It was too much, it wasn't enough. She needed him inside her, she needed him to unfasten his breeches and push her down on the seat and take her, take her

And then he stopped. Just as she was about to explode in delight, he pulled his hand away, pulled her skirt back down, caught her arms and set her down beside him on the seat. "Three minutes are up."

She was shaking, dizzy, unable to think straight, unable to speak. She was having trouble catching her breath, and she clamped her legs together tightly, trying to re-create the feelings he'd been bringing forth. She was so close, so close...

"Are you coming in with me?"

It took her a moment, but eventually she released her pent-up breath, forcing herself to relax. Slowly, carefully, so as not to jar her body onto that desperate ride once more.

"You don't fight fair," she said in a small voice.

"No, I don't. Not when I want something."

She looked at him in the filtered lamplight. He was beautiful, she thought, from his tawny mane of hair to his long, wicked fingers, to that hard, thrusting piece between his legs. Everything about him was beautiful, and she wanted to lie next to him, kiss him, roll in his arms.

She was still wearing her thin kid gloves. She peeled one off, very slowly, looked up at him with a sweet smile and slapped him as hard as she could.

She had a lot of strength. It whipped his head back, and she knew the blow had to have hurt, because her hand was numb. And she didn't have an ounce of regret.

"Now, if you're tired of playing games," she said coolly, "I'd like to go back to my house."

He didn't move for a moment, didn't touch his face. The mark of her hand was beginning to show, the outline of her fingers against his pale, cold skin. And then he smiled.

Leaning forward, he knocked against the small window that connected to the front of the carriage, and gave the driver the address in Grosvenor Square.

Then he sat back patiently as the carriage moved forward.

The drive was a short one—less than five minutes, and during that time he said absolutely nothing. She could feel his eyes on hers, as tangible as a touch, but he made no effort to move closer, no effort to change her mind. He seemed almost pleased with the outcome of their battle, which surprised Charlotte. Did he want her or didn't he? Was this all some elaborate game? Were there wagers at his club as to whether he could once more entice the red-headed virago into his bed? If so, he must have bet against himself to be so cheerful.

She wouldn't ask him. She was being foolishly fearful. If he had planned this then word would get to Lina, and her cousin would tell her. So he hadn't lied. He'd simply run across her when he had no other, more pressing plans. Doubtless he was telling the truth, that he'd forgotten about her entirely after their brief liaison in the country. Which was a good thing, was it not? Everyone needed to forget about it. Most importantly, she did.

She could see her crumpled loo mask on the floor of the carriage, and she leaned down to pick it up, ignoring the little shiver of reaction that tightening her muscles had given her. She felt exquisitely sensitive, ready to explode, like a mirror shattering into a thousand pieces. He took the mask from her and tied it on her face methodically. Just in time; those ridiculous tears were starting again. She'd be delighted when she finally moved past this absurdly weepy stage in her life. She had barely cried when her parents had died. These tears made no sense—they were totally unlike her.

With a great effort she summoned an impressive scowl, willing herself to be still. When the carriage came to a stop, Adrian hopped down, reaching up a hand to her. She would have liked to ignore it, but the narrow steps were unwieldy, and falling into the mud would be the coup de grace of the night. She took his hand, stepped down and tried to pull away, but his fingers had closed over hers.

He smiled down at her, but she could see that odd, haunted expression in the back of his hard blue eyes. "I expect this has given you a complete disgust of me.”

"Is that what you wish?"

"It would certainly be for the best. For both of us.”

She looked up at him in the lamplight. She could see the imprint of her hand quite clearly, and it shocked her. And pleased her.

The street was solid beneath her feet, and she locked her knees so they wouldn't betray the lingering weakness. "Goodbye, Lord Rohan," she said. The door to Lina's house stood open, the footman waitig patiently. "I don't expect we’ll see each other again.”

His smile was slow, mocking, irresistibly devilish. "Would you care to wager on that, my love?"

18

To Charlotte's relief Lina hadn't returned home yet. She wouldn't have to make excuses as to where she'd been, and by the time Meggie appeared from belowstairs, looking both rumpled and pleased with herself, Charlotte had managed to get her tears in check and regain some measure of composure. Her body still felt on the very edge of exploding, but by taking calm, deep breaths she seemed to be able to maintain her calm. To fight the crazed, irrational urge to run out the front door and down the streets back to Adrian's house.

