"I wasn't aware that we had anything to discuss that the servants would find all that fascinating," she replied.

"We have..." He paused, staring at her mouth. Which was exactly what she'd wanted him to do. "Why do you muck up your face with all that paint?" he said.

She laughed, the sound brittle. "Next you're going to tell me I'm too pretty a girl to have to resort to artifice."

"No," he said, his voice measured. "I'm not about to tell you how pretty you are at all. You don't need my empty compliments."

"Empty?" she echoed, mocking.

"And you're hardly a girl." It only silenced her a moment. "Oh, touche," she said with a laugh. "But hardly Christian of you,

"Why is it unchristian to speak the truth? You must be nearing thirty—"

"I'm twenty-eight," she snapped, unable to help herself.

She didn't like the faint glint in his eyes. He-d managed to pique her vanity after all.

"I beg pardon," he murmured. "Still, twenty-eight is hardly a girl..."

"Point taken," she said irritably. "I'm not a girl. What are we going to argue about?"

"Apart from your age? Most likely everything under the sun," he said, his voice calm. "But I think we're agreed on at least one thing, and that is our concern for Montague."

"Agreed," she said after a moment, controlling her

"I want the best for him."

"As one of his closest friends I want the same. Why do ministers take so blasted long to get to the point? Say what you want to say so I can go sit with him.”

"That's the point. I don't think you should sit with him, or be anywhere near him. I believe the best thing you could do for Thomas is to go out to that wretched playground he built, get your fellow debauchees together and leave this place. Leave him to die in peace."

She laughed without humor. "You think that's what he wants? It was his idea to hold the Revels here. Monty takes joy and pride in his spectacular abilities as a host, even in absentia. He's hired extra chefs, extra servants to handle the party, and it's taking place well out of sight. If the festivities were to be cut short then the guests would descend on Hensley Court to change clothes, retrieve their carriages, all with a great deal of grumbling, which would distress Monty no end. I’ve more days and their departure will be normal. Everyone will leave, sated and cheerful, and Monty's final social occasion will be deemed a triumph.”

“Three days of whoring and degeneracy is a social triumph?"

“It's too late to change him, Mr. Pagett. You aren't going to save his soul, induce him to renounce his... his preferences at this late date. And why bother— he's so ill he has no choice but to be celibate."

"You underestimate Montague's stamina," he said dryly. "I've known him all my life—even on his deathbed he'll be pinching the footmen. As for changing him—I don't really care who he wants to fornicate with. It's his soul that concerns me. And it's never too late for that."

Lina eyed him curiously. "Wouldn't you say his desire for other men makes him irredeemable?"

"That's between Thomas and his lord."

"Isn't his soul between Monty and his God as well?"

He stared down at her for a long moment. A breeze had come up, and one by one the candles went out, leaving them in the pinky-blue light of early dawn as the sun rose over the spires of the ruined abbey. "Talking with you is like arguing with the devil."

She found she could laugh. "Oh, I don't think so. Doesn't conversation with Satan involve temptation?" She moved closer, looking up at him. She'd discovered that men liked it when she moved close and looked up from beneath her long lashes. It made them feel powerful, protective, and because she was manipulating the situation it made her feel even stronger. At least, most of the time.

It wasn't that she was feeling weak now, she told herself, uneasy. She just hadn't taken into account how very solid he would feel, standing over her. How he'd feel oddly protective. The soft spring breeze caught her skirts, brushing them against his legs, and she took a quick step back.

"You think you don't tempt me. Lady Whitmore?" he said, his voice dry. "How little you know of ministers. We are men, after all."

She said nothing. There were a number of provocative replies that came to mind, but that odd, breezy touch of her skirts against his legs had unsettled her. It felt far more intimate to her than lying beneath a naked, grunting man ever had. Strange, she thought. "Exactly what is it you want me to do, Mr. Pagett?" Her voice was deceptively calm. "Apart from making the Heavenly Host decamp early. Do you want me to rejoin the Revels? Stay out of your way..."

"No!" The word was practically an explosion of sound. 'The best thing for you would be to go back to London if you won't cancel this ridiculous obscenity of a party. The rest of your friends can follow when they're done."

"Even if I wanted to oblige you, I can't. My cousin is at the abbey. She's an innocent, come simply to observe—"

"An innocent?” he interrupted her again, and there was no mistaking the cold anger in his gaze. "You brought an innocent to that kind of debauchery? What sort of monster are you?"

"She's fine," Lina said stiffly. "No one will lay a hand on her No one would dare."

"And you're so sure of that? Knowing the kind of men who call themselves the Mad Monks?"

For the first time that niggling uneasiness that had festered in the back of her mind broke loose, and she could have cursed the man. Rohan was over there as well. And between Rohan and Charlotte lay quiet danger.

Indeed, one of her reasons for choosing Rohan as her nest lover had been to help sever the connection between her innocent cousin and one of society’s worst rakes. She knew Charlotte far too well not to have guessed her secret fantasy, and the easiest way to crush it would be to take the man herself.

Because it needed to be crushed. Falling in love with a rake only led to heartbreak. Falling in love with anyone only led to despair.

But they were both out there, and she hadn't been around to watch over them. "She's fine," Lina said again, ignoring her fears. "Perfectly safe."

And she wondered if she lied.

"There's nothing I can do about the door," Rohan said in a lazy voice. "It locks automatically. A servant comes every morning and evening with food, and at that point one can always exchange partners, or request others to join in. But until tomorrow I'm afraid you're quite trapped."

She scowled at him, which pleased him. He'd been afraid he'd have to deal with tears, which always bored him, or worse, too-enthusiastic agreement. He liked to work a bit for his pleasures.

No chance of enthusiastic agreement from her. She was looking deliciously angry.

"Did you take my glasses?" she demanded. "I can't see clearly."

"Glasses? Of course not," he said, all innocence as he remembered deliberately crushing them beneath his boot. If she really needed them then he would be astonished. She used them as a weapon, and he needed her defenseless. "There's not much here you need to see. Except me."

She wasn't charmed. "You can't keep me here," she said in the pinched, disapproving tone she seemed to reserve only for him.

"Don't be tiresome. Of course I can. I just explained. The door won't be opened until tomorrow morning.”

"And you think I'll believe you don't have a spare key hidden about the place? I don't believe that the great Viscount Rohan would ever put himself at the mercy of...of restraints that he couldn't control."

He smiled at that, letting his eyelids droop lazily. "Ah, child, you have no idea the delight certain forms of restraint can provide. I'll be more than happy to demonstrate—this room comes equipped with all sorts of toys. However, I think you're a little too new at this game to enjoy it, and if I gave you the option of tying me up I tremble to think what sort of revenge you might be tempted to enact."

She just stared at him, momentarily speechless. And then she tried to regroup.

She straightened her shoulders and crossed the room, away from the locked door. She had her choice of one cushionless chair and the bed—of course, she took the chair. She was thinking hard—he should have known she wouldn't be defeated that easily.

"Let's discuss this like civilized adults," she said in her prim voice, reminding him of an old governess he'd once had. That is, if Miss Trilby had ever had a bewitching mouth, gold-flecked skin, an exceptional body and enjoyed dressing in monk's robes. "First, it's absurd to call me child when I'm two years older than you are.”

He sauntered over to the bed, stretching out on it and tucking his arms behind his head, prepared to enjoy this. There was no hurry to get her on her back. He could get what she had between her legs from anyone—it was her character that made her different. Interesting. Delightful. "How did you happen to discover how old I am?" he asked mildly enough. "What made you inquire?"

He knew the answer to that, of course. She'd been silly enough to have a crush on him. He could have told her he wasn't worth the bother, but she'd kept herself at a distance, only her eyes touching him. He could tell her now, but he expected she'd already come to that conclusion by herself. He was a useless, vain, ornamental sybarite with nothing to offer the world.

She started to blush, then controlled it. He watched with fascination. He would have thought a woman incapable of controlling her physical responses like that. It made him more curious than ever to see what other kinds of involuntary responses he could bring from her and how she would struggle to contain them.

"Someone must have mentioned it in passing," she said, lying admirably.

"And you happened to remember?"