Author: Anne Stuart

But with Charlotte sleeping the righteous sleep of one beautifully shagged, he hadn't been able to send Etienne on his way, not without answering a lot of questions he didn't want to think about, even on his own.

“I admit, I was curious about that flame-red hair. Is she worth the trouble? I might ask Lady Whitmore to bring her next time..."

"No!" Adrian said sharply. And then he managed a dry laugh. "Truly, Etienne, you would find her tedious beyond measure. She's like any sentimental young thing, full of tears and protestations of love. I had to tie her down to take her."

"You know I can be quite fond of that kind of sport."

Adrian kept his face impassive. One of the things he enjoyed most about his father's French cousin was his total lack of conscience. He did what he wanted, with whom he wanted. And Adrian had begun to realize that all he had to do was desire something to ensure that Etienne would go after it. And he didn't want Etienne going after Charlotte Spenser.

He wasn't quite certain why. Why he lied. "You certainly aren't interested in protestations of love, are you?"

"Of course not. In particular, not from someone as charmless as Lady Whitmore's friend. What in the world made you take her in the first place? Oh, yes, I remember. She has the most affecting crush on you, does she not? Always watching you covertly from the back of the ballroom. Clearly this was your semiannual act of charity."

He'd forgotten he'd ever said anything at all about Charlotte. Etienne's malicious tongue could flay anyone alive, and the sooner he stopped talking about Charlotte the happier he'd be.

''I think I may be assured that her crush has vanished. Now, either talk about something else or let me have some peace. Two days of Charlotte Spenser is enough—I certainly don't want to keep reliving it all the way back to London."

Etienne leaned back, a faint, amoral smile on his face. "Perhaps you'd rather hear about Lady Alpen and Mrs. Barrymore? You would have been better off joining us, but then I wouldn't have been able to enjoy the pleasure of two such enthusiastic women."

"I thought you went off with one of the girls from Madame Kate's." Adrian frowned.

"Oh, I was done with her quite quickly," Etienne said with an airy wave of one exquisite hand. "She was merely to get me in the proper mood. And one can be a bit more insistent with those who are being properly compensated, as doubtless you're aware. I'm not sure that Maria and Helena would have been quite as docile as the whore." He glanced at his hand, as if seeing an imaginary stain there, and rubbed at it with the edge of his monk's robe.

"And what the hell are you doing dressed up? I thought you despised that sort of thing."

"I'm always open to new experiences, my boy. I decided if my dear young cousin was going to try something new then I should attempt something as well." He glanced down at the rough weave of his robe in distaste. "Let us agree to avoid wallowing in the mud in the future, however. These two days have been interesting, but I wouldn't think either of us would want to repeat them, do you?"

"No," Adrian said. "Two days of Charlotte Spenser were quite enough." At least, they should have been. He'd taken her, over and over again, trying to drain the need from his body. All he'd had to do was brush up against her skin and he'd be hard again. He'd taken her so often, so thoroughly, she'd probably have a difficult time walking for the next few days.

The thought should have amused him. He should share it with Etienne, to convince him how detached he was. Bui in fact the more he'd had Charlotte Spenser the more he wanted her.

He'd been careless, when he was the most careful of men. He'd pulled out each time, but he'd always waited until the last minute, or even beyond. Lina would have enough sense to make sure her cousin drank the tea the Gypsies provided, wouldn't she? He really didn't fancy having that conversation with the countess of Whitmore. She wouldn't like the fact that he'd despoiled her innocent friend. Not when she'd clearly been interested in being on the receiving end of such a despoiling.

When the door had opened a few hours ago, he'd half expected it to be her, demanding Charlotte. But it had been Etienne, amused, mocking, offering him an escape he could hardly refuse.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of Etienne. His parents had disapproved of his friendship with his French cousin, and the stronger his father's disapproval, the more intrigued Adrian had been. It was silly, childish, but inescapable. Francis Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, was an imposing figure, and the only man capable of intimidating Adrian. He fought back any way he could.

There were just so many times one could enjoy the controlled madness of drags, the visions of the forest mushrooms, the variations and combinations of sex. He was growing bored of it all. In fact, the two days alone with an unsentimental virgin had been the most exciting thing in his recent memory.

