Evie Milham desperately wanted to get into his trousers. Judging from the extraordinary amount of females crammed into Little Westbury’s assembly-room-cum-lecture hall this warm August night, she wasn’t the only one. Although, Evie doubted the rest of the female population wanted into them for the same reason.

Regardless of female motive, there was no disputing this was the most well-attended archaeological lecture in the history of West Sussex, perhaps in the history of England. Not even the Elgin Marbles had engendered such an enthusiastic response in retrieving the past. Then again, the Elgin Marbles didn’t look like him, Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban. Evie was certain he could talk about pickled herring and still draw a crowd. He was tall, with sleek dark hair that flowed over his shoulders, his face chiselled with strong lines that hinted at exotic antecedents. Women would travel miles to stare at those cheekbones with their high slant. And his clothes, oh, those clothes! He wore them like a god’s own mantle. Evie’s fingers started to twitch in anticipation. How she wanted to get her hands on those trousers! If she could just study them up close for a few moments! Whoever his tailor was, the man was a genius.

Evie craned her neck, trying for a better glimpse. If she’d known he’d be so exquisitely dressed, she would have sat closer to the front. She’d not chosen this particular seat near the back for him, but for another him. Andrew Adair sat just two convenient rows ahead of her, his golden head a beacon for her eyes except, apparently, when those eyes were looking at Prince Dimitri Petrovich, which was more frequently than she had anticipated. It was hard not to. When one wasn’t looking at his trousers, one could easily stare at his hands. He didn’t gesture like an Englishman. There was a loose fluidity to his gestures that made him appear all the more foreign.

She might as well look, Evie reasoned. It wasn’t as if Andrew minded or was even aware of her visual perfidy, more was the pity. She often thought she could dance naked on a stage and Andrew wouldn’t notice. Not that she would. Evie Milham might entertain such wild notions, but she never acted on them.

Tonight was supposed to change that. Tonight was her chance to claim Andrew’s notice after six years of anonymity. Admittedly, for two of those years, she hadn’t been ‘out’, hardly eligible for his attentions even if they had been neighbours for two decades. The other three years, he’d been in Europe on his Grand Tour while she debuted in London. This year it would be different. Their trajectories were finally in alignment. She was ‘out’ and he was home. Better yet, he’d made it clear during the recently ended Season he was looking to marry. Evie drew a deep breath. She would make him notice her.

Her eyes strayed from the back of Andrew’s golden head once more. Up on stage, the Prince of Pleats—it must be the pleats that caused his trousers to lie so exquisitely across those lean hips—made one of his exotic gestures to footmen carrying trays of champagne. She forced her eyes back to Andrew. Now was not the time to be distracted by a set of pleats. If she’d learned anything this last Season it was that nothing changed until you did. She couldn’t merely wait for Andrew’s notice. Hadn’t her friend Claire’s whirlwind marriage to the dashing diplomat, Jonathon Lashley, a few weeks ago, proven the motto true? Claire had made Jonathon notice her. She simply had to do the same with Andrew and her own happy-ever-after wouldn’t be far behind. After all, Andrew couldn’t be blamed for not noticing her if she had done nothing to help that notice along.

‘Champagne, miss? Compliments of the Prince for the toast.’ A footman offered her a tray of cold, sweating flutes. Not just champagne, but chilled champagne. Iced champagne in the country in August was a luxury indeed. Evie took a glass and the footman moved on. At the front of the room, the Prince raised his glass, signalling the audience to rise. It was a noisy, rustling affair as the crowd took to its feet, careful not to spill a collective drop. Inspiration struck Evie. What if she moved up a couple of rows? No one would notice if she edged forward and took a place at Andrew’s elbow. It was the perfect plan. He would turn and see her. He’d have to clink glasses with her, he would look into her eyes...

Move, you ninny! she chastised herself. The toast would be over and she would still be standing here dreaming about the moment while the moment passed. Evie gathered her courage and made the journey forward two rows, all of ten feet. Her heartbeat sped up. Never had she dared to place herself so directly in Andrew’s path. The Prince was speaking but her thoughts were too preoccupied to pick up more than snatches of his speech. ‘I am pleased to announce I have taken up residence here in Little Westbury for the purpose of excavating... I am proud to be joined in this venture by fellow enthusiasts for history such as...’ She didn’t hear the names until he reached the end of his recitations. ‘And most of all, I am joined generously by my friend and fellow traveller, Mr Andrew Adair, without whom this venture would not be possible.’

That got her attention. Andrew was bosom bows with the Prince? Andrew was interested in historical preservation? All these years of living next door to him and she’d had no idea on either account. She’d just reached Andrew’s side on the aisle when the toast went up, people clinking everywhere. The room sounded like a series of chiming crystal bells. Andrew clinked to his right, then with the people in front of him and behind him. Finally, he turned to his left. His fair brows knit in startled surprise, taking a moment to process her presence. ‘Oh, Evie, it’s you. What are you doing

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