London， July of 18t4
Emily Longcliffe tapped her foot to the lively music of a
Scottish reel. She was dizzy with exhilaration as she peered
from behind a gold-fringed， dark blue velvet curtain and
watched a score of cosnlmed revelers go down the dance.
She shouldn t be here， she thought， biting her lower lip.
A masquerade was in progress.
But not just a masquerade. A masquerade in which Lord
Byron， that most notorious of rakehells--who was known to
drink wine from skulls!--was said to be in attendance.
She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. Until this
moment， she hadn t truly known how dull her life was， or
how much she had blindly accepted the rigid nature of her
existence， or how powerful and demanding were the true
cravings of her mind and heart.
She was situated in the passageway that connected the mag-
nificent ballroom of Scarswell House to a delightful ante-
chamber near the stairwell. Her friend and cohort in mischief，
young Lady Alison， was beside her. She， too， was delighting
in the rakish air of the ball， a vision in the guise of a medieval
maid.
Emily， on the other hand， was gowned as an East Indian
Princess in a flow of blue， pink， and yellow muslin draped
over a white silk shift that clung to her womanly figure quite
scandalously. Coverin~ her lon~， lie.ht brown locks were sev-
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