"You've been tupped," Meggie said flatly, taking one hard look at her. "Miss Charlotte, I thought you knew better—"

"I certainly have not!" she said, managing to sound both innocent and indignant. "Lina and I got separated and I took a hackney home." She took a closer look at her lady's maid. "If anyone's

been misbehaving, it's you. I thought you swore off men.”

"Have you seen the new undercoachman?" Meggie said with an appreciative smirk. "He could tempt a saint to lift her skirts, and Lord knows, I'm no saint. But don't try to change the subject. You've got that look about you."

"'That look comes from being tired. I just want to go to bed."

"As long as you promise you haven't already been to bed," Meggie said smartly.

"Or what? You'll refuse to serve me?"

"Don't be daft. Miss Charlotte," Meggie said, her voice softening. "You need a nice cup of tea, don't you? I can have Cook—"

The knock on the door stopped her in the midsentence, and Charlotte's heart flew into her throat. It was Rohan, come back for her. It didn't matter why or how, she'd do anything he wanted. No one would make a social call at this hour—there was no one else it could possibly be.

She jumped to her feet, moving toward the door, when Meggie moved in front of her, a troubled expression on her face. "Mr. Jenkins will answer the door, Miss Charlotte," she said. She felt herself flush. At this rate she'd never be able to fool anyone. She sat back down, determined to be calm. Why had he come back? He must have been feeling as bereft as she was. Was there any way she could throw herself into his arms and beg him to carry her off and finish ravishing her?

Of course there was. All she had to do was ask. Tell him. Proving to everyone she'd finally lost her mind.

Jenkins appeared at the salon door, his long face showing no reaction to the unexpected visitor. "The Reverend Simon Pagett to see Lady Whitmore. I explained she wasn't at home, but he's asked to wait, and I wondered if you might be willing to receive him in her place. Miss Spenser."

Not by a blink of an eye did she show her reaction. And yet Meggie moved close enough to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Sorry, love," she whispered.

Meggie had always known more than she should, and been far too quick to guess the rest. Charlotte straightened her back, cursing herself for a fool. "Of course we'll receive him, Jenkins. Lady Whitmore should return at any time now."

A moment later the vicar was ushered in, and Charlotte had her first chance to get a good look at him. She'd seen him at a distance when she'd arrived back at Hensley Court, bruised and battered and badly shaken from her fall, but she hadn't been able to form an opinion. Now she needed a distraction quite badly, so as she rose and curtsied she took covert stock of him.

Interesting. Lina had told her he was old, and sour, and mean-spirited and quite the most miserable human being she had ever met, and if she never saw him again she would be very glad.

She'd lied. Simon Pagett was probably somewhere short of forty, with a lean, wiry body and the kind of face that had seen too much. It was a serious face, but he had really fine eyes, and some women might find his mouth to be sensual. Which of course was wrong in a cleric, but the vicar didn't appear to be someone who'd lived a sheltered life of abstinence.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I'm looking for Lady Whitmore."

"Do sit down, Mr. Pagett. Is Lord Montague.. .has he worsened?"

He didn't sit. "I'm afraid so. He's asked for Lady Whitmore, and I'm hoping she'll return to Sussex with me. If she can tear herself away from her pressing social obligations."

There was a note of censure in his voice. "You disapprove of social obligations, Mr. Pagett?" Charlotte asked, wondering if this was how Lina had formed her negative opinion.

He smiled then, ruefully, and Charlotte was momentarily charmed. He must not have smiled at Lina, or her opinion would have risen considerably. "Of course not, Miss Spenser. I must confess it's been a long ride from the country and I'm worried about Montague. It's made me a bit short-tempered." He glanced around him. 'If I might ask, where is Lady Whitmore?"

"At Ranelagh with Sir Percy Wainbridge," she said.

"Do you expect her to return tonight?"

"Yes, she expects me to return tonight," Lina's sharp voice came from the doorway. "I'm not in the habit of traipsing off to spend the night with my lovers."

Mr. Pagett turned abruptly, and there was an immediate tension in the air. “I have no idea what you're in the habit of doing. Lady Whitmore. I was given to understand that you do exactly what you want to."

But Lina had already moved past the insult. "Is Monty dead?" she asked in an anxious voice, tension vibrating through her body.

"Not yet," he said, and Lina's shoulders relaxed slightly. "But I'm afraid it won't be long. Thomas has asked if you would like to come say goodbye."