SCANDALOUS

Regency NIGHTS

At the Duke’s Service CAROLE MORTIMER

The Rake’s Intimate Encounter ANN LETHBRIDGE

Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow

BRONWYN SCOTT

The Captain’s Wicked Wager MARGUERITE KAYE

Seducing a Stranger CHRISTINE MERRILL

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At the Duke’s Service

CAROLE MORTIMER

About the Author

CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978 and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Harlequin Mills & Boon. Carole has six sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, “I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.”

CHAPTER ONE

St. Claire House, Mayfair, London

“WOULD YOU KINDLY explain who you are and what you mean by coming here uninvited and taking me from my dinner guests?”

Miss Angelina Hawkins rose slowly to her feet as a tall, arrogantly forceful man strode into the cavernous entrance hall where the butler had requested she wait whilst he informed his employer of her arrival.

Whilst she waited for this man. Alexander St. Claire, the ninth Duke of Stourbridge.

A man who, as an acquaintance of her late father, was not at all as Angelina had imagined him to be whenever she had thought of him these past three years. Pleasantly so. She had been prepared for a man of middle years, perhaps running to fat, with a face florid from an overindulgence of port.

But this man could be aged only thirty years at the most. And his face, though admittedly hard and aristocratic, held the same chiseled beauty of an archangel Angelina had once viewed in a painting at one of the art galleries her tutor, Miss Bristow, had insisted “my young ladies” visit in an effort to broaden their education.

It was a decadently handsome face, one stamped with authority as well as arrogance, with a firm, unyielding jaw, and dominated by the darkest, most beautiful eyes Angelina had ever beheld.

Elegantly dressed, his shoulders were wide beneath the tailored black evening coat, his waist narrow, and his thighs and legs long and muscled in black silk breeches.

Yes, Alexander St. Claire was very handsome indeed. “I am come, Your Grace,” she informed him huskily, almost overwhelmed by how instantly taken she was by his good looks.

“Come?” he echoed sharply. “Come where?” The scowl on his brow deepened with his increasing irritation.

She gazed up at him guilelessly. “Here, Your Grace.”

“Without a doubt.” He gave an icy inclination of his head. “What the devil do you mean by it?”

“Do not be cross with me, Alexander!” She moved to press herself against him, her head resting on the broadness of his chest as her arms moved lightly about the slender waist hidden beneath the fine material of his black evening coat. “Miss Bristow did caution me to remain patient and wait until you came to collect me, but I could not wait any longer, Alexander, and decided to take matters into my own hands and come to you instead!”

Alexander stood stiff and unyielding under this overfamiliar onslaught of feminine softness, as he felt a faint stirring of memory at the mention of a female called Bristow. He had the distinct feeling he had heard that name before. But for the moment, with firm breasts pressed against his chest, slender arms about his waist and the soft rose perfume wafting from the golden curls peeping from beneath her bonnet, he was having difficulty remembering exactly when and where …!

Not that it mattered at this particular moment. What mattered was releasing himself from this young woman’s far from unpleasant hands upon his person.

Alexander straightened to push her from him abruptly. “Now see here …”

“Excuse me, Your Grace …?”

He turned a scowling face in the direction of his butler. “What is it, Thompson?”

Thompson became uncomfortable under Alexander’s icy stare. “Should I inform your guests that you have been … called away on business, Your Grace?”

“His Grace will rejoin his guests in but a few moments,” the young woman reassured Thompson before Alexander could speak.

He cast a look at this very forward and beautiful young lady. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty years, dressed in a traveling gown the same peach color as her bonnet. The golden curls beguiled, and her eyes were the clear blue of a summer sky. With a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her tiny nose, and a mouth—Ah, her mouth! Surely no respectable young lady should have such a sinfully decadent mouth! Those lips so full and pouting that they begged to be kissed and to kiss in return.

Damn it, who was this chit to come here and interrupt Alexander’s evening entertainment, addressing him so familiarly by name, whilst at the same time evoking such fantasies that Alexander’s perfectly tailored breeches now felt uncomfortably tight?

She smiled up at him, seemingly unconcerned. “I understand your need to return to your dinner guests, Alexander. I am tired from traveling these past two days, anyway. And of course, it would not do for you to introduce me to any of your guests,” she accepted good-naturedly. “I assure you I shall be quite happy to wait in one of the private salons until you have finished dinner and are free to join me.”

Alexander’s head was starting to spin. Who was she …? From where had she been traveling these past two days? And why did the name Bristow seem so irritatingly familiar? Until he had answers to his questions, Alexander was reluctant to return to his guests.

“Wait there, Thompson,” he ordered, as the butler would have moved to do this young woman’s bidding. Meanwhile, Alexander’s dark gaze never wavered from the creamy and irritatingly enchanting perfection of his intruder’s face. “Exactly who are you?” he demanded of her impatiently.

