"Was there someone you wished to avoid? I mean, aside from your assailant," he said lazily. "Of course not. Why would you say so?" "Because you practically sprinted away from the maze when you heard people coming. Or is it simply that you don't wish to be seen with me?'" There was that damnable undercurrent of amusement in his voice, the one she remembered. Did he find all women amusing?

"Why should I worry about being seen with you?"

"Because you clearly know who I am. You called me 'my lord,' and that was no accident. And if you know who I am then you doubtless know my reputation, which is far from stellar. Merely to be seen alone with me is enough to get you compromised."

She considered denying it. He was leading her farther away from the light, and she knew a sudden nervous anticipation. Was he going to make an advance under cover of darkness? She already knew he would never force her. Was there a chance she could enjoy one last, anonymous kiss before he placed her into a coach?

If he tried, she would let him, she decided. Her ankle was throbbing—she'd twisted it in the maze, reaggravating the injury, and she tried not to favor it more than necessary, not to lean on his strong arm.

"Viscount Rohan is fairly notorious, even for those of us who don't travel in his circles." She may as well be bold—pretended ignorance wasn't getting her anywhere. "We shared the same dance set earlier, and someone pointed you out to me.”

"Did we?" he said, and her irritation increased. Were all women invisible to him, or only she?

She looked around her. It was quite dark, though she could see the occasional light up ahead. "Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

"Where do you think?" he countered.

She wasn't going to be forced into voicing her secret fears that were just as much desires. "I would hope you were taking me to the hackney stand on the west entrance of the park. Anything else would be unacceptable."

"And I would never think of doing anything unacceptable, fair lady," he said with exaggerated courtesy.

She wanted to kick him. He was flirting with a stranger, his charm given to anyone who took his fancy. This was a good thing, she told herself as the lights grew brighter. It was a salutary lesson as to how interchangeable she was. She'd meant nothing to him, the jaded son of a bitch. And if she hadn't been entirely over him before, she was now, she assured herself. The swiving, self-centered peacock, vain, selfish, offal-munching...

"Is something distressing you, oh mysterious one?" he murmured.

“Why would you say so?"

“Because you suddenly dug your fingers into my arm as if you wanted to rip my skin," he observed affably.

She pulled her hand away. "I beg your pardon," she said in her muffled voice. "I was thinking of someone.”

"Were you indeed? Perhaps a former lover?"

"Why would you say that?"

"I've found most liaisons don't end well. At least one side is left feeling abandoned and hurting."

He'd pegged her well. She straightened her shoulders, continuing her forward stride. "If that is the case, sir, then why indulge in them? Wouldn't it be easier not to bother in the first place?"

He laughed softly. "The bother, as you sadly put it, is so delightful while it lasts," he murmured too close to her ear. "And I would never resist the call of delight."

She jumped away from him, unnerved, only to realize they'd somehow managed to reach the west end of the park, despite his circuitous route. And she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

There were hackneys lined up, as well as sedan chairs, a couple of open phaetons and a closed town coach. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was safer in the bright light— by sight she was totally unrecognizable. Granted, she was a tall woman, but she wore flat slippers when most women wore jeweled heels on their shoes, and she was trying to keep her head down. In the dark she was probably just as interchangeable as any of his other light o' loves, but she'd spent most of her time in the shadows with him. There might be other ways to tell him who she was, assuming he even remembered her existence.

She took her hand from his arm and gave him a small curtsy. "You've been very kind. Lord Rohan," she said. "I will bid you good-night..."

"Allow me to hand you into the carriage," he said politely, taking her arm and leading her toward one of them. In days to come she would berate herself for being so unobservant, but at the time she was so relieved to have made it through the evening without being recognized that she probably would have climbed into the royal coach without looking.

The door was opened, the steps came down, and he put his wide hands around her slim waist and lifted her into a closed carriage that was far too elegant to be a hired hackney, and then the coach dipped beneath his weight as he followed her in, closing the door behind them, shutting them into the darkness.

She opened her mouth to scream, but he simply stopped her with his mouth, kissing her, holding her still as the carriage moved forward with an almost imperceptible jerk.

