He moved, and he was between her legs, and just as the last tremor died down he slid inside her. She was so slick from their earlier time that nothing stopped him, and he went in deep, so deep, and the tremors started all over again, and she could feel her body squeezing him tightly as he held still inside her.

They slowed, those wicked tremors, and just as they died he began to move, thrusting inside her, taking his time now, moving slowly, deliberately, pacing her, pacing him. He seemed to know just when she was about to explode again, and he would back away, slow the pace, then build it up again, so that she was no longer able to control herself. She let go of the sheets and clawed at him, begging him, and finally he lost his restraint, thrusting into her, over and over, and the final release caught her just as his did, and she opened as he filled her, her hands digging into his hips, trying to take even more of him. Greedy, selfish, wanting more.

This time he was the one who fell asleep, still inside her. She lay still, feeling some of the wetness leak out, and she wanted to reach down, push it all back into her. She didn’t want to lose anything of him. But she stayed still, and while he slept he grew hard inside her again, bigger than he’d been before, and he was already moving when he awoke, stroking into her as he held her, his hands covering her breasts, his thumbs rubbing the tips, and as this final climax swept over her she gave in, to the darkness, to the rich, dark dream, and she was lost.

He was lost. He felt it ripping through him, and he pulled out of her arms, shaken. She slept on. He’d worn her out, and they’d had nothing but the most pathetic of traditional sex. Her on her back, him on top. And he felt as drained as if he’d just survived a week-long orgy.

Worse. He’d never felt like this. He was empty, shaken, and he took his clothes and threw them out into the hallway so as not to wake her, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want to, couldn’t look at her anymore. If he looked at her he’d touch her, if he touched her, more of him would disappear, until there was nothing left at all.

He was a bad man. A heartless bastard, a rakehell, a libertine, and he made no apologies. He had never been faithful in his life and he didn’t intend to change. He could feel himself strangling on the sticky-sweet strands of emotion she was awash with. She probably fancied herself in love with him. The sooner he put a stop to that the better.

He yanked on his breeches and shirt. What would she expect of him? Nothing, if she had any sense, and Elinor Harriman had always had more than her share of common sense. He had no reason to feel guilty. He hadn’t taken her maidenhead. That was long gone to the man he’d ruthlessly skewered. If by any chance he felt a twinge he could ignore it. By killing Sir Christopher Spatts he’d more than earned the privilege of sharing her bed for one night. She didn’t happen to know that, and he’d prefer she never find out. She might read too much into a gesture that was merely…

He could come up with no excuse for it. He still had the man’s blood on him. He smelled of sex, of the full erotic flowering of her desire, and he was growing hard again, curse it. He had to get away from her—she’d bewitched him, and he would be dependent on no woman.

He moved down the dark hallways, almost at a run. His servants could come and clean up the mess that he’d left behind. He’d keep her back there, away from everyone, until he figured out what the hell he was going to do with her.

In the meantime, he needed to wash the blood, the sex from his body. Wash away her touch and her scent. Wash away the memory of weakness.

He needed to remind himself who and what he was. Francis Rohan, Comte de Giverney, Viscount Rohan, Baron of Glencoe. The Prince of Darkness, the King of Hell. A thoroughly bad man.

With no room in his life for a good woman.

When Elinor awoke she was alone, and the sun was up. It looked to be early morning, and someone had come in and lit a fire. There was even a pitcher of lukewarm water on the dresser. But there was no sign of Rohan.

She sat up, dazed. She was entirely naked save her stockings and garters. She’d forgotten she had them on. One of the garters had come untied, lost somewhere in the tangled bedclothes. She looked down at her body, timidly, and then frowned. She had blood on her. Rohan’s blood. She hadn’t even asked him what had happened.

She sat in the middle of the bed, naked, unmoving, while she considered the strange turn her life had taken. It wasn’t so much that she had fallen in love with a libertine, a rakehell, a Very Bad Man. That had happened weeks ago, and she hadn’t been alert enough to nip it in the bud. Now it was full-blown, and she had no idea what, if anything, could destroy it.

She also discovered exactly why everyone wanted him. The pleasure he had given her last night was astonishing. If he could do that with anyone it was small wonder the world was ready to worship the King of Hell.

