" Remain still; breathe naturally,” he whispered right in her ear, very, very quietly. She did as he suggested, not wanting to be found in the darkness with him by people too inebriated to observe a little discretion. And while she stood so close to him, the night breeze stirred the air, bringing Hazlit’s scent to Maggie’s nose. She puzzled over it, because it was faint but alluring. Complicated, like the man who wore it. Honeysuckle was the primary note, as sweet a scent as ever graced a bottle—and as intoxicating. She was marveling over that bit of deduction and deciding the undertone was bergamot, when she felt Hazlit’s hand in her hair. Holding her still? He gathered a few of the locks drifting over her right shoulder and rubbed them silently between his fingers. When had he taken off his gloves? Remain still; breathe naturally. It was good advice, when her heart wanted to pound, when she wanted both to run and to stand there forever, his fingers playing with her hair. His hand shifted so he brushed her hair back over her shoulder, just once. Maggie’s heart started to thud in her chest. She wasn’t frightened, exactly, but she was rattled. Men never touched her, not if they knew what was good for them, and she ought to abhor being rattled like this. She held still, waiting for him to repeat that simple caress. “They’re gone,” he said, still whispering. He took her by the wrist again and led her to the path, offering her his arm with perfect propriety. They returned to the house without incident, and Maggie thanked every merciful god in the pantheon she and her escort had missed the dancing. “Will you be going in to supper?” he asked. “I’d prefer not to.” And what had that business been with her hair? Was he going to pretend he hadn’t taken such a liberty? “I’ll fetch your coach. Find your wrap, and if you brought one, your reticule.” He offered her an ironic little bow and went off on his gentlemanly errand. Maggie was home and fighting her way toward sleep before she realized Hazlit hadn’t been pretending he’d never touched her hair. He’d been letting her ignore the fact that she’d allowed it. *** "

― Grace Burrowes , Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (The Duke's Daughters, #2; Windham, #5)