She reached up her free hand to tug the cowl lower over her face. "As for this Portal of Venus you keep going on about, it was a mistake. My...my dear friend who brought me here was going to point it out but she got...distracted. How was I to know what the Portal of Venus was?"

"I regret Lady Whitmore didn't have a chance to show you," he drawled, shocking her. He knew she'd come with Lina. Well, there was nothing remarkable about that—they'd been standing together during that ridiculous ceremony with its terrible Latin. "But that's hardly an excuse. All you had to do was look.

The Portal of Venus," he said patiently, "is the round entrance to the first garden, surrounded by boxwood and maidenhair ferns. It resembles..."

"Oh, how revolting!" Charlotte cried, with no need for him to continue.

“On the contrary, I tend to find it quite...hmm... stimulating. But I believe I did mention that I reserve my attentions for women, did I not?"

There was no other way out, she thought desperately. Where the hell was Lina when she needed her? Off enjoying the attentions of who knew how many, her idiot of a cousin forgotten.

"Yes, you did," she said calmly, dropping all effort to disguise her voice. He wouldn't recognize it anyway, not from one short conversation in a noisy ballroom. "But Viscount Rohan is known for his excellent taste. His mistresses are some of the most beautiful women in the world."

"Now, how would you know of my mistresses?" he murmured, amused.

She ignored the question. "You would hardly lower your standards to...to...bed an unwilling antidote, a plain old maid."

He surveyed her figure in silence for a moment, and she had the odd notion that he could not only see beneath the enveloping hood, but also see through to her flaws and imperfections. 'The word is fuck," he said deliberately. "And you wouldn't be unwilling." There was a calm certainty in his voice, as if he'd been privy to her awful dreams. "You greatly underestimate your charms." His hand tightened, and he pulled her toward him, slowly, inexorably. She tried to put her hands between them, but it was already too late to fight him, and he simply clamped her against him, against his strong, hard body. She could feel him, as she had in her dreams, and she wanted to cry. So close, so tantalizingly close, and all she had to do was pull back her cowl and he'd release her, shocked, horrified, perhaps disgusted at the thought of the mistake he'd almost made.

But she couldn't get her hands free—they were trapped between their bodies. He'd managed to restrain her with just one arm, and his hand reached up toward her hidden face.

"You don't want to do this," she said desperately.

"Of course I do. I've wanted to for a long time. Miss Spenser." And he pushed the hood from her head, caught her stubborn chin in one strong hand and kissed her.

Lina heard the sound first. A grating noise^ like some strange bird, she thought. A jackdaw or perhaps a crow. She opened her eyes and realized she'd fallen asleep beside Monty's chaise. She was sitting on the floor, fully dressed, her head cradled in her arms, and Monty slept on, oblivious to the most irritating bird that was...

No, that wasn't a bird. That was someone clearing his throat, and she lifted her head and turned, not bothering to rise, assuming it was simply Dodson with some tea and toast.

It wasn't. It was a man she'd never seen before, soberly dressed in black with white linen. No lace, no jewels, no ornament of any kind, and he was looking down on her with a shadowed expression that doubtless signaled deep disapproval. She felt herself flush. She, who prided herself on being shameless.

She started to rise, and he held out one hand to assist her. She'd planned to ignore it, but her legs were cramped and gave way beneath her, forcing her to reach to him for support. His was a strong hand, and not soft like those of the aristocrats who touched her.

"Has Montague converted to Catholicism without telling me or are you some part of his depraved activities?"

She was still wearing the wimple, though by now it was on crooked. She snatched it from her head, shaking her long black hair loose around her shoulders, and surveyed him for a moment. "I'm a part of his depraved activities," she said in a cool voice meant to deflate pretension. After all, he was only a vicar, not someone who had any right to judge her.

The man was unmoved. He wasn't a young man-perhaps close to forty if she were to guess by the deeply etched lines on his face. A handsome face, with deep brown eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones and a stubborn mouth that on a less disapproving man might almost be called sensuous.

Not on this man.

"You must be the new vicar."

"You are very perceptive. I’m the Reverend Simon Pagett, here to take up the living." He glanced down at the sleeping Montague. "Is he dead?" he asked in a voice as cool as hers.

"Of course not!" she hissed. "How could you ask such a thing?"