She fought him, furious. She had thought he was above such shoddy tricks, absconding with unprotected females. She tried to use her knee, but he simply put one of his long, heavy ones over hers, trapping her in place. She tried her elbows, but his arm snaked around her, imprisoning her against him.

Oh, God, she wanted to kiss him back, she wailed inwardly, keeping her jaw clamped shut. She wanted to taste him, fall back against the squabs and let his mouth wander everywhere. His hand was cradling the back of her neck, slowly massaging it, and she could feel herself begin to melt anyway, soften against the steady pressure of his strong body.

He lifted his mouth for a brief moment, and in the darkness of the unlit carriage she could see the glitter of his eyes. "Open your mouth for me. Charlotte," he whispered. "I've been waiting hours to kiss you and I'm running out of patience."

Her shock was enough that she did as he told her, and his kiss was full and deep, a possessive hunger she felt vibrating through her body. She stopped struggling, when she knew full well she should have fought even harder. She let him kiss her, closing her eyes and savoring the taste of him in her mouth, and he pulled her unresisting body onto his lap.

"You can do better than that, sweet Charlotte. By the time I left you, you were growing quite adept. Give me your tongue.”

“Give me yours," she murmured, “and I’ll bite you.”

She could feel the laugh rumble through his body as it pressed against hers. "No, you won’t." And he proved it, tilting her head back, cradling it with one of his hands, and kissing her so thoroughly she felt as if she were melting against him. She made a small, whimpering noise, and she knew what it was. The sound of surrender.

He'd removed her loo mask and tossed it to one side, and he was busy unfastening the ribbons that held the domino close about her. "How could you think I wouldn't know you?" he chided softly. "I know the way you move, the way you bite your lip when you're nervous, the sound of your laughter, your eyes. I know your hands and your skin, your scent, the way you try to pretend that something doesn't bother you when you're very bothered indeed." He slid one hand down between them, between her thighs, and she tried to squirm away from him. "Though I must admit I'd like to hear your laugh more often. Perhaps see you scowl less and smile more.”

“Leave me the hell alone," she said breathlessly, hoping the curse added the peremptory note mat her aching voice lacked.

He caught her chin, pulling it up to meet his face, and she looked into his devastating smile. "I can't do that, love. That's been my problem for the last three weeks. I can't stop thinking about you, and I'm afraid no one else has managed to distract me.”

So she wasn't alone in this, she thought miserably. That was something, at least. He lusted after her. She could feel his erection beneath her hips, and she moved, just enough, a subtle caress that made his arms tighten around her.

“Holy Christ," he muttered in her ear. "Don't do that."

“Why?"

“Because I'd like to wait until we get back to my house."

Her heart leaped into her throat. "I'm not going to your house."

"I'm afraid you are, love. You're in my carriage, and that's where we're heading. Don't worry—I'll send a note to Lady Whitmore, telling her you're safe. No one else will have any idea you've gone off for a libidinous interlude."

"I'm not going anywhere at all with you. Leave this carriage."

"It's my carriage," he said apologetically. "I made arrangements after I saw you dancing. You told me you didn't dance. Come to think of it, I remember an occasion when you trampled on my feet hard enough to cripple me for days. Do you save your wicked clumsiness for me alone?"

She could feel the color flood her face. Suddenly it was three years before and she was gawky, clumsy, so in awe of the man that her feet didn't move. New strength swept through her, and she yanked herself out of his arms. He let her go, and she ended up on the opposite side of the coach, glaring at him.

"Don't be ridiculous. You danced with me, and with several other fortunate gentlemen. I was quite annoyed with them."

He was lying. It was all part of his mockery, and she couldn't understand what pleasure he derived out of being so cruel. "Have you ever seen me dance in public, my lord? Normally I would assume you wouldn't have paid attention one way or the other, but I assure you tonight is the first time I've danced since that unfortunate time you were forced to partner with me at Lady Harrison's." Her voice was flat, emotionless. If he wanted to embarrass her, cause her pain, she wasn't going to let him see it.

"Do you expect me to be shamed by that? How foolish of you, to let a dandy's stray comments affect you. If I listened to all the malicious things people have to say about me, I'd be curled up in a ball somewhere." He paused, looting at her. "Is that what you did? After I effectively demolished you?"