She couldn't imagine a man like him succumbing to the lures of the flesh. His lined face seemed preternaturally grave—as if he were born that way—and she couldn't imagine a time when he had laughed, cried, charmed, kissed. He really did have a lovely mouth when it wasn't drawn into a thin line of what was either worry or disapproval, disapproval seeming more likely. It was a shame it wasn't used for more pleasurable purposes than denouncing the sinful.

Dodson had made a reappearance, accompanied by two of Montague's typically handsome footmen.

"Assist Lord Montague to his rooms and make him comfortable," Simon said in a calm tone that was nonetheless a trifle high-handed. "And Lady Whit-more, may I suggest you change into something more appropriate for the circumstances?"

Prudish little toad, Lina thought rebelliously, ignoring the fact that Simon was neither little nor toad-like. "I thought the habit was eminently suitable, Mr. Pagett, given the spiritual aspect of the occasion and my nursing skills."

In another man she might have recognized humor in his eyes. But this one was surely devoid of humor, and that light in his dark eyes must be impatience. "I wasn't objecting to the nun's habit. Lady Whitmore. I merely thought the decolletage was a bit extreme for a sickroom, and I assumed you preferred to be fashionable. You may wear whatever you please."

"Thank you for your kind permission," she said with only the faintest bite beneath her soft tone. In fact, she'd forgotten that beneath the rounded white collar of the habit the plain black dress was cut very low, ostensibly to allow men to survey her bounty before she actually divested herself of her clothes. She resisted the impulse to yank her dress up higher. Her breasts were firm and well shaped; let the dour clergyman look his fill.

"You have a point, Mr. Pagett," she murmured. "Though it's a shame when you and I are so particularly matched. In costume, at least."

For a brief moment the words hung in the air, seeming to take on a different meaning. And then Pagett scowled at her, ignoring her breasts as few men had managed in the past ten years. "I doubt we would find we have anything else in common," he said, sounding irritable. "Perhaps it would be better if you were to join your fellow sybarites..."

"I will stay." In fact, she'd considered slipping away, but most likely Charlotte was in the room they were sharing, sound asleep.

The footmen were already carrying Montague from the candlelit salon amidst his weak curses and languid protests. The look Simon Pagett cast her was far from promising. "He's in safe hands with me.

Lady Whitmore, no matter what he says. It would probably mate things a great deal simpler if you went and joined the others."

She looked at him for a long moment. "And it would doubtless make things a great deal simpler if you returned from whence you came and waited until you were supposed to show up. Sometime next week, I collect?"

At first he didn't answer her, and she had the odd, uncomfortable sensation that he saw her too clearly. "Why would you suppose any such thing?"

"Because Montague would scarcely invite a stick-in-the-mud, disapproving parson to a house party composed of notorious libertines, would he?"

Now she could see for certain—he was amused. It barely touched the comers of his fine eyes, and his mouth kept its grim, uncompromising line. Nevertheless, he was amused.

"You think not. Lady Whitmore? In fact, he was expecting me tomorrow, and the Revels usually last a good four days, do they not?"

"Only three this time." She didn't stop to wonder why he'd know that much.

His lips curved in a cool smile. "Perhaps Montague is beginning to accept the fact that he is mortal after all. I expect he hoped to be strong enough to enjoy at least a part of the Revels, and to rub my nose in it." He stared down at her for a long moment, as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say.

She was feeling oddly breathless. If he wasn't going to speak, then she should, rather than stand there in that awkward silence. Of course, the way to break it would be to excuse herself, and that was exactly what she should do. Except she didn't want to.

There was an arrested expression in his eyes, and the silence held. Until something made him come to his senses, and he turned away with a short, dismissive laugh. "Montague will be resting for the next few hours, once the doctor leaves. You may as well

"We've got an arduous battle ahead and you'll need your strength."

"Battle?" she echoed, confused. "Battle for what?"

"Montague's immortal soul." He turned, then looked back for a moment. "And likely yours as well."

And without another word he was gone.

For a first kiss it was not bad, Adrian thought coolly. Charlotte Spenser froze as his mouth touched hers, too shocked to do anything more, and Adrian pressed his advantage, pulling her closer against his body, wrapping his arms around her so she couldn't escape easily, and proceeded to work on seducing her mouth first. He slid one hand up to her gold-rimmed glasses, slipped them off and deliberately dropped them on the ground before she even knew what he'd done.

