Author: Anne Stuart

“So you persist in thinking I’m a virgin?”

“Oh, I know you are not, my sweet. You simply are lying to me about how you lost that particularly useless bit of your anatomy.”

“What exactly is it you want, my lord? Why don’t we simply stop this charade, you tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“But where’s the fun in that, poppet?”

She bit her lip again, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Don’t do that,” he said sharply, putting his fingertips on her lower lip to stop her.

She bit him. On purpose. He should have pulled his hand away, but he didn’t.

She had very strong white teeth and she bit down hard. He didn’t move.

“Child,” he said in a deceptively weary voice, “if I didn’t still retain a tiny, unwanted shred of decency I would shove you back on this chaise, push your skirts above your head and take you here, immediately, ignoring your struggles. Didn’t your oh-so-many lovers teach you that biting is highly erotic?”

She immediately released him. He smiled at her quite pleasantly. “Please go away, Monsieur le Comte,” she said in a polite voice. “You must have tired of your absurd, inconsequential games by now.”

“My games are never inconsequential, as long as they entertain me.”

She closed her eyes in frustration for a brief moment. “This house is filled with beautiful women…” she began.

“Oh, not quite filled,” he said frankly, leaning back. “The Revels won’t start for another day. At this point there are no more than half a dozen beauties in residence.”

“Then why don’t you go bother one of them?” she said in a tart voice.

“Because I don’t want one of them, my sweet. I want you.”

She made a low noise that was deliciously close to a snarl. “No, you do not.”

He still had possession of her hand. Before she had any idea what he planned he picked it up and placed it on his lamentably hard cock. She tried to yank it away, but he bore her hand down, giving her no choice.

“That’s not the member of a man who doesn’t want you, pet.”

For a moment she ceased her struggles, and her eyes met his. It was a moment of rare intimacy, something he usually avoided. It was part of the piquant danger of her, and she froze, staring at him, her breath coming in short, rapid pants.

“Hold very still,” he said in a soft voice.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I am going to kiss you, just once, and then I’ll leave you be for…oh, perhaps a few hours. If you move around too much I might be inspired to move beyond a simple kiss, and that—”

His drawling words were silenced by her mouth against his. It was the first kiss she’d initiated, and it was clumsy, endearingly so, her soft lips against his, not quite on the mark. His cock jerked in her hand and she jumped away from him, startled. “Now go away,” she said. “You promised.”

He smiled thinly. “I wasn’t aware that it was exactly a promise, but that’s enough for now. Perhaps next time you’ll tell me the truth about your deflowering.”

She met his limpid gaze defiantly. “And why should I?”

“Because I want to know. And I always get what I want, my sweet.” He leaned over and brushed a gentle kiss against her mouth, clinging for a moment, then removed her hand from between his legs and rose. “À bientôt. We’ll continue this on the morrow.”

She stared up at him, and her lowered eyelids hid her expression. “Perhaps tomorrow your conscience or your sanity will have returned and you will arrange for me to join my sister.”

“My conscience has been lost to the fires of hell for lo these many years.”

“And your sanity?”

“I am,” he said, “quite mad about you, poppet. And I doubt anything will change that until I finally have you. But you needn’t worry I’ll force anything. The chase is as delicious as the capture.”

He set her hand down, oh so gently, and strolled to the door, unlocking it and pocketing the key. “Good night, my dear.”

She had been reading when he first disturbed her. She threw her book at him, a charming display of temper. He blew her a kiss, and disappeared into the hallway, a smile still lingering on his usually cool face.

20

Francis Rohan mounted the dais in the grand ballroom, slowly, surveying his assembled guests. He could recognize most of them. There were a number of new members to be welcomed into their hallowed halls, and he’d long ago lost interest in vetting them. Rolande was in charge of such things, and the newcomers were lined up, dressed like monks, with the ropes around their waists tied to each other. They alternated male and female, conveniently, though he doubted it would remain that way for long. He would sit in his chair and try to keep from drumming his fingers beneath the flowing lace cuffs, and watch while they went through their silly rituals, drinking from the sacred cup, a tacky piece of glass that was shaped like a phallus. He wasn’t quite sure what Rolande had planned next and he didn’t particularly care, as long as he wasn’t required to watch. He would stay long enough for his guests to scatter to their various pastimes and then he would visit his unwilling guest for more interesting sport.

