Page 45 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

She held out her hand, for no reason other than so he could touch her—the only touch that would ever be allowed between them. His own engulfed hers as he took it. No soft, smooth palms for this man; his were roughened, as if he knew hard work. The heat of him was like electricity ricocheting up her arm as if it were a lightning rod, the shock exquisite and yet almost painful. Aston bowed over her, his lips never touching but his breath a warm gust against her flesh that left her quaking with pleasure, goose bumps peppering her skin, even on this mild evening.

‘You look incomparable, as always.’

He towered above her. She wasn’t a short woman, yet he was a man who could make her feel small and precious. His inky dinner suit wrapped a powerful body. A waistcoat, not of white or black, but of a deep-green threaded with gold and patterned with leaves. His vivid blue eyes seemed to be smiling behind a mask of a burnished pewter, golden horns curling from it. The expression moulded into the mask itself, one of wry amusement, almost mischievous, yet with a bite. He looked like an embodiment of the chaos she craved.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wondering how she managed to speak at all.

Here was the man she’d been looking for. The one that stole her breath and almost all her reason every time she saw him. A man she’d first met when he’d come to talk about trade of his family’s wine, then he’d conquered one of Halrovia’s highest peaks. He’d conquered her with a mere smile.

‘I’d hoped to see you tonight,’ he murmured.

The breath hitched in her throat and she almost blushed. She wanted to say,And I, you. But she wouldn’t. It would give too much away, and her breeding taught herneverto do that. Anyhow, Ana wasn’t fool enough to believe anything could come of this. The man was notorious, linked with many beautiful women, though none had lasted longer than six months. Instead, she could dream. Dreams were all she really had.

‘Who are you supposed to be?’ she asked.

‘Who do you think I am?’

With his horns and wicked gleam in his vivid blue eyes that would tempt the hardiest of mortals, he could be Lucifer himself. She wouldn’t give him or his undoubtedly healthy ego the satisfaction, no matter how much she wanted to. Even though it was an ego rightly held, one that deserved praising.

‘A satyr.’

His full and tempting lips curled, and his wickedness intensified. ‘And will you be my nymph to frolic with?’

His voice was deep, softly spoken, words for them alone. Her body heated. Was spontaneous combustion a thing? If so, she was ready to burst into flames. What she wouldn’t give tofrolicwith him, even if it was impossible. The flirting would always have to be enough.

‘You have me mistaken. I’m the goddess Flora.’

‘Ah.’ That one word contained so much as his gaze drifted over her in appreciation. Everywhere it slid, she sensed it like the stroke of his fingers. ‘You also have me mistaken. I’m a god.’

She didn’t doubt it. ‘Who?’

That curl of his lips again, then he let out a pained kind of sigh.

‘You disappoint me, Your Highness. I thought you might have guessed, given my family’s history.’ He held his arms out to the side and took a bow. ‘Bacchus.’

Now it was her turn to give him an appraisal and take him in with no shame. The height and breadth of him. His pristine dinner suit, stitched so finely it seemed as if it had been sewn directly onto his powerful body. The way it gripped his shoulders and thighs led her to wonder what he would look like without any clothing at all. Her breaths came shallow and fast, not helped by the intricate corsetry of her dress that pulled her in and pushed her out in all the right places, giving her the perfect silhouette—or that was what her dress maker had told her. If she didn’t watch out, she’d become quite dizzy. It was as if she’d been tossed into a kind of fever dream she didn’t want to wake from.

‘The lack of toga tripped me up.’

A waiter walked past. Aston snatched a glass of champagne for each of them. The Girard family’s Grand Cru, their Soleil label. It was one of the reasons Aston had been invited here. Ana took a sip and the perfect bubbles sparkled across her tongue.

Another waiter came with canapés. Aston selected one delectable looking bite for himself. She’d eaten a light meal before she’d come. Her mother would never have approved of her having more, no matter how sublime the palace kitchen’s creations. Her Majesty believed it was unseemly to consume finger food, and heaven help it spilling on a gown. Ana shook her head, regretting it the moment the waiter left.

Aston finished his canapé and took another healthy sip of his champagne, reported to have been named after him by his parents. He was a man who seemed to relish life and the pleasure it could provide him, like the god he claimed to be tonight.

‘I do believe Bacchus is most often portrayed...’ he leaned forward, and she leaned in towards him ‘...naked.’

The delicious sensation of heat scorched over her again, no doubt colouring her cheeks. Her parents would be outraged. She was...enthralled.

Unbidden imaginings began to drift into her consciousness: how he might look when the refinement of his perfect evening dress was stripped away to bare skin. She’d never much thought of such things before but, the moment she’d first been introduced to him, those kinds of erotic visions had clung to the darkest recesses of her consciousness like a limpet.

Where was the perfect princess tonight? It was as if she’d disappeared. But what was the Spring Ball if not something where, for a little while, she could allow herself the fantasy that she might flirt with a man like Aston Lane and ignore the expectation that she was to marry a prince? Especially when said prince wanted her sister rather than her.

‘I don’t know whether I should be relieved or disappointed, Mr Lane.’

He chuckled, the deep, throaty sound rolling over her with all the thrill and expectation of thunder heralding a storm. Even under his imposing mask she could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘It didn’t seem the kind of party where either mode of dress, or lack thereof, seemed appropriate.’

She shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help herself. The world in which she moved was a rarefied one. ‘And how often do you attend those sorts of parties?’

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