She could probably feel his iron-hard erection beneath her silly monk's habit, even if she didn't know what it was. Quite impressive—he hadn't been this excited so early in the game for a long time. He usually needed his partner to be completely naked and under him before he reached this dangerous point, further proof that he'd been far too interested in Charlotte Spenser to begin with.

She was struggling, just slightly, making a distressed sound, and he silently cursed. She was going to have to be handled very carefully or she might bolt, and he'd be honor bound to let her go. Assuming he still possessed a degree of honor.

Except that he knew she wanted this, or would if well-bred, virginal young women had any honesty. If he could just manage to convince her to let go of it all, this could be quite revelatory for both of them.

He lifted his mouth from hers, just barely, and looked down into her shocked, wide-open eyes, now without the annoying barrier of glass. She didn't even seem to notice he'd taken them. "It's easier if you close your eyes," he said in a practical voice. To his astonishment she did, and he kissed her again.

She was no longer struggling, a mixed blessing; her squirming had provided a lovely friction for his erect penis. Then again, it wouldn't help matters if he climaxed in his breeches. Her lips had been tight, frightened, but now they had softened, and he brushed his own lips against hers, once, twice, wanting to hum with anticipatory delight.

If she accepted his kiss he'd have her, he told himself. Accepted a real kiss, his tongue in her mouth, taking her, not this innocent stuff reserved for young ladies behind the punch bowl, innocent creatures who didn't know what they wanted.

He lifted his head again. "Open your mouth for me.”

Her eyes flew open again. "Why?"

It was the first word she'd spoken in quite a while, but her voice was husky and raw as if she'd been screaming.

"Because I want to kiss you that way."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You need to let me—"

He covered her mouth again before she could say the fateful words, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth so he could taste her fully. She froze again, but he knew how to kiss, how to use his tongue and teeth to get the response he wanted. Her body softened first, then her jaw, then her mouth, accepting

He took his time then. He wanted her tongue in his mouth, he wanted her to draw his in and suck on it. He demonstrated, hoping she might get the idea, letting his tongue slide against hers, teasing, dancing, sucking, but she still didn't do anything more than let him.

And he wanted more. He'd told himself that acceptance was enough, but he'd been wrong. He wanted, needed participation.

"Kiss me back," he whispered, his own voice hoarse.

She started to shake her head, but he caught her chin in one strong hand, holding her still. "Kiss me back," he repeated in a rough voice.

Her eyes were huge. In the darkness her rich red hair looked black, and she looked up at him beseechingly. Don't ask me to let you go, he thought.

A slow smile curved his mouth as relief flooded him. "I'll show you," he said, claiming her mouth again, trying to control the sheer ferocity of his desire for her. He kissed her slowly, much more slowly than he wanted to, but after a moment he got into the feel of it, the slow, languorous sweep of his tongue in her mouth, the soft little bites, the lift and repositioning of his mouth over hers. The final, tentative touch of her tongue against his.

He wanted to throw back his head and laugh with triumph, but he didn't want to stop kissing her. He could feel the changes in her body, as it softened, flowed against his, and he wanted to push her against a wall, shove her robe up and take her right there.

He couldn't. He wasn't prone to kindly gestures, but her first time should be in a bed. Hell, her first time should be in her new husband's bed, but he wasn't going to give her that.

He also wasn't going to give her a baby. He would pull out, and her cousin would be able to provide the remedies most of their set used to prevent unwanted conception just in case. She would emerge from his little cave minus her innocence but not much more the worse for wear. She'd still be the same prissy old maid, and she'd conveniently forget her night of love in the bed of London's most notorious rake.

If he ended up letting her stay that long. Virgins were tedious—they cried and then professed themselves to be in love with their heartless seducers, because God forbid they should find any sexual pleasure that didn't come with a lifelong guarantee. Charlotte already thought herself in love with him, whether she admitted it or not. And she would most certainly cry.

Twice should be enough. Once to deflower her and take the edge off his suddenly overpowering need. A second time to go slowly and explore alternatives.

He could make her come, quite easily, but that might be a mistake. She was probably better off not knowing what she was missing, since her future wasn't likely to offer many opportunities. Most men wouldn't be able to see past the glasses and the scowl, they wouldn't appreciate her creamy, gold-flecked skin and rich mouth. If she ever married it would doubtless be to some widower or elderly bachelor who knew nothing about pleasing a woman and cared less, so she'd be happier without too many fond memories. Besides, it would take a lot of work bringing a newly deflowered virgin to completion. He'd be better off moving on to the next partner, sending this one back to the city.