Lizzy Pryce climbed the palace steps, feeling as if she was walking into a dream. Through the open, gilded double doors she could see a throng of guests milling about the foyer, dressed in sparkling gowns and tailored tuxedos. Waiters carried trays of mouth-watering hors d'oeuvres and champagne in delicate crystal flutes. From the ballroom she could hear the orchestra—the one she herself had chosen—playing a waltz. She could just imagine the couples dancing, swirling across the floor, so graceful and light they looked as though they hovered an inch above ground.

Everything in her wanted to turn around and run, but she'd come this far. She had to see this through.

Gathering her courage, she approached the guard posted at the door and handed him her invitation. Normally palace employees were strictly forbidden from attending royal parties, but this was the gala celebrating Morgan Isle's five hundredth anniversary. The party of the century. And because she held one of the highest positions—the queen's personal assistant—her name had been included on the guest list.

Her married name, that is. She didn't want people to recognize her. It was silly, but just for tonight, she wanted to feel as if she was one of them. The beautiful people. She certainly looked the part.

The golden-blond hair that she normally kept pinned back and fastened primly at the base of her neck now tumbled in loose tendrils across her shoulders and down her back. She'd ditched her glasses for contacts. And she'd abandoned her usual shapeless, dull—but proper—business suit for the formfitting, shimmering gold, Carlos Miele gown she had rented.

At the risk of soundi