Author: Anne Stuart

"Wish I could oblige you, dear boy," Monty said faintly. "I used to lead you all a merry dance, did I not? But I'm afraid my dancing days are over."

"You don't need lo dance, Monty," Lina said soothingly. "You just need to stay with us."

"For as long as I can. In the meantime, Lina, I'm delighted you brought your cousin. And Rohan, I'm delighted you didn't bring yours. Etienne is far from my favorite person in this world."

Rohan looked startled. "I hadn't realized that. Is there a reason?”

“I knew him in Paris years ago. You were just a child then, but I never trusted him."

"You never said anything about it before," Rohan pointed out.

“I'm dying," Monty said flatly. "I can say what I want and no one can object. People have to do my bidding."

“Hardly," Lina said with a laugh.

“You're all here, aren't you? I have things I want to say to all of you, and I'll need privacy to do it. I'm certain you can manage to amuse yourselves while I meet with each one of you.”

"Of course we can, Monty," Lina said. "Charlotte and I could use a walk after being cramped up in a carriage for so long."

"Ah, but I wish to talk to you first, precious," Monty said.

Lina opened her mouth to object, but Charlotte had already risen briskly. The color was good in her pale face, and she seemed perfectly recovered from her early-morning bout of illness. Clearly she'd been worried for naught, and the Charlotte she knew was perfectly capable of making short work of Adrian Rohan should he offer any kind of insult. Besides, he was far more likely to run in the opposite direction. The viscount went through women like water and a repeat engagement would be unheard of.

"And Simon, dear fellow," Monty added. "I gather there's a leak in the church roof and your sexton is somewhat fond of the bottle. In fact, he's a total inebriate.”

"He is, indeed." Simon had a wry look on his face. "However, he's been an inebriate for the past ten years, and the roof has had a hole in it for at least three. Is there any particular reason you wish me to deal with it today?"

"No time like the present," Monty said innocently.

Rohan pushed away from the bedpost and moved to Charlotte's side. "I believe we have our orders. Miss Spenser." He held out his arm, and Lina wondered if Charlotte would refuse. But in another minute they were gone, out onto the terrace, with Simon Pagett disappearing in the opposite direction.

"You're a very bad man, Monty," she said evenly. "I never would have thought you capable of matchmaking. You always had too much respect for human individuality.”

"I always had too much respect for the trouble I could cause. Nowadays it doesn't matter -- I won't be around to worry about it. So tell me the truth, my precious. Do you like him?"

Lina considered it for a long moment. "I don't actively dislike him," she said carefully. "But I don't think he has any intention of offering for Charlotte, or for anyone, and it would take more than subtle threats to bring him up to scratch."

He stared at her for a long moment, seemingly mystified. "My dear, there are times when you astound me." He hesitated, as if he would say something else, then shook his head. "Never mind, my dear. There's none so blind as will not see." She stiffened. "What are you talking about?" Monty's smile was a ghost of his usual insouciance. "I'll tell you later, precious. When you're ready to hear it."

The moment they stepped outside onto the wide terrace Charlotte yanked her hand away from Adrian's arm. "What in God's name are you doing here?" she demanded.

His slow, lazy smile was as devastating as it was infuriating. "You left me high and dry, my dear Miss Spenser. We have unfinished business."

"No, we don't." She hid her hands in her skirts so he wouldn't see she was trembling. Her common sense, which had fled the moment she caught sight of him, was slowly returning. She could only hope her equanimity would return as well. "I'm sorry, I'm being absurd. There is no way you could know we'd be here. I'm sure if you did, this would have been the very last place you would have appeared."

"As you say." His voice was enigmatic. "But in truth Montague is my dearest friend. I would have been here no matter what monsters I had to face."

Her smile was brittle. "Only one monster. Lord Rohan," she said. She allowed herself a moment to survey his battered countenance. "What happened to you? Did fate finally deliver you the comeuppance you so richly deserve?"

"Why would I deserve a beating? What great crime have I committed? You willingly put yourself in my hands. I would have released you any time you requested it." His expression was limpid, innocent, but Charlotte was unmoved.