But he couldn't regret leaving her. The longer he was with her the more attached she was likely to become, and that would be miserable for everyone. A quick tear and it would be soonest mended. He couldn't linger over such things.

Of course he was entirely immune. He'd enjoyed her while he had her, but now he could forget about her.

Couldn't he?

13

It turned out to be surprisingly easy for Lina to avoid Simon Pagett. If he walked into Monty's bedroom while she was reading him salacious novels, she would simply rise, whisk herself away with a light sally, and there was nothing the good vicar could do short of making a scene. Which such a conventional creature would, of course, never do.

It wasn't that she was such a fragile soul Lina reminded herself. So the man had called her a whore-most vicars would do the same. There was no reason that it should bother her. She had set out to prove something to herself, and she'd never given a tinker's damn for anyone's opinion. The people who mattered loved her—Monty and Charlotte, and if that number was about to be cut in half she'd survive. She'd survived worse.

To her relief Pagett decided he needed to visit the vicarage where he'd be living for the next few years.

At least, Lina assumed he would be. She had no idea who Monty's heir was, but whoever came into the title would doubtless consider the position of local vicar to be the least of his worries. And for a few hours she didn't have to worry about running into the man in the long, empty corridors of Hensley Court.

"So what do you think of the good vicar, eh?" Monty was sitting up for dinner, his color improved even if his strength hadn't seemed to appreciate much.

Lina poured herself another glass of claret, admiring the blood-red color in an attempt to give herself time to come up with a polite answer. Then again, Monty had never been insistent on good manners.

"He's a dog."

Monty laughed. "No, darling, tell me what you really feel about him."

"'You weren't thinking of matchmaking, were you, Monty? Because if you were, then I think your illness has reached your brain and there's no hope for you."

"I do adore you, Lina, but even I know that you're hardly the kind of woman who'd make a decent parson's wife. Besides, I'm very fond of Simon— I wouldn't think of saddling him with a shrew like you. Why do you ask?"

She decided to ignore her own suspicions. "The vicar thought you might be."

“Really? Wishful thinking on his part. I expect."

He took a sip of his own watered-down wine. 'Faugh, this tastes like piss. Give me a full glass, there's a dear."

"'And how often have you tasted piss?" "You don't really want the answer to that, do you?"

"'You're revolting, do you know that?" "I do. I'm certain that when Simon decides to marry he'll find someone plain and virtuous, whose knees are so tightly clamped together he'll need a bar to pull them apart. For now I believe he's reveling in the world's longest stretch of celibacy, and the only reason i can think of him breaking it would be if I insisted that the vicar should have a wife. Otherwise he'll continue to mortify his flesh and suffer for his sins.”

"Mortify his flesh?" Lina said, startled. "He flagellates?"

'That sounds so deliciously sinful when you say it, darling," Monty said wickedly. He drained his glass of wine, accepting the fact that Lina wasn't about to pour him an undiluted glass. "No whips or hair shirts, just sexual abstinence. He's simply atoning for his sins, darling. He loves them and his guilt far more than he could ever love a woman."

"May they live happily ever after," she said firmly.

"What did you two fight about?" Monty asked with a hint of childish curiosity in his voice.

"Your treatment, my morals, the color of the sky.... You name it, we fought over it. How long has he been celibate?" The last came out almost as an afterthought—she had no idea what made her think of it.

“Why do you ask?"

"You said it was the world's longest stretch of celibacy, and I find that difficult to believe," she said airily.

"I am prone to exaggeration, I do confess it. However, I do believe that poor Simon, former scourge of the bawdy houses of London, whoremaster, libertine, rake extraordinaire, hasn't dipped his wick in close to a dozen years. I expect if he ever marries he'd insist on an unconsummated one. Such a waste, if you ask me. While he never shared my proclivities, it seems a shame that no one gets to enjoy his years of experience. Not to mention the fact that he's a fine-looking man, if a little weather-beaten."

"Then we'll have to hope his plain, virtuous wife with the locked knees will manage to overcome his scruples."

"What scruples?"

She'd been too involved in her conversation with Monty to realize her nemesis had returned, and she shot to her feet, catching the racy French novel before it tumbled to the floor. She plastered a bright, vivid smile on her deliberately painted lips. "You're back,"