That blue gaze widened. “Angelina Hawkins, of course. Although I would much prefer that you call me Angel. Your Grace.” Belatedly she made a polite curtsy.

Alexander stared down incredulously at her bent head.

Angelina Hawkins …! The illegitimate daughter of Benjamin Hawkins and his mistress? An illegitimate daughter whose existence Benjamin had confided to Alexander on his deathbed almost three years ago?

It had been bleak and stormy on the night Alexander was ushered into Benjamin’s hushed bedchamber. The older man had suffered a fall from his horse in an even worse storm two nights previously, resulting in injuries that would ultimately prove fateful. Alexander had sat at Benjamin’s bedside and listened to his tale of love and passion for the mistress who had been carried off by a fever but three days before. Benjamin’s distress at her loss was such that he had no desire to continue without her; hence, the deranged horse ride and fall that had sealed his own fate.

But there had been more. There was a child from the alliance. A daughter, named Angelina.

With both of her parents gone, and no other relatives who could take her in, Benjamin feared what would become of her, and had requested that Alexander see that suitable arrangements were made for her. A request that Alexander, distraught at his friend’s rapidly failing health, had readily agreed to do.

But he had assumed that the girl was no more than nine or ten years of age, and had requested that Hopkins, his man of business at the time, place her in a school where she could board until she reached adulthood. At which time Alexander would turn his attention to arranging a suitable marriage for her, to a parson or some such. Someone who would not question her family background too deeply.

Obviously the chit had decided to take matters into her own hands by appearing here uninvited this evening!

“You really must run along back to your dinner guests, Alexander,” Angelina now told him dismissively. “Thompson and I shall sort out where I am to go.”

The last person to instruct Alexander St. Claire to “run along,” had been his nanny when he was but five years of age—no one would have dared to do so in the four and twenty years since then!

That this—this young woman had done so was intolerable. Unacceptable. As was the fact that she was here, in his home, at all, and acting as if she had a perfect right to be here!

Alexander drew in a sharply hissing breath. “Angelina—Miss Hawkins—”

“Did I not tell you I would prefer you to call me Angel, Alexander,” she chided mischievously.

Alexander blinked. This young woman was no angel. More like a devil sent from hell to plague him!

He reminded himself that, in fact, he did not have the time for this conversation with Angelina Hawkins now. His dinner guests were political allies and their wives, and Alexander had already been absent from their company longer than was polite. He would find out the answers he required later. “Thompson will indeed show you to the blue salon.” He turned to give the butler a pointed stare before moving his reproving gaze back to Angelina. “I will join you there once my guests have departed, and then we shall talk further on this matter,” he assured her grimly.

Her eyes widened. “Talk, Alexander? But I had thought—”

Alexander did not care to hear what this young woman “thought”—although her overfamiliarity and habit of launching herself into his arms at will was beginning to give him a fair indication of what some of those thoughts might be!

CHAPTER TWO

ANGELINA WAS HAVING the most wonderful dream. Of lying on a bed. Of being held in Alexander’s arms. His strong, muscled arms.

Her own arms moved up over his shoulders and her fingers became entangled in the dark thickness of his hair as she pulled him down to her and pressed her parted lips against his, before kissing him with warmth and passion.

Alexander, having finally rid himself of his last guest at almost two o’clock in the morning, had entered the blue salon to find Angelina fast asleep on the sofa. His efforts to wake her had proved fruitless. As it was already so late that any chance of removing her from the house, without causing a monumental scandal, was out of the question, he had decided that he had no choice but to carry her up the stairs and deposit her in one of the bedchambers on the floor above.

Only now he found himself being pulled down beside her as he placed her upon the bed! Her arms encircled his shoulders and her fingers threaded through his hair as she pressed her warm, parted lips against his. To both his dismay and delight, her actions sent a fiercely hot lick of desire coursing through his body.

“Xander?” Angelina groaned in protest as he pulled back in shock at his response. Her blue eyes were reproachful as she raised sleepy lids to look up at him. “Do you not wish to kiss me?”

Alexander scowled down at her as he was prevented from rising to his feet by her fingers still linked together beneath the loosened hair at his nape.

Angelina had removed her bonnet some time before falling asleep, revealing her gloriously golden curls. Her brow was smooth and creamy and her deep blue eyes were looking up at him in seductive invitation. Her mouth was full and sensual, and her neck long and slender above the full swell of her breasts, the low neckline of the peach gown having slipped so that it almost revealed her nipples.

“Kiss me, Xander,” she encouraged throatily as she pulled him toward her once more.

Beautiful and willing as Angelina undoubtedly was, Alexander knew he ought to stop this right now. To demand an explanation for the obvious invitation in her behavior.

Perhaps he had overindulged in the port following dinner and his wits had momentarily deserted him? Or perhaps it was just that the invitingