For a moment she didn't move. She wanted to be closer to him, to press up against him and have him put his arms around her, holding her. He was strong, in ways she couldn't even begin to comprehend, and that strength drew her to a dangerous degree. She wanted to bury her face against the somber black cloth of his coat, she wanted to stop smiling, stop laughing, stop dancing.

She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could.

She took a swaying step toward him, her most seductive smile on her lips. The carmine red had worn off hours ago, but she knew her mouth was one of her best features, full and inviting. Men loved her mouth, and Simon Pagett, beneath everything, was simply a man. "Our stakes were artificial," she murmured, "but my offer is entirely genuine." She reached out and gently stroked his chest, her fingers dancing on the thick wool. He caught her hand, stopping her. But he didn't release her fingers.

"Lady Whitmore," he said, and his voice sounded weary, "there is very little about you that is genuine. You aren’t the strumpet you wish you were. In feet, you are a kind woman who loves Montague very much, and for that I'm grateful."

"You have no cause nor right to be grateful," she said, her languor vanishing. "My affection for Monty has nothing to do with you." She tried to pull her hand free, but his grip lightened, and she was right. He was quite strong.

"True. But my feelings are my own. I reserve the right to feel anything I wish. Gratitude, disapproval.”

Her laugh was supposed to be light and airy. Instead it sounded bitter even to her own ears. "You don't feel desire, remember. Vicar?"

"I don't give in to desire. It doesn't mean I don't feel it quite profoundly. Unlike you."

She froze. "Don't be ridiculous. As you put it so elegantly, I spread my legs for anyone. I like to sleep with men. Is that so hard to believe? You think only men feel sexual desire?"

"I think women feel sexual desire quite strongly. I just don't think you do. You're a fake, a poseur. Lady Whitmore. You may open your legs, for whatever twisted reason you have, but you never open your heart."

Since he wasn't releasing her hand, she moved closer still, pressing her body up against his, her anger overcoming every other feeling that might have tempered it. "Spare me your homilies. Vicar, they make me ill." She rubbed up against him, like a cat in heat, mocking him, but as he released her hand he caught her arms, putting her away from him. But not before she felt the unmistakable outline of his erection.

"My, my... It seems your vow of celibacy might be ready to take a tumble. Unless you walk around with a spyglass tucked in your breeches. It seems you want me to spread my legs for you." Her smile was mocking as she waited for him to push her away.

He wouldn't pull her back, she knew she was safe. She didn't want someone like Simon Pagett in her bed—he saw her with uncomfortable clarity. She preferred drunken lordlings and—

"I gave up meaningless couplings outside of marriage for reasons you couldn't possibly understand."

“Try me. And I do mean that."

“No," he said flatly.

"There it is again. No. Don't. Never. You really should find new words. Like Yes. Do. Always."

His fingers tightened, and he was going to kiss her. His grip was almost painful, and he lifted her off her feet, pulling her closer, and she wanted this kiss more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. His hands hurt her, though she doubted he realized what he was doing, and she closed her eyes, waiting for his mouth to meet hers.

And then she found herself plopped down on the floor, unceremoniously. "I refuse to play your games. Lady Whitmore."

She should have left well enough alone. He was far more of a danger to her equilibrium than the men she slept with—he had the capability of destroying all her hard-won defenses. But she couldn't stop herself.

"Coward," she said.

Monty let out a soft snore. Before she realized what was happening, Simon had grabbed her arms again and pushed her outside the tall French doors, out onto the stone terrace in the early-morning light. He pushed her up against the stone facing, holding her there, and put his mouth on hers.

It was astonishing. It was full-mouthed, seething with lust and abandon, and for a moment she froze. She'd been kissed like that before, and she knew all the tricks of a measured response. But those clever tricks evaporated, and she closed her eyes, sinking, sinking. He kissed her with a fierce hunger that shook her to her bones, a deep, carnal kiss that was more sexual than anything she'd done in her entire life.

He lifted his head, glaring down at her. "You think I don't feel desire. Lady Whitmore? That's not a trout inside my breeches. You think I don't want you? You're the only woman to make me this crazy in ten years. You think I couldn't break my vows and betray my conscience and take you standing up against the wall, right here, right now? Damn you."

He gave her a little shake, and she let out a small, a very small murmur of distress.

“But you don’t fool me. You don't like men, you don’t like sex which is far worse than simply being a loose woman. You don't even get pleasure out of the act."

