Author: Anne Stuart

"Watch out, 'e's got a popper," one of them called, and his arm went numb from another blow.

"Finish 'im off, Jem," one man said. "We wants to get paid before the cove takes off. Besides, we gots other work to do tonight besides this one."

Presumably it was Jem who moved closer. Adrian looked up at him dazedly, his head still ringing. The next blow would most likely crush his skull. And for some reason all he could think of was Charlotte's reaction to his untimely demise,

"You there!" someone shouted, and just like that the men scattered into the shadows like the rats they were, Adrian thought dazedly.

He tried to sit up, and someone came up to him, putting his hand under his arm to haul him to his feet. The arm they'd hit, and he let out a string of blasphemous curses as he struggled to his feet, only to see that his savior was wearing the collar of a vicar.

"Bloody Christ," he muttered weakly.

The man laughed. "You're in one piece, Rohan. You can thank God for that, not curse him."

"Fat Tot you know," he said. He narrowed his eyes.

He was still seeing a shadow around everything, but he was fairly certain he'd never met this man before. "Who are you?" he demanded, suspicious. "How do you know who I am? Did you set those men on me?”

“I'm the one who saved you, remember? I know who you are because I've come to see you. I'm Simon Pagett. I've come from Lord Montague."

He was already dizzy, and the man's words weren't helping. "He's not dead, is he?" he said in a dangerous voice.

"No. But he doesn't have long. He wants his closest friends to come and say goodbye."

For a long moment Adrian didn't say anything. And then he nodded toward his house. "I live just over there. Come in with me and you can tell me about it."

“I don't have much time. I'm to meet with some people and escort them to Sussex."

"I don't have much time either. My head is killing me and I damned well want to get drunk and go to bed."

"It might not be a good idea to get drunk after someone slammed you in the head," the vicar said mildly.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Then I'll take my chances. Come along. Vicar. There's drinking to be done."

19

Charlotte, normally the best of travelers, was totally miserable on the seemingly endless drive to Sussex. It took all her willpower not to throw up as the traveling coach lumbered along the bumpy roads, and when they stopped to change horses she couldn't manage more than a few sips of weak tea.

It was late morning by the time the coach pulled up at Hensley Court and discharged its bedraggled passengers. Mr. Pagett had gone ahead of them for the last hour, in order to make certain all was in readiness for their arrival.

Indeed, the interaction between Lina and Mr. Pagett provided Charlotte with much-needed distraction from her current woes. She couldn't very well think about Adrian Rohan without fury churning her poor beleaguered stomach. How dare he? How dare he tempt and taunt her like that, as if she were some idle plaything. She could console herself with the knowledge that she hadn't given in, no matter how much her body had cried out for it. She'd won the battle.

It just happened to feel like she'd lost the war.

At least thinking about Lina and the vicar kept her mind off her stomach. Listening to Lina's fuming diatribe had been wonderfully distracting.

"Isn't he the most odious man, Charlotte?" Lina had demanded early in the trip. Mr. Pagett was riding outside, having to keep his horse's pace slow to match the heavy coach. "You were spared much of his company, or you'd realize how abominably high-handed he is. The Lord preserve me from small-minded vicars and their prosy ways!"

"He didn't seem particularly prosy" Charlotte said, a hand clasped to her roiling stomach beneath her loose pelisse. "He mainly seemed concerned about Montague. A concern you share."

'That's the only thing we do share," Lina said with an angry sniff. "And he has no right to cast judgment on anybody—his own early life was fully as sordid as the most depraved libertine's."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me," Lina said artlessly. "You just need to take a good look at him to realize the truth. He looks a good ten years older than his real age, all due to excesses of brandy, of whoring, of ruinous behavior. How dare he tell me what I should be doing?" She fumed as Charlotte had rarely seen her.

"What were his suggestions?"

Lina was too busy muttering imprecations beneath her breath to immediately notice her cousin's question. She was dressed most becomingly in a demure gown of soft rose, and for the first time Charlotte didn't have to worry that her cousin would succumb to inflammation of the lungs from having vast amounts of her beautiful chest exposed. Even her hat was a subdued affair, instead of the usual outrageous confection, awash with feathers and silk flowers and the occasional representation of a woodland creature.

No, something or someone had inspired the notoriously unrepentant Evangelina, Lady Whitmore, to abandon her wild ways, and Charlotte couldn't help but wonder if the vicar had anything to do with it.