"I didn't willingly get in your carriage yesterday. At least, I didn't know it was yours," she corrected, scrupulously honest. "As for several weeks ago, tell me truthfully. Would you have been able to unlock the door when I first requested you do so? Or several times thereafter?"

"No," he said, and she believed him. For a moment.

"And could you have had someone come to unlock the door if you requested it?" she persisted.

This time his smile was slow and rueful. "Yes." She stared at him. She should have raged, stormed, she should have stomped away, she should have accused him of every crime imaginable. And yet all she wanted to do was cry in relief. He'd wanted her.

He could have had anyone, he wasn't trapped in that room with her. He'd chosen her. He'd kept her.

He was looking at her quizzically. "Aren't you going to slap me?” he said. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't—I'm in a great deal of pain already, though I expect in your case it's not much of a deterrent. So we've established I deserved this beating. Did I deserve to die?” She made a concerted effort to get past her emotions. "Die? Was someone trying to kill you?"

"I was set upon by street ruffians, who were clearly intent on killing me. If Pagett hadn't shown up we wouldn't be having this conversation."

She ignored the dark pain in her heart at the thought. "Why would someone want to kill you? Of course, that's a ridiculous question—I would like to kill you. I'm sure countless other women would as well. But I think that most of us wouldn't have bothered hiring thugs—we'd rather have the pleasure ourselves. Who have you offended?"

He seemed amused. "Most everyone, though I would presume not to the point of killing me. If someone wanted me dead I would think they'd challenge me to a duel. Of course, I'm a fairly lethal shot, and if someone challenged me I could choose the weapons, so perhaps my enemies are cowards. Right now you're the only one I can think of who'd want me dead, and while I sympathize. I don't think you'd have time to arrange it. I'd just left Curzon Street when they set upon me."

"You live on Curzon Street," Charlotte pointed out. "Why were you leaving there?"

For a moment he looked uncomfortable. And then he laughed. "I may as well be truthful. I was going to see if I could find some way past Lady Whitmore and finish what we'd started."

The day was very quiet. She could hear the sounds of birds in the distance, the quiet hum of bees in the late-spring flowers. A soft breeze had picked up, pulling at his hair so that it fell into his face. She wanted to reach up and brush it away, but she kept her hands still.

"I assumed you would have taken care of the problem yourself," she said, then wished she'd kept her mouth shut as his smile widened.

"My hands are not nearly as much fun as yours. Though I suppose I could have closed my eyes and pretended..."

It was awful being so fair-skinned—she could feel hot color slain her cheeks. "I beg your pardon," she said. "That was most improper of me."

“Aren’t we past the point of being proper with each other?"

"I think we should do our best to return to that state. We're likely to run into each other on occasion, and we'd be better off pretending we never…er…never…”

"Tupped?" he offered helpfully. "Swived? Shagged? Screwed? Fucked? There are any number of words for it."

"Are they all so ugly?"

He moved closer to her, as if he couldn't help himself. "I don't think they're ugly at all. They're honest. Physical. Arousing. Come to bed with me."

The last followed so suddenly upon the previous words that for a moment she didn't comprehend. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." His voice was low and hungry. "Come to bed with me. It's a huge house—no one will walk in on us. We'll find a place. A nice, private place. I want you, I've been driven mad with wanting you, and nothing I do seems to change it. Take my hand and come with me."

The blood was pounding in her body. In her ears, between her legs, in her heart. Time seemed to stand still. Now was the lime to claim her revenge. Now was the time to finish it for good. To say "no, thank you" very politely and walk away. There were hundreds of other women he could have. He was poison for her, beautiful, glittering poison. Walk away, she told herself.

He put his hand out, his long, gorgeous fingers outstretched to her. She stared down at them, and to her astonishment she saw a faint tremor.

"Yes," he said. "I'm shaking, I want you so badly. What do you want me to do, Charlotte? Beg?"

She knew the answer, they both knew the answer, but neither of them spoke it. He'd make a terrible husband—he'd whore and gamble and drink and break her heart.

"What do you want, Charlotte?" he said again, sounding almost angry.

She met his hard blue eyes. "You."

21

He took her hand in his, his grip sure and steady, and led her into the house. She followed him almost in a daze. Was she really doing this? She most certainly was.