Etienne surveyed him for a long moment. "Why would you be in need of solitude? I've known you all your life, and I don't remember a time when you weren't ready for a lark."

"I was fairly subdued when my brother died." The words came out before he could stop them.

"Ah, yes," said Etienne in a suitably somber voice. "The poor boy. I wish I could have done more for him. So young, so strong, and then just...gone. The fever swept through him so quickly. I think your father blames me for his death."

"Don't be absurd," Adrian said in a sharp voice. "It was scarcely your fault."

"Of course it wasn't. But I expect your father believes that English doctors might have been able to save him. That if he'd taken that fall when he'd been at home, the fever might not have been so virulent."

He hated this conversation. He hated talking about Charles Edward. His death at age nineteen had been devastating for all of them, but for a thirteen-year-old with a severe case of hero worship it had been unbearable.

He surveyed his cousin coolly. "You don't know my father very well. He's not the kind of man who spends time with words like if only. He took my brother's death hard, but the only one he blames is himself, for letting Charles Edward ride that horse in the first place.”

"The horse belonged to me," Etienne pointed out.

"So he did. And you warned Charles Edward many times. Unfortunately the more you warned him the more determined he became. Being willful and headstrong seems to run in our family."

"Indeed," Etienne said. "You realize that that was when I stopped practicing medicine for good. If I couldn't save my beloved cousin's oldest son then what good was any of it?"

Adrian turned to look at him, biting back his instinctive retort. Charles Edward would have hated the fuss—he'd been young, carefree, determined to live his life to the fullest, and he would have mocked any excessive mourning on their part. And like Adrian, he despised hypocrisy.

Francis Rohan, the Marquess of Haverstoke, was no more beloved than Adrian was a monk. The two cousins, Etienne and Francis, had genially despised each other. Etienne had always been convinced that Francis had stolen his birthright, simply by being born on the right side of the blanket. Bastard or not, Etienne de Giverney was French, and believed that he and he alone should be the comte de Giverney and hold in possession the family estates and the vast house in Paris.

Francis had given them to him. And the Reign of Terror had taken them away, a few short years

"I doubt my father appreciates your sacrifice," Adrian said wryly. Etienne's abandonment of his medical career had coincided with his claiming the disputed title— the comte de Giverney would hardly have kept his surgery open, the surgery Rohan money had paid for.

"No, your father has always questioned my affection for him," Etienne said sadly. And then he brightened. "Lady Kate is bringing in new girls, including an African one. Why don't I see if we can take them with us when we rusticate. It would certainly make the time go more quickly. And I can have them ship several cases of the cognac I've just taken possession of. The time will pass in a trice.”

"Etienne, I have no desire for the time to pass quickly. No desire for African whores, cognac, or, I'm afraid, your company."

Etienne looked taken aback. "Well." he said. "I see. I had no idea my friendship had become burdensome. I'll relieve you of it..."

“Don't be tiresome, Etienne," Adrian said. "You know I love you, and there's no one I'd rather spend time with." A month ago, a week ago, that would have been true. Now, for all his polite protests, he wanted nothing more than lo get away from him. "It's simply that I want some time alone. Is that so difficult to comprehend?"

Etienne was clearly undecided as to whether he should continue to be offended or let Adrian charm him out of it. "It's not like you," he said grumpily. "And I don't believe it's good for you. The season has barely begun. If you still feel the need to rusticate in another month then I won't argue."

This was getting as tedious as everything else, and Adrian gave in. "A month," he agreed. He looked around him. "Where's that boy with the wine? My glass is empty." He managed to summon up a smile. "I'll wager a hundred pounds he doesn't come before I have to go fetch him."

"Done," said Etienne, grinning at him. "Though I might have to borrow the hundred pounds. I'm running a bit short nowadays."

"Just get the boy here sooner and you'll win the money."

"But if you lend me the hundred pounds for the wager then when I win I'll have two hundred," Etienne said, practical as always.

Adrian laughed. "So you will. Consider it done. We'll settle up tomorrow."

He didn't really want to go to the country, he thought, tossing back the glass that Etienne had seen promptly filled. He didn't want to be alone, with nothing to distract him. He didn't want to be thinking about the look on Charlotte Spenser's face when he was inside her. He didn't want to be thinking aboul any woman. He wanted to get roaring drunk, visit Lady Kate's bawdy house and work out his frustration.

