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