Regency London’s elegant ballrooms mask a daring world of erotic adventure. In this second novel in Gaelen Foley’s Spicy Trilogy, a mysterious beauty with a devastating secret discovers, in the arms of a bold and fearless cavalry officer, passion that breaks all boundaries. Some say the aristocratic Balfour clan is cursed, a once-great family now in slow decline. Graceful Lily Balfour is her family’s last hope, and she has come to London with one goal–to marry a rich man. Her well-laid plans are balked, however, by the irresistible Major Derek Knight, a handsome highborn soldier and adventurer newly returned from India. Hardened by battles on India’s lawless frontiers, Derek is not just a fighter but a skilled and insatiable lover–a master of the Eastern arts of pleasure. Though Derek finds no shortage of willing women in London, it is the untouchable, aloof Lily who haunts him. After one stolen moment, he hungers for nights of sensual abandon to fulfill her fantasies and free her from her self-imposed prison. But he has come to England on a vital mission, and when Lily is pledged to a wealthy man suspected of corruption, Derek must thwart the treachery that ensnares them both–for only then will ecstasy and the sweet promise of her heart be his to claim. Noted for her “complex, subtly shaded characters, richly sensual love scenes, and elegantly fluid prose” ( Booklist ), Gaelen Foley is the national bestselling author of nine critically acclaimed historical romances from Ballantine Books. Her passionate, sophisticated love stories are published in ten languages and have won numerous awards, including the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best, the Golden Leaf, and the Award of Excellence. CHAPTER ONE            England, 1818   “The poor ladies! They’re doomed, aren’t they? Whatever shall they do now?”   “Sell the old manor, I suppose, though God knows it is a ruin.”   “But it is their home—they’ve nowhere else to go!”   “Tsk, tsk, the ills of cards and drink, my dear.”   “Yes, well, that is not the ladies’ fault. Oh, it is so sad to see a once-great family slip into decline…”   The whispers were coming from a pew two or three rows behind her. Slowly the hushed exchange penetrated Lily Balfour’s grief, drawing her attention away from the empty feeling in her heart, and the lulling patter of the rain against the tall, clear windows of their little parish church, and the droning eulogy from Grandfather’s middle-aged heir, the new Lord Balfour—a stranger to her side of the family.   Behind the half-veil of black netting that gracefully draped her small hat, her dazed look of loss turned to shock and then pure indignation as the whispers continued.   What’s this? she thought, listening in outrage. Someone was gossiping about her family, right here in the middle of Grandfather’s funeral?   What a pair of busybodies!   She tried to recall which of her neighbors from among the local Quality had filed into the nearest pews behind her, but her mind was a blank. Indeed, she had spent the past two days in a fog, numb with sorrow and exhausted after months of caring for her dying hero.   For so many years, her grandfather, Viscount Balfour, had seemed larger than life. Being forced to watch him shrink day by day into a sick old man—being forced to watch him die—had been almost more than she could bear.   “But he was gone now—at peace, she trusted—and as his heir’s eulogy dragged on, her neighbors resumed their speculation on her family’s fate. This time, Lily cocked her head slightly and listened with irked curiosity.   “Perhaps the new Lord Balfour will assist them. He seems a good-hearted fellow,” one of the matrons suggested sympathetically, but the other snorted under her breath.   “Lady Clarissa would never accept it. The two branches of the family haven’t spoken a civil word to each other in years. I thought this was common knowledge!”   “Yes, well, he can’t leave them to starve. Oh, it’s all so sad,” her companion lamented softly. “First Master Langdon dead in India, and then the nephew in that horrid duel. Perhaps there is something to the old Balfour curse!”   “Nonsense. It’s their own fault for being too proud. The answer is right before them if they would not turn their noses up at it.”   “What answer? What ever do you mean?”   Yes, indeed? Lily frowned, wondering the same thing.   “One of the girls could still make an admirable match,” the first lady explained in a brisk and reasonable whisper. “Well, not the elder cousin, perhaps,” she admitted. “Miss Pamela is nearly forty, and very odd. But the younger one, Lily. Impeccable breeding, and she’s got her mother’s looks. I daresay an infusion of gold by way of the marriage mart could remedy their situation in a trice.”   At these words, Lily felt the blood drain from her face; her entire body tensed, or rather recoiled, at the suggestion, and her fist closed hard around her crumpled handkerchief. N