barely managed to string together a full sentence before she parted ways with the seamstress. It seemed like an eternity before the carriage finally pulled up in front of the shop. With shaking legs, she went inside and instantly threw her bonnet on the seat beside her. Her gloves quickly followed. It was a chilly winter’s day, but she was on fire.

The moment they were in motion, she reached for Julian at the same time he reached for her. “God, it was torture being so close to you in there without touching you,” he whispered against her hair. “I’ve missed you, Mena.”

“I’ve missed you too, Julian.” She clung to the lapels of his jacket. “Kiss me.”

He didn’t hesitate, his mouth enveloping hers in an animalistic hunger. She answered his call by accepting anything and everything that he had to offer. When his hand disappeared under her skirts, she melted into the embrace.