Mischief by Amanda Quick

cursory glance at the ridiculous lines of dialogue that he was supposed to memorize, Matthias had tossed the sheet of foolscap into the fire. He was no Edmund Kean, and Lady Blunt’s ballroom was not Drury Lane. Nevertheless, he was there.
    And he was intrigued, in spite of himself.
    Imogen’s little charade was outlandish, outrageous, and crazed in the extreme. He would no doubt live to rue his part in it. But he could not deny the sense of anticipation he felt.
    It occurred to him that in the short while since he had known her he had experienced any number of unfamiliar sensations, everything from disbelief to a disturbing degree of desire. In between, he had suffered irritation,astonishment, and bemusement, more sensations, in short, than he had been obliged to deal with in the past decade. The lady was dangerous.
    “Good evening, Colchester. This is certainly a surprise. Something interesting must be scheduled to occur here in Lady Blunt’s ballroom this evening. I cannot imagine any other reason for you to have condescended to accept an invitation.”
    At the sound of the familiar, throaty tones, Matthias turned to glance at the woman who had come up beside him. He inclined his head slightly. “Selena.” He raised his glass in a small toast. “My compliments. Spectacular, as always, madam.”
    “Thank you, sir. One does one’s best.”
    “And in your case, one always succeeds.”
    If Selena, Lady Lyndhurst, was aware of the hint of mockery in his words, she did not allow it to show. She merely smiled with cool acceptance of the obvious. She
was
spectacular. Everyone in Town acknowledged that fact.
    Selena was in her late twenties. She had taken up residence in London four years earlier following the death of her elderly husband. She had shown no inclination to remarry, but her name was occasionally linked, albeit discreetly, with certain gentlemen of the ton. Beautiful, stylish, and clever, she took advantage of the unique freedom she enjoyed as a wealthy widow.
    Selena had joined the Zamarian Society, but in Matthias’s opinion her interest in antiquities would be shortlived. She was certainly intelligent enough to study the subject, but, as was the case with a majority of the members, her concern with ancient Zamar was a matter of fashion rather than scholarly fascination. When Zamar ceased to be amusing, she would move on to some other entertainment.
    Selena’s pale gold hair, sky-blue eyes, and strong tendency to favor celestial blue in her gowns had earned her the sobriquet the Angel. The young bloods of the tonwrote odes to her “heavenly aspect” and “ethereal aura.” The older, more jaded gentlemen concentrated on trying to charm her into their beds. From what he had heard, Matthias knew that few were successful. Selena was extremely selective when it came to choosing her paramours.
    His instincts told him that she was the sort of woman whose charm and beauty inspired passion in others but who was not strongly affected by it herself.
    Tonight she was dressed in her customary hue of blue. The gown, which exposed a vast expanse of snowy bosom, was trimmed with a net of iridescent gold. The fine threads glittered in the light of the chandeliers. Gold plumes danced in her hair. Her hands were sheathed in long blue gloves. Blue satin slippers adorned her feet. The very picture of an angel, Matthias thought. He wondered what had become of her wings.
    A brief vision of Imogen’s tawny hair and lively sea-colored eyes danced in his head. There was nothing ethereal about Imogen Waterstone. She was vivid and sharp and bright. The very opposite of the ghosts he saw in the fire. Any passion she indulged would be very real, not a practiced imitation of the emotion. The memory of the kiss they had shared flashed through Matthias’s head.
    His mouth twisted ruefully as he took a sip of champagne. He was not particularly attracted to angels, but he seemed to have developed a taste for a certain lady who had a