James had arrived at the Pembroke estate through rather unusual means: an open window in the east drawing room, to be exact. (He hadn't wanted to waste time persuading the doorman to let him in—instead, he decided that a more direct route was appropriate.) Cocking his head, he listened for the sound of voices and music. The ballroom was to the left, he thought; and straightening his jacket, he walked briskly toward it, humming under his breath.

Half an hour later, there was no Sarah in sight and James had been making small talk with Lady Pembroke for what seemed like hours.

"And tell me, Mr. Hiller," she cooed, "do you have any balls as nice as this in America?"

"None, milady," James said patiently, "although we do have some swell barn-raisings."

"Oh." Lady Pembroke gave an uncertain smile. "That does sound nice."

"You see—" James began, but stopped suddenly, because Sarah and her parents had just entered the room and he was having difficulty talking and breathing at the same time. She was a fantastic dream of loveliness. The gown she was was a familiar blue, the same color as her favorite dress during the war. It wreathed her like fairy silk, swirling around her ankles and draping her shoulders. Her hair was fashionably styled, with silver butterfly pins framing her coiffure. She was stunningly radiant. James swallowed and excused himself from Lady Pembroke.

Before he could approach Sarah, however, a tall fellow darted beside her and bowed low over her hand. Jerk, James thought before he could stop himself. Well. He took the lost moment as an opportunity to duck into the men's lounge and, for the eighteenth time, straighten his cravat.

He returned to the ballroom in time to hear her say, "Thank you for your kind invitation, milord! My parents and I will surely hold you to it."

"Do that, Lady Phillips." The young man pressed her gloved hand to his lips.

Sarah's laugh didn't reach her eyes. "Lady Phillips is my mother," she said. "I'm just Miss Phillips. Or Sarah."

"Sarah," the gentleman repeated. "And please, call me Thomas."

Sarah smiled politely. "Certainly, milord—Thomas."

James could stand it no longer and loudly cleared his throat. Sarah half-turned, and as she caught the light he was again amazed by her luminous beauty.

"James!" she exclaimed, grinning rapturously. "You did make it out!"

"Yes!" he replied enthusiastically. "Oh—" he remembered, and bowed carefully over her hand. After straightening, he nodded to the other young man. "Good evening, sir," he said.

"Good evening," the gentleman said shortly. He sounded unhappy; James felt an unaccountable surge of victory.

"Thomas," Sarah said deliberately, "may I present James Hiller, currently of Manhattan. James, may I present Thomas Waltham, son of Lord Pembroke and Baron of Thame."

Oho, James thought as the two young men eyed each other distastefully. He saw a priveliged man from Sarah's birthplace, with lands, manners, and titles—who would obviously be well-liked by her parents. Thomas saw a boy whom Sarah obviously knew well, still stylish in an untailored jacket, who was undoubtedly and utterly a Yankee.

"I see," Thomas said curtly.

"Indeed," James replied. Well, if that's the way it is, he thought, and again bowed to Sarah. "May I have the honor?" he asked.

Sarah had been watching the two of them with a thoughtful expression. "I would be glad to," she replied.

James grinned boyishly at Thomas as he tucked Sarah's hand into the crook of his elbow. "If you'll excuse us," he said, and sauntered to the dance floor, leading Sarah with his head held high.

"Insolent American," he heard Thomas mutter before the other boy strode off.

I win! James thought cheerfully.

**

Later That Night

Sarah laughed happily as James lifted her and swung her in time with the waltz. They had been dancing with each other for hours, but she still felt light on her feet. She had long since stopped noticing Thomas standing by the wall and only saw the other dancers—especially James.

He had definitely changed, she concluded. His short stay in France had done wonders: he hadn't lost his competitive edge, judging by his exchange with Thomas earlier, but he had gained some other quality. It looked and sounded awfully like…charm.

Whatever it was, it was wonderful. Sarah hadn't had this much fun at a party since her first one, two years before she left for America, and even that memory was rapidly paling in comparison to this night. Each dance was wonderful, the music was perfect, her dress was beautiful—Sarah felt the urge to start laughing and never stop.

The waltz ended, and Sarah landed giddily beside James. "That was lovely!" she exclaimed.

"Yes!" James kept his hands on her waist and laughed. "Lovely lovely. Like you."

Yes, it was definitely charm that James had picked up.

*** end Chapter Six

A/N: Wow, it's been about a trillion years since last update, huh? Sorry 'bout that, folks! I ran into a bit of real life. On the plus side, I can see reviews again! Whoo! So, thank you to: DaggerQuill, Meg429, Beautiful Mind, Melee, Ruberta, Pottergirl, and jerseygirl13. I love you guys. Really.

This chapter took a while because I had to not only work out some plot stuff (heh) but research proper 18th century British forms of address, and make sure that "Baron of Thame" wasn't a weird thing like the "Prince of Wales" or "Duke of Glasgow" or anything. So, yeah. Historical accuracy, rock.