By Any Other Name (AFL, Round 1)

He might come to know her secrets, but could he come to know her heart?

The Earl Fraser had died with neither wife nor heir, of that Lord Coulter was certain. But a dance with a lady claiming to be the new Countess left him baffled. What had happened that fateful night in Russia and how was he to resist her siren's call?

Through dark, hooded eyes, John Damien Trent, Earl of Coulter observed the assembled males of the ton prowl the perimeter of the Duchess of Alderman's gilded ballroom.

The hour was late, past midnight, and yet this, the jewel of the hostess' London home, remained filled to capacity.

Fashioned after the hall of mirrors at Versailles, the space afforded all would-be rivals the occasion to examine one another's graces and imperfections from a multitude of angles. The cut of a tailcoat, the telltale signs of a gown reworked: all were reflected thousand-fold the length of the shimmering hall.

It also made concealing oneself neigh impossible, with every entrance, every corner discoverable from virtually any vantage.

But to secrete herself was not something craved in the slightest by the lady whose appearance he - and the ton's more predatory members - awaited. Quite the contrary.

The Countess Fraser had first graced London society with her presence but a week previous; there seemed to be no other topic of conversation in any quality parlor, ballroom or bedroom in all of the capital since. She drove both women and men to distraction: the former with envy, the latter with desire.

It was little wonder, then, that even the most notorious gentlemen in attendance that evening were behaving so astonishingly out of character. The air of generalized ennui cultivated by any self-respecting rake had deserted them, to a one.

The earl's anticipation, however, was of an entirely different nature.

Whereas to most the damsel appeared upon entering a room like a galleon in full sail, slicing through a sea of lesser mortals before her, to Coulter she resembled more of a privateer, flying a borrowed flag and intent on overcoming any and all unsuspecting crafts within her sights.

But Coulter was confident he would not be among the vanquished.

For he knew something, a good deal, in fact, of the late earl. He knew, for example, that the esteemed gentleman had no daughter. Nor niece. He knew, for example, that the last of the Countesses Fraser had been his aunt Charlotte who had died when he was a child.

Coulter tugged the hem of his ivory silk waistcoat. The charade was not to be borne. Indeed, he had determined that this pretender to one of the most respected earldoms of Scotland would be subjected to a thorough cross examination that very evening, the elegance of the present company and surroundings be damned.

And when he had exposed her as a fraud? He could, of course, trumpet her deceit to all and sundry, and yet... The thought of the payment he might extort for his silence brought a smile to his lips and an arch to his brow.

For the moment, what was certain was that in anticipation of the coming campaign he would require some liquid fortification.

Scanning the hall, Coulter spotted a liveried footman in possession of a promising crystal-laden salver. He reached him mere feet from the entrance to the ballroom.

It was at that moment that she appeared. He knew at once, and without the benefit of the duchess' storied mirrors. As though all had been, of a sudden, universally deprived of breath, all discussion in the immediate vicinity ceased.

Champagne in hand, Coulter slowly turned to observe the entrance of the incomparable Lady Fraser.

A sea of humanity parted before her, then closed in her wake.

Clad in a gown of canary-hued silk and accompanied by her hostess, the countess swept toward the swirl of dancers at the center of the room and arrived, with magnificent fortune, before him.

Swiftly lifting a second glass from the tray, Coulter embraced the exceptional opportunity fate had laid at his feet.

"Your grace," he intoned, performing an abbreviated bow. "May I offer you and your charming guest some refreshment? I fear you may require it as this year's ball is, as always, the greatest success of the season."

"Why Lord Coulter, you are so kind," the duchess replied, accepting the proffered drink. "Allow me to present my dear new friend, the Countess Fraser."

The countess' violet gaze met his as she offered her hand. He bowed deeply over it, lightly grazing her gloved fingers with his lips, never taking his eyes from hers.

"Lady Fraser. Enchanted," the last scarcely more than a whisper.

Her countenance changed but little. He watched closely for some flicker of apprehension, but saw only the bloom of her cheek and rosy bud of her lips.

The countess' profile was angular, patrician, yet distinctly feminine, and her coiled tresses as jet black as his own. And then there were her jewels. About her ivory throat, set amongst a constellation of scintillating gems, hung the fabled Fraser diamond.

Fingertips brushed fingertips as she received the glass. He swiftly procured another for himself. He would need that drink more urgently than he had anticipated; her brief touch had all but laid waste to his resolve.

"If you will excuse me, I must speak with Lord Markham." And with that, the duchess vanished among the multitudes.

As Coulter considered his strategy, he found himself fixed by the impenetrable gaze of his quarry. She lifted her chin and for the first time he heard her voice, low and lush.

"I am astonished, Lord Coulter, that it took you so long to find your way to my side. I was certain you would have done so as soon as you heard of my presence in town."

With the opening salvo she had outflanked him, but only temporarily.

"Whatever do you mean, my dear lady?" he drawled.

"I believe you desire some answers of me."

The challenge in her eyes was unmistakable. But then, she could not know with whom she was dealing.

He took her glass from her, and with his own, thrust it into the grip of a passing footman.

Coulter did not wait for her to offer her hand. He rather claimed it, sweeping her onto the dance floor just as a waltz began. He pulled her almost roughly into his arms, confidently, clasping her to him.

He could feel the heat of her body as she molded it to his. He could have sworn a faint gasp escaped her lips.

But then she recovered.

"Tell me," she cooed, "when did you last see your uncle, the Earl Fraser?"

He studied her countenance before replying.

"I was seven. He passed through London on his way abroad."

"And his destination?"

He sensed her toying with him, drawing him into an ambush. But the direction her questions were taking was revealing in itself, and so he complied.

"He was to be ambassador to the court of the Empress Catherine in St. Petersburg."

She smiled, slyly, seductively.

"Why is it, then, that you presume to know so much about Lord Fraser, a man you have not seen these past twenty-plus years?"

"I may not have had intimate knowledge of his daily activities, but there are a few indisputable facts of which I am in possession. For example, anyone here could consult their Debrett's and verify --"

"That it is shockingly incomplete."

At the last he saw a flash of passion, heard the faintest break in her voice. And then it was gone. The mask of composure returned.

"And how did the earl die?"

"I believe you must know already, my lady, for the answers I have provided to your queries thus far have not been in the service of your enlightenment."

She waited, with the patience of a sphinx.

"His carriage plunged into the River Neva as he traveled to board a ship to carry him home to Britain." His eyes narrowed in sudden wariness. "The cause has never been known."

"And was he alone in that carriage?"

He looked hard at her.

"No," she whispered, her eyes ablaze. "He was not alone."

The waltz had come to an end, yet he could not bring himself to release her from his grasp. Her eyes, those boundless pools of purpled blue, held him against his will.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice throaty with desire.

"I am the Countess Fraser."

As he opened his mouth to protest, she laid a finger across his lips and slowly shook her head.

"I must go," she whispered, and turned away.

With dawning horror he realized that she had at once enflamed and thwarted him: the first battle had been incontrovertibly hers.

Moments later, as he handed the countess into the carriage, he determined that the next must assuredly be his. And with her maneuverings this evening, he knew with certainty that she had left him without quarter, with but one choice: He would be obliged to seduce her.

At the threshold of the vehicle, hand still in his, she turned and fixed him with her great velvet eyes.

"Do svedanya," she whispered. Russian. Goodbye.

And without a further glance, she vanished into the obscurity of the barouche.