"Simon's never been one to avoid the truth, no matter how ugly it is." Monty's voice came from the chaise, sepulchral and amused. "I'm afraid I'm not ready to stick my fort into the wall, dear boy. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Good," the man said. "That means there's still time to save your soul." He glanced toward Lina. "And your strumpet's soul as well."

Lina drew a deep, shocked breath, but Monty chuckled. "You know as well as I do that I haven't changed that much, Simon, even if you have. My strumpets are a different gender. Lina's a dear friend and I'll thank you not to insult her."

"From the local convent, no doubt," Simon said politely.

Montague snorted. "You'd best have a care, Simon. This is Lady Whitmore. I have no doubt there are at least half a dozen of her admirers who would gladly defend her honor from your prudish, judging ways. Of course...the term honor..." His smile at Lina took the sting out of his words.

"And where are those half-dozen men, Montague?" Simon said. "When I arrived I saw the carriages, and yet the house seems empty. Where are your licentious playmates?"

'They're at the abbey ruins. I've had it renovated, landscaped. It's really quite delightful, though I doubt you'd appreciate its all-too-human beauty. You'd be shocked."

"You lost the ability to shock me years ago, though you continue to try. How long have you been ill?" he demanded abruptly.

"It takes a number of years for consumption to kill a man. I don't pay any attention to it."

"I know you don't," Simon said severely. "And that's why you're in this current difficulty. You can no longer afford to burn the candle at both ends."

"It's the only way I know how to live. And I didn't invite you here—you weren't supposed to arrive until my guests were long gone. Unfortunately, thanks to Dodson's interference, you've come at a most inopportune moment.”

"I am desolate," Simon said dryly.

"Still, I suppose it's just as well. Dodson's infernal meddling has forced Lady Whitmore to miss the first night of the Revels out of kindness for me. Lina, my pet, why don't you run along and play. You can still catch up with the party—it's not far past midnight. Simon will look after me. He's done it enough times before. I have no doubt you'll be able to find some amiable distraction, even at this ungodly hour. The Heavenly Host never sleeps."

"I'll be lucky if I can find anyone stirring," Lina said wryly. “They'll all be unconscious from a surfeit of lust and drink."

Simon Pagett was looking at her. When she turned to meet his gaze his eyes were filled on Monty, but she could have sworn he'd been watching her...

It was an easy decision to make, and she didn't bother to consider why she made it. "I'm not going anywhere, Monty," she said, taking the seat she'd abandoned a few hours ago for the dubious comfort of the floor. "There will be plenty of other times of unbridled depravity for me to enjoy. For now I'm not leaving your side." She cast a sly glance at Simon. "Mr. Pig-ett should feel free to partake of the myriad pleasures the Heavenly Host offers. Perhaps he might understand the nature of the sins he's so roundly condemning."

"Pagett." He was calm. And this time when he looked at Lina he didn't try to hide it. "And I assure you. Lady Whitmore, that I have already experienced everything the Heavenly Host has to offer. I'm not interested." He looked down at Monty. "Despite your friend's deplorable taste in both costume and companions I think it probably wise for her to remain here. You've never been an easy patient."

"And you've always been a pain in ray arse. Why don't you do as Lina says, and go out to the ruins. Perhaps the decadent souls out there might wish to be saved. I know for a fact they're very fond of succor." He drew out the last word, long and lasciviously.

"You need to be in bed," Pagett said, ignoring him. "I'd have Dodson call the doctor but he'd probably wish to bleed you and you're weak enough as it is." He glanced at Lina. "Would you prefer to go back to your friends. Lady Whitmore? I can make arrangements."

She wasn't quite sure what she preferred. She certainly wasn't pleased with this soberly dressed, high-handed man "making arrangements" for her. She ought to get back and make certain Charlotte was all right. Of course, if there had been any question about her cousin's safety she would never have agreed to bring her, but it wouldn't hurt to set her mind at ease.

"Oh, God, don't leave me to Simon's tender mercies!" Montague begged, his eyes sparkling. "He'll have me in a hair shirt before the day is out. Spare me from reformed rakes—they're the very devil. And yes, Simon, I use that term advisedly."

"I'll stay." Lina pressed his thin, weak hand with hers.

"I knew I could count on you," he murmured, casting a speaking look at the vicar.

Lina glanced over her shoulder but Mr. Pagett was expressionless, offering no protest.