Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) by Mary Balogh

Helen, had never had any dealings with each other until very recently, although they had lived only three miles apart during their growing years.
    It had been a time to be very careful indeed. He was a man dancing with a neighbor from whose family his own had been estranged for several generations. Their families had beennewly reconciled by the efforts of its new head, her betrothed. It was a set the Earl of Haverford should have danced with careful attention to what would appear correct.
    What had he done instead? He appeared to have lost twenty minutes or so of his life. It was rather a ridiculous notion. He had not lost those minutes. But he had been caught up in a magic, an exhilaration, a
romance
that had seemed alarmingly beyond his control. After the first stumbling steps, she had proved herself to be an accomplished and graceful partner, one who fit into his hold as if she had been made to fit there.
    If he had thought at all during those twenty minutes, it had been to remember her as a girl—as a young woman, after he had become aware of her. It had been her delight to escape from chaperones and maids set to watching after her safety. And when she had escaped, the resulting freedom had been total. Shoes and stockings had frequently gone flying; hairpins had been stuffed into a pocket and hair shaken loose. Ah, that hair: thick and shining and almost as black as coal. She had run and twirled and climbed and laughed, and more than once she had allowed him to kiss her.
    She had become that girl again—that girl who had dazzled and enslaved him—as they danced. He was alarmed at how totally he had lost touch with reality during those twenty minutes. And even when he pulled himself back to reality, he had ended up offending her by being unpardonably impertinent. She had been quite right to use that word.
    “May I fill a plate for you?” he asked as he led her through to the anteroom, which was fortunately not overcrowded with people.
    “No, thank you.” She removed her arm from his. “A drinkwill be sufficient.” She went to stand near a closed side door while he crossed to one of the punch bowls and filled two glasses without waiting for a footman to serve him.
    He must converse with her on some trivial topic for a few minutes, he thought as he made his way back toward her, and then return her to Baillie and her own group of friends. He would then forget her presence at his ball. But one of his young cousins, who with a group of other young people was talking rather too loudly and laughing rather too heartily, chose that particular moment to call across the room to him.
    “I say, Haverford,” he called, “have you seen where she is standing?”
    There were a few feminine giggles, some hearty male laughter.
    “Of course he has seen,” another distant cousin said just as loudly. “Why do you think he is hurrying?”
    “To it, man,” a third voice said and the laughter resumed.
    Moira looked with raised eyebrows at the group while Kenneth’s eyes looked up and found the inevitable sprig of mistletoe in the middle of the doorframe, directly above her head. Alerted, she also looked up and saw it—and blushed hotly and would have moved away if he had not been standing directly in her path, his arms open to either side, a glass in each hand.
    Since he had kissed every female in the house during the past two days, it would appear strange indeed to his delighted young relatives and a few older ones who were also in the room if he did not do the gallant thing on this occasion too. He leaned forward, lowering his head only a little, and touched her lips with his. Hers were trembling uncontrollably. By sheer instinct he parted hisown over them to steady them. He lifted his head after enough time had elapsed that he would not be accused of trying to escape with a mere peck but before he could be accused of taking liberties that even mistletoe would not excuse.
    “The conventions must be observed,” he said,