There was only one thing that caught his attention. Marcus Harriman, Baron Tolliver, appeared to be missing. He was supposed to be one of the new members. Apparently he’d been a guest out at Château de Giverney during their last festivities, and acquitted himself well. And yet he’d suddenly chosen not to partake of the legendary pleasures of the Spring Revels? It didn’t fit with what Rolande had said.

Still, he wasn’t going to worry. Elinor had only met him once, and there’d been no offer of help forthcoming. If he felt any responsibility as head of the decimated Harriman family he appeared to have forgotten it, or doubtless he would have demanded that Elinor remove herself from his lustful clutches.

Except that Lord Tolliver had just as much interest in lust as he had. Perhaps more. All Rohan’s lustful feelings went in one direction and one alone. According to reports, Tolliver was more generous.

All this—frolicking, hadn’t Elinor called it?—would be going on for two weeks. The thought wearied him. At least he wouldn’t have to make an appearance more than once a day, to proclaim the motto and begin the Revels. He did so now, rising, his cloth-of-gold coat magnificent in the candlelight.

“Fais ce que tu voudras,” he pronounced the ancient words. “Do what thou wilt.” The resounding cheer made the candles waver, and he smiled faintly.

And then he turned around and left, as the adjoining doors were opened, and the festivities began.

Charles Reading was in the library, sitting cross-wise on one of the leather chairs, his booted foot swinging, a glass of claret in his hand. “You didn’t stay?” he inquired idly.

“As you see. You didn’t attend?”

“As you see,” Reading replied evenly. “Are we getting old, Francis?”

“My boy, you’re a child compared to me,” he protested.

“Oh, give o’er, Francis!” he said in a lazy voice. “I’m eight years younger—scarcely a child. I wonder why you like to fancy yourself older and wiser than anyone else. His grace the Duke of Leicester is in attendance tonight, and I believe the old gentleman turned eighty.”

“I gather his main pleasure at that advanced age is to simply watch,” Francis said, pouring himself a glass.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Then why aren’t you there, watching? It might keep your mind off other things.”

Charles sent him a dangerous look. “Other things such as what?”

“Such as your pathetic affection for Elinor’s sister.”

“Elinor, is it? I hadn’t realized the two of you had become so…intimate,” he said with just the touch of a sneer.

Rohan refused to be offended. “I’m enjoying the approach to the summit, my dear. Once reached I imagine I’ll quickly lose interest, so I’m putting it off as long as possible. And you? I trust someone a bit more…approachable has caught your eye?”

“No.”

“No?” Rohan echoed in mock horror. “My dear boy, you are ill. ‘Tell me no more of constancy, that frivolous pretense.’”

“You know nothing about it,” Reading said in a less than equable voice.

“Faith, I’m ‘as constant as a northern star,’” Rohan quoted back cheerfully. “For ‘there is nothing as constant as inconstancy.’”

“I’m not in the mood to swap poets with you, Francis,” Charles said.

“My dear, that voice could almost be called surly. Perhaps you should ride to Château de Giverney and give in to temptation,” he suggested.

“And be her ruination?”

“When has our kind ever cared about such things? Fais ce que tu voudras, child. Do what thou wilt. She won’t object, I promise you.”

Reading swung his head around, gimlet-eyed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Are you going to call me out, Charles? I meant nothing but that the poor chit is enamored of you, and if you choose, you could take advantage of that fact.”

“No,” he said shortly. “Let us talk of other things.”

“Certainly. Do what thou wilt,” he said mischievously. “Did I just hear you growl?”

“I went and looked around the street where you were shot,” he said grimly, changing the subject. “And we will resist discussing whether I wish the bullet had come a little closer. You are damn irritating at times, Francis.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“I could see no way the shooting could have been an accident. It would have been a tricky shot to make, and I wonder at anyone even attempting it. It could have just as easily hit whoever else rode in the carriage with you, and it was woefully inadequate.”