A shaky sigh escaped her as she slept, and he told himself what a bastard he was. At least he'd pulled out at the last minute. In time, he hoped. Just to be certain, he'd make sure Lina shared the herbal infusion ladies of the ton swore by to avoid unwanted pregnancies. He could just imagine his father's reaction. The hypocritical bastard would flay him alive.

His mother, though, would be thrilled.

He rose from the bed, crossing the room to a stand that held a ewer of fresh water and a bowl. He washed, then poured clean water and towels and soaked them. He glanced back at the bed. She was sound asleep, and he shouldn't wake her, but she'd probably be feeling sore and sticky and generally uncomfortable. In truth he'd never had a virgin before, though certain members of the Heavenly Host preferred them, but he could imagine she might be feeling slightly abused. And he wanted her again.

He wasn't that fastidious—he would happily take her already covered with his seed, but he imagined she might balk. He slid back into the bed beside her, tucking her against his body, and began to wash her, slowly, lingeringly.

She opened her eyes drowsily. "Hush, love," he murmured, putting the warm damp cloth between her legs. "You'd probably prefer to soak in a bath, and I'll have my servant arrange it when he comes, but in the meantime this might help. Are you hurting?"

She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. "When your servant comes you'll let me go?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "You won't want to."

"I want to now," she said with sleepy defiance.

He leaned over and brushed his mouth against hers, and he moved the wet cloth carefully, the heel of his hand pressing down on her clitoris while he slowly stroked her.

She made a muffled sound against his mouth, one of pleasure, and she lifted her hips towards his hand, his gentle stroking. He moved his lips lo her ear, biting the plump lobe for a moment before whisper-He could find other ways to give her pleasure, to take his own, but for some reason he wanted to be inside her again. Maybe he wasn't a total bastard, because he would give her time to...

Tb what? He certainly wasn't going to wait until she healed. He was hard, and he wanted her now, and there was no reason why he shouldn't take her.

He pulled the damp cloth away and dropped it on the floor, then reached for her. She was already half asleep again, and she moved toward him willingly, tucking her head against his shoulder, her hand on his arm, sighing deeply as her body relaxed against his. Trustingly.

He froze, and an ugly sneer twisted his mouth. He'd really managed lo shag her brains out, he thought. She should be fighting him, remembering he was the worst thing in the world for her. Instead she was sleeping in his arms like a trusting orphan.

Then again, she was the worst thing in the world for him. Because she was turning him into a dead

bore, when he'd much rather be his wicked, selfish self. There was nothing he could do about it. He simply ignored his aching cock, put his arms around her and let himself sleep.

10

Etienne de Giverney, the ci-devant Comte de Giverney, rose from the bed. Ci-devant—he despised that term. From before, it meant. An insult to the Bourbon aristocracy who were now, in the blood-soaked streets of Paris, mere citizens.

His cousin, Francis Rohan, had blithely handed over the title when he'd left France, the title that should have been Etienne's from birth. A lawyer had drafted a letter to the king, and voila, all was made right for a few short years. He'd left the tiny surgery where he'd grudgingly worked and enjoyed the life he'd deserved, in the huge old house in Paris, in the countryside chateau.

The chateau was rubble now—burned and trashed. He liked to think some of his servants had died inside, but more likely they were the ones attacking the place. His servants had always hated him.

The hotel in Paris was now some sort of government office, he'd heard. Government! It was to laugh. The canaille could no more govern themselves than they could walk on water. It would only be a matter of time before the bloody new regime would be overthrown, and all the ci-devant aristos would be back where they belonged.

In the meantime, he was an exile, basically penniless, though at least the English respected his title. And his cousin Francis had been generous, as always, inspired, no doubt, by a guilty conscience. Except someone like Francis Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, didn't possess a conscience.

It was more likely his wife, with her stupid English sense of honor. She'd done her best to make Francis abandon his profligate ways, ensuring him a damnably long life. How Etienne despised her for her softness. No Frenchwoman would be so weak as to attempt to tame her husband.

Ah, but there was Rohan's son, Adrian, Viscount Rohan. As his father had been granted a higher rank by a foolish English king, his son had taken one of his lesser titles, and at least Adrian was well on his way to the early death his father should have enjoyed. Etienne had taken him under his wing, much to the marquess's disapproval, which of course had only made Adrian more determined. He'd introduced him to all sorts of pleasures, any number of which could foreshorten his life. The English were so ridiculously conventional. Adrian liked to think of himself as a true libertine, a man without a soul or conscience, when in fact he still held to a ridiculous set of rules. Morality was for weaklings; it would be Adrian's undoing.