"I get—" Her denial was immediate, but he cut her off.

“No, you don't. Which is why I'm not going to betray everything I believe in, in service to whatever sick game you like to play. I won't do it. Damn you." He pulled her back into his arms, and she looked up at him, torn, confused, longing. "Damn you," he said again, just a whisper, and his mouth found hers.

The kiss was gentle this time, but there was nothing innocent about it. It was sweet and sexual, a kiss of such unbridled longing that it frightened her, and she reached up, meaning to push him away, but instead her arms went around his neck and pulled him closer, down to her, losing herself in the wonder of his mouth.

It was amazing that anything could penetrate the sudden, unexpected, sweet haze of longing that swept over her as he wrapped his arms around her. Just her name, in a hoarse whisper, and she yanked herself away, expecting that Monty had woken up.

Instead she saw three figures at the end of the wide terrace. Two liveried figures, and a limp, berobed woman in between.

Charlotte.

14

Adrian Rohan lounged in the chair, surveying the busy club with a jaundiced eye. There was a great deal of noise coming from the faro table, where someone had clearly just won or lost a fortune. Normally Adrian would have risen and strolled over to see who had changed their life, at least for the day, but he was bored, restless, annoyed. Gaming had lost its charm for him, wine its taste, sex its delight. For the past three weeks Etienne had tried to interest him in his old pursuits, but nothing managed to entertain him. He'd made an effort, letting his father's cousin drag him off to the clubs, the bordellos, but nothing was able to capture his interest.

Not even the remarkable prowess of Madame Kate's best fellatrix could do more than produce a desultory release, when normally he would have enjoyed the act immensely. He moved through his life with a stunning apathy. He was tired of everything, including Etienne de Giverney, who was growing ever more tedious in his attempts to distract him. Drink bored him, high-stakes gaming was tepid, he'd had every woman that caught his fancy, everything was flat and tasteless.

"That fool Lindenham," Etienne wheezed as he sank into the chair opposite him. "Wagered the family estate on a roll of the dice. Always a bad idea, no matter how lucky he seemed to have been earlier in the evening. He'll probably blow his brains out in a fortnight."

"Or win it back next week," Adrian said absently. "Etienne, I'm thinking I might rusticate. Town has grown dreadfully stale lately, and I'm thinking a bit of fresh air and exercise might improve my spirits."

"You had plenty of fresh air and exercise at Montague's place. Then again, your little piece of fluff didn't let you out of your cave al all—no wonder you're feeling the need of blue sky. Assuming you'll find it in this dreadful country."

"If you don't like our weather you could always return to France, cousin," Adrian suggested in a sweet voice, unaccountably annoyed.

"And lose my head? I think not! I'm more than happy to wait out the revolution right here. It won't be long before the canaille give up. As long as they keep executing each other there soon won't be anyone left to rule, and they'll have no choice but to invite us back.”

"As you say," Adrian murmured, having heard all this before.

"Anyway, your estate adjoins that of your impressive pere, my boy. I have a difficult time feeling comfortable in the wilds of Dorset."

"I wasn't aware that I had asked for your company," Adrian murmured, his light tone taking the sting from the insult.

Etienne smiled with just a trace of malice. "Ah, but I know I am welcome wherever you go. Otherwise you risk the chance of becoming sadly bored> and I couldn't allow that to happen to my young protege."

The word startled Adrian. Did Etienne really see him as a protege? In what? Etienne's expertise was reserved for depravity and excess> and Adrian considered he did well enough on his own in that area.

Then again, what was the Viscount Rohan known for? The same kind of libertine behavior as Etienne, though in truth his bad behavior tended to be overlooked, due to the fact that he was both titled and unmarried.

Etienne didn't live on quite such an exalted level, and if it hadn't been for Adrian's sponsorship he would have been persona non grata at any number of places. He wasn't well liked. The English distrust of the French, even those exiled by their current bloodthirsty mess, was enough to keep Etienne from joining the uppermost tiers of society, theories Adrian took for granted. Etienne would be welcome at gatherings of the Heavenly Host, or galas thrown by women of dubious reputation, such as the notorious Lady Whitmore. But he was barely tolerated in his parents' household, and he'd been given the cut direct more than once since he'd been in England.

"I wouldn't think of dragging you away from London during the season," Adrian said with a touch more grace. "I simply find myself in need of a bit of solitude. I expect I'll go mad with boredom and be back within the week."