Charlotte had never taken him in her mouth. There hadn't been time to talk her into that particular delight. Perhaps he could enjoy Lady Kate's specialist again. Or he could simply see if the madam had a girl with coppery hair in her exotic stable.

Faith, one wench was as good as another. He hadn't truly enjoyed those two days in his little cave, had he? It must have been the novelty of it that made it stick in his mind. If he'd had an experienced woman the time would have passed in a much more pleasant fashion.

Then again, if he'd an experienced woman he would have never activated the locked door, and he would have gotten rid of her as soon as he politely could. So perhaps his current edginess was simple boredom, the need for novelty.

He could seek out other virgins, like some of the Heavenly Host were wont to do. Or he could broaden his horizons and consider men.

No, he couldn't see the appeal.

Which brought him around to the question of Montague. After taking off in pursuit of Charlotte, he hadn't seen his old friend again. He'd looked more frail than usual, and it was difficult to tell whether the bright spots of color on his pale face were signs of fever or a lavish hand with the rouge pot. If he retired to the country for a bit he could go by way of Sussex, check on Monty to make sure he was feeling well. He hadn't been in town this season, and Adrian had the lowering feeling that Monty's London days were at an end.

As long as he didn't die. No one had died in Adrian's life, no one he truly cared about, since Charles Edward, in France, fifteen years ago. Of course, he refused to allow himself to care about anyone outside his family, and his mother and four sisters, all tended to give birth easily, without the dangers usually inherent. He already had seven nieces and nephews, and while he'd been intemperate enough to adore them, he was cheered by the fact that they were incredibly healthy little monsters. Even so, he did his best to keep his distance from his sisters and their families

He could just say to hell with Etienne, take off, and by the time he found out it would be too late to talk him out of it. But that smacked of cowardice, and Adrian had never shied away from a challenge in his life.

Besides, the nervy bastard would probably just follow him out to the country. Why Etienne seemed so intent on his company was an absolute mystery. When he'd first appeared on the London scene and attached himself to Adrian he'd been flattered by the older man's attention, not to mention completely in favor of the dangerous excesses he exposed him to.

But the delight had definitely begun to wane.

He rose, sauntering over to the faro table where Etienne seemed to have grown roots. "I find Fm unaccountably tired," he murmured. "I'm heading for an early night. Shall I see you at the ridotto tomorrow night?"

Etienne's small frown turned approving. "It will be my pleasure. Though I would think we'd find more... specialized entertainment elsewhere than Ranelagh Gardens. Things tend to be so English there."

Once again the irritation rose. "You're in England, Etienne. What do you expect?"

Another night of boredom, Adrian thought as he strolled the few blocks from the gambling club to the small house on Curzon Street he'd bought for a mistress several years ago and then moved into once she'd moved on to greener pastures. The night was cool and clear, the recent rain having washed the stink from the streets, and he was reminded of the night air in Sussex. The chapel that Monty had had constructed, the Portal of Venus.

He slashed his ebony walking stick in the air, annoyed with himself And continued determinedly onward.

Miss Charlotte Spenser sat in a large, comfortable chair in the solarium in Evangelina, the Countess of Whitmore's mansion. The greenery was abundant, the air moist and warm, and the scent of fresh spring flowers filled the air. She was drinking a cup of tea. Not the wretched stuff that Lina had been forcing down her throat by the gallons, but nice strong, black, English tea, with a little milk and a great deal of sugar. So far it was easier on the stomach than that evil brew.

It had been three weeks since the Revels of the Heavenly Host. Her twisted ankle had healed nicely, the scrapes and bruises from her tumble down the embankment were almost gone. It should have been hard to believe any of it had ever happened. It was only when her mind started to drift that the feel of his hands, his mouth his...cock, he'd called it. She could almost feel everything again, and she wanted to weep.

Charlotte Spenser wasn’t a weakling. This was hardly that traumatic—no one had to know anything about it.

But she found herself looking at hands. Lina had any number of callers, but for some reason she'd stayed home recently, and no one had spent the night with her. The gentlemen came, and she looted for hands as beautiful as Rohan's. With long, artist's fingers, deft and elegant, and narrow palms. Clever, beautiful hands.