He wondered who he'd disappeared with. Etienne made certain he kept close to his young cousin. Last he'd seen him he'd been following a young monk. It was too much to hope that the coltish figure in the habit was male. He didn't recognize the woman's walk, but he wasn't concerned. One aristocratic English whore was much like the other. If Adrian developed an attachment, which so far he'd shown no signs of doing, then Etienne could handle the situation with his usual cold-blooded efficiency.

But there was no hurry. If Adrian continued on the path he was leading, the marquess of Haverstoke would be without an heir in no time. His first son had died of an ague ten years before, and Adrian looked to be following shortly, if Etienne had his way. And when he died, all that lovely money and the estates would go to Etienne, as well as the new English title and the old ones.

In the meantime, he was content to wait. Adrian would take care of his own early demise quite handily, and in the meantime, Etienne was enjoying his English life very much, thank you.

He moved to the bowl of water and began to wash the blood off his hands. It was a good thing his own servant, Gaston. accompanied him. Gaston could dispose of the well-paid courtesan who'd shared his bed last night, burn the blood-soaked sheets. He'd been in quite a frenzy last night. By today he was calmed, ready to partake in more genteel English customs.

The whore was staring at him, glassy-eyed, un-moving. She'd stopped screaming several hours ago, and her eyes were dull with hatred. Tant pis. He would pay her off, and in the dart no one would notice her scars.

There would be a picnic on the grass this morning. He could count on numerous partners beneath the springtime sun, and by the time he returned to his allotted cell there would be no sign of last night's play.

Still, he was curious about Adrian's choice. II wasn't the Countess of Whitmore—he'd seen her rushing off in the opposite direction with a good-looking servant, clearly intent on a little roll in the night—he'd see who she was at breakfast this morning and then he could decide whether he had anything to worry about.

Which was unlikely. In the three years since Etienne had been exiled, Adrian had held no long-term relationships. He would scarcely start one at a gathering of the Mad Monks.

He laughed to himself. The Mad Monks. The English were so ridiculous in their sins, cloaking them in costume and folderol. At least Adrian preferred, like his cousin, to sin openly. It made his job so much easier.

The woman on the bed tried to speak, but no words came out. He cast a last, curious glance at her, and then walked out into the early-morning sunshine, whistling jauntily.

"There was a young tinker from Barton

Who wanted a use for his..."

"I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to regale Montague with something other than obscene poetry?" Simon Pagett said in a world-weary voice.

"What would you suggest instead?" Lina said sharply. "An improving sermon? I imagine he's already heard enough of yours."

"Children, children," Montague said faintly. "Don't squabble. Simon, il wouldn't do you any harm to listen to a few naughty poems. I assure you, Lady Whitmore is quite gifted in their composition. And Lina, my precious, Simon’s sermons are actually quite interesting. I would never tolerate him as the new curate if they weren't."

“Don't try to convince me that you were actually going to attend church once he took over, Monty," Lina said. "I wasn't born yesterday."

"No, I do think that's going to be quite out of the question, don't you?" Monty said with a breath of a sigh. "Why don't the two of you go off somewhere and browbeat each other until you come up with a solution. I'm perfectly willing to tolerate either the sacred or the profane."

A wave of guilt washed over Lina, and she held his thin hand. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. Of course you don't want to hear all this brangling going on about you."

"'My precious, you're crushing my fingers."

She immediately released his hand, but found herself casting a worried glance at Simon Pagett. She had been putting no pressure at all on her friend's frail hand, and yet even that had hurt. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength," she said with a shaky laugh, turning back. Monty's color was ashen, his lips bloodless, but his eyes were still sharp.

"Indeed, darling, I don't think you do," Monty said in a soft voice.

Lina moved away from the bed, letting Simon take her place. Why, in God's name had she turned to look at him, as if for help? There was no help coming from someone like Simon Pagett. She was anathema to him, and he was nothing more than a prosing annoyance. Monty didn't need to be subjected to someone lecturing him during the last few days or weeks of his life. He'd always sinned on a grand scale—it was disheartening to see him diminished to a repentant sinner.