Benedict let out a low and rather viciously uttered curse. With all the ladies his mother had trotted out before him—and there had been many—he’d never once felt the same soul-searing connection that had burned between him and the lady in silver. From the moment he’d seen her—no, from the moment before he’d seen her, when he’d only just felt her presence, the air had been alive, crackling with tension and excitement. And he’d been alive, too—alive in a way he hadn’t felt for years, as if everything were suddenly new and sparkling and full of passion and dreams.
