I didn’t see that one coming.

And it would seem, neither did Elizabeth—she didn’t believe him and is still refusing to speak to him.

But Henry’s laughing, teasing, and talking with everyone in the room. He’s in the middle of a circle of people, both men and women, recounting stories of his and the lads’ antics while they were at boarding school together. The chuckles are loud and plentiful and genuine. He’s the center of attention and he basks in it, stretching and blossoming like a lush plant in the sun.

Then, instruments are brought in. Henry grabs his guitar and Sam slips a harmonica out of his pocket. And it seems Simon Barrister, the Earl of Ellington, plays the drums. His wife, Franny—a lovely, lively character—watches him intently, worshipfully, ready to yell and clap like a teen at a concert. I can see why.

Because when they start to play, when Henry begins to sing the Tom Petty song “You Don’t Know How It Feels—wearing low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his hair devilishly mussed, his arms flexing as he strums the chords, his tattoo on display, his smile sinful—it is the damned sexiest thing I have ever seen.

I couldn’t imagine anything hotter.

But then his eyes meet mine and he winks at me, and I’m proven so wrong.

I want to jump him. Literally—throw myself at him. My breasts ache for the touch of those strong hands and long fingers. My thighs clench with raw, randy desire. I want to do things to him—things I can’t put into words—and my cheeks flame just thinking about them. I want him to do things to me—everything. Anything he wants.

As the song ends and they start another, I tear my eyes away. I feel light and drunk and just a little bit crazy. My hand fans my face and I pour myself a drink, gulping it down my parched throat. And it’s all so overwhelming—wild, but wonderful.

With the sounds of the music following me, I step out of the great room into the cooler hallway, wanting to catch my breath just for a moment. And here I used to think all the swooning heroines in my novels were over the top.

But now I know their reactions were spot on. Now I understand.

And I hope before this night is over, I’ll also understand all the sensations—the erotic tastes and touches—I’ve read about.

The music room is just a few steps from the great room, and the song and chatter from the party still comes through clearly. I run my finger over the shiny black lacquer of the piano, close my eyes and dream of what could happen tonight. I imagine Henry’s satisfied groans, his panting breath in my ear, his glorious dirty mouth speaking in a rough voice laden with desire.

And then a voice comes from behind me—and it’s not Henry’s.

“At first glance, there’s not much to you. But close up, you’re actually sort of pretty. I like that.”

It’s one of Henry’s friends—the rude one. He’s standing between me and the door. And though I want to tell him to go away, or move past him, my feet are frozen. Because there’s a look in his eyes that I know well—that I’ve seen more times than I ever want to remember.

Cruelty.

And it paralyzes me.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, moving closer.

And I can’t move.

Then he smiles slowly.

“I like that too.”

THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING about. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, the room is alive with smoke and chatter, and everyone is laughing. Everyone is having a good time. Christ, I’ve missed this. Hello. old life, long time no see.

I tighten the strings on my guitar, debating what we should play next. Black Crowes? Lumineers, maybe?

That’s when one of the cameramen backs into a table. It tilts on two legs before going over, sending the clock, vase, and porcelain dish sliding to the floor with a sharp, loud crash.

Instinctively, I look around for Sarah.

I scan the room once, then again slower and more carefully. But I don’t see her. And the unease starts as a whisper, a gentle caress. I lean my guitar against the chair and stand up, turning in a circle, surveying, searching for the dark head and pretty form I’d know anywhere.

But she’s not here.

And the unease turns to concern. My palms start to sweat and my heart accelerates . . . because Hannibal Lancaster is nowhere in sight either.

Hannibal, whom my brother hates.

Hannibal, whom Nicholas won’t tolerate even looking at his wife, let alone be near enough to speak to her.

Concern surges into panic—the kind that churns and pokes in my gut and makes the hairs on the back of my neck spike. And that’s when I make the connection my idiot brain was too stupid and self-absorbed to figure before:

My brother would never, ever hate someone . . . without a very good reason.

I walk over to Penelope, my hand on her upper arm. “Where’s your sister?”

She blinks at me before glancing around the room. “I don’t know.”

Without needing to be told, Penny walks over to where Elizabeth and Sam are arguing in hushed, animated tones.

“Have you seen Sarah?” she asks. When both of them shake their heads, I have to grind my teeth to keep from shouting.

I approach Franny and Simon. “Did you see where Sarah went?”

Franny’s sharp eyes dart around. “I just saw her a moment ago.”

I tug at my hair, ready to start tearing the walls down, and Simon puts his hand on my shoulder. “She couldn’t have gone far, Henry.”

My throat tightens, making my voice hoarse.