"It's a waste that he's so attractive," Lina went on, half to herself. "All that lovely, diffident grace, that world-weary air, that handsomely debauched face. He'll marry some whey-faced miss who'll keep his house and present him with whey-faced children, and all the whey-faced women in his whey-faced parish will adore him, of course. He'll pretend not to notice. the righteous Mr. Pagett, but underneath he knows full well the effect he has on vulnerable women."

"Then it's a good thing that neither of us are vulnerable women," Charlotte said, more out of a wish to see Lina's response than a belief in the truth. Not that she planned to say anything about it, but it seemed to Charlotte that Lina was completely vulnerable from the top of her neatly coiffed and braided black hair to the hem of her demure dress.

And how typical. The unfairness of life was quite extraordinary. If one of them was to fall in love with a sober parson and the other with a libertine, surely their roles should have been reversed.

She made a sudden, choking sound.

"What's wrong?" Lina demanded, her concern momentarily distracting her from her anger with the vicar.

"Nothing," Charlotte muttered, secretly horrified. In love with? Where had that thought come from? It was ridiculous, absurd, sheer madness. How could anyone fall in love with a self-indulgent sensualist like Adrian Rohan? It was as absurd as thinking Lina had fallen in love with the parson.

Except that Lina had changed her clothes, her behavior, and couldn't seem to keep her mind off Mr. Pagett. And Charlotte felt her recalcitrant stomach lurch.

But she was nothing if not resilient, and she smiled brightly at Lina, not revealing her inner turmoil. "Mr. Pagett sounds most unpleasant. Which is a shame. He seemed like a most pleasant-spoken gentleman."

"Don't be misled by his handsome face," Lina said darkly. "He's a snake."

The more Lina protested the more Charlotte was intrigued. Lina was much too interested in Montague's friend, no matter how much she denied it, and Charlotte was tempted to point it out to her, then thought better of it. She was too weary to argue.

She slept, and dreamed of Adrian, his hands caressing her body, his smiling, handsome mouth brushing hers. She hoped he was suffering. Men were less able to hide their arousal, and she'd had no doubt at all that he'd wanted her, quite badly.

Was he lying alone in his bed, hard, aching, regretting his stupid, callous treatment? Probably not. He could take care of the problem himself, couldn't he? Lina had explained it to her one time—that men, that Adrian, would use those deft, beautiful hands on himself, bringing his own release.

And presumably she could do the same. She remembered waking occasionally, lying on her stomach, rocking against her fists, feeling flushed and feverish. She certainly wasn't going to do that again. She had no particular interest in getting better acquainted with the mysteries between her legs. She was for more curious about his parts. She wanted to look at him, touch him. During those long hours she'd never had a chance.

Adrian probably didn't plan to endure a night of frustration or the substitute ministrations of his own strong, beautiful hand. There would be scores of women who'd shared his bed. All it would require would be a note, or a surprise visit, and they'd lift their skirts for him as easily as she did. If he wanted to avoid entanglements he could always do what his friends had suggested and visit the notorious Madame Kate's.

He had countless ways to deal with their unfinished business, and she had nothing. Heartless bastard, she thought, feeling her bile rise again.

She made it to Hensley Court but not much farther. The carriage pulled to a stop and she took a dive out the door, not even waiting for the footman to lower the steps. She landed on her knees in the gravel and proceeded to become embarrassingly, miserably sick.

"Travel sickness," she said wanly when Lina and Meggie rushed to her side. "Too much jostling in the coach. I feel fine now."

Lina eyed her, unable to disguise her worry. "Have you been ill before today, dearest?"

"No, thank heavens. That is, my stomach has felt a bit off for days now, but this is the first time I've cast up my accounts."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lina and Meggie exchange glances. 'Tm fine," she said again, nettled. "Just happy to be out of that wretched coach." Unbidden, the memory of the last coach she'd been in returned, Rohan's mouth on hers, his hand between her legs, his hot, solid body beneath hers in the velvety darkness. She groaned.

Simon Pagett met them in the massive front hall, and Charlotte had just enough energy to notice that his eyes went straight to Lina. So whatever lay between them wasn't one-sided. "Thomas is sleeping," he said. "Your rooms are ready—you may as well use the time to rest. The doctor's just been here. He's mystified—just when he thinks it's the end, Thomas rallies. He says there's no telling how much longer."