He must have had hundreds of women. And now he’d had her, body and soul. The question was, would he want her again? Or had she served her purpose, like so many others before her? The novelty had been experienced, there was no reason why he’d still want her. Not a man who was constantly looking for new and different sensations.

She reached for the cloth, slowly washing him from her skin. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to wash anything away, she wanted to keep it all. The blood, the seed, the touch and the sweat. She was being ridiculous, she told herself, striving for her usual common sense. Though where her common sense had disappeared to last night she couldn’t begin to guess. She finished washing, pulling on the fresh chemise some thoughtful servant had brought her.

There were clothes as well, though no sign that Rohan had ever been here, except for the various stains on the sheets and her body. Someone, presumably Jeanne-Louise, had chosen a dress that was simple to put on by herself, though she had a bit of a struggle doing it up. Her entire body ached, in places she didn’t know she could hurt, and a brief, worried smile crossed her face.

She’d seen it happen with her mother so many times she knew how these things worked. The blush of attraction, the wild, irresponsible passion. And then parting. And Viscount Rohan was known for his partings.

There was a pair of sturdy shoes, as well. And, she noticed with sudden horror, her cloak. Not the cheap one that she had tried to sneak out with. But the one provided for her. The money had been collected and put back in the small purse as well. She stared at it all for a long moment.

Did he want her to leave? Now that he’d had her, was he done? It certainly looked that way. And did that mean that Lydia was free as well?

If he thought she was now going to slink away like a soiled dove he was mistaken. If he wanted her gone he would have to tell her to her face. She picked up the cloak and purse and opened the door.

A footman was waiting, not her friend Antoine. “Good morning, mademoiselle. Do you need some assistance?”

“I need to find my way back to my rooms.”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but those rooms have now been filled by his lordship’s guests.”

She didn’t know if her face whitened. It felt like it. It felt as if all the blood had drained from her body.

“Then I wish to speak to his lordship. Can you take me to him?”

“Of course, mademoiselle. I am not quite sure where he is right now, but I will take you to his library and send word that you wish to speak to him. May I tell him what it is about?”

“You may not,” she said, clutching the purse tightly. And she followed the footman down the long, dark hall.

Rohan was sitting at his desk, looking through papers, when Charles Reading stormed in. “What did you do with her?”

Rohan looked up, deceptively calm. “What do you think I did with her, Charles? Exactly what I said I would.” He reached for his glass of burgundy. “Would you care for a glass?”

“No. I need to know what you’re going to do now.”

“My dear Charles, are you enamored? I thought it was the silly chit of a sister you wanted,” Rohan said in his silken voice. His hand didn’t have a tremor, he noticed. He had moved past the debacle of the last twelve hours quite well, he thought.

“Don’t play games with me, Francis,” Charles said bitterly.

“In truth,” Rohan said, “I’m much more interested in what happened after I…decamped last night. Is the late Sir Christopher stinking up one of my rooms?”

Charles shook his head. “Of course not. Your cousin came and took him. He’ll see to it that the man gets a decent burial.”

“Knowing Etienne, he’ll probably cut him apart and observe his organs first,” Rohan said in his light, airy voice. “So no unfortunate aftermath?”

“Only that your guests are at fever pitch. They seem to like the smell of blood.”

“I’m so glad I could be of service,” he said smoothly.

“What are you going to do with her, Francis? She’s a gentlewoman. You can’t treat her like one of your whores.”

“Oh, my dear Charles, that’s exactly what I did, and I assure you she liked it enormously.” He gave Charles his most angelic smile. “There are two choices, I suppose. Send her on her way with enough money to support her for a reasonable amount of time. After all, one night’s tup shouldn’t equal a lifetime of support. But perhaps enough to get her to England.”

“And the other choice?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I had considered introducing her to some of the Host’s more moderate behaviors. Veronique was extremely interested in her, and you know how she likes an audience. And I’d be more than happy to see her drifting around here in scanty clothes, enjoying herself with some of our young bucks.”

Charles looked at him, long and hard. “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “You’re lying to me.”

“My dear Charles, why should I lie? Miss Harriman means absolutely nothing to me. Since I’m a charitable man I have no problem with seeing her safely settled elsewhere if she’s not interested in our revels.”

“Last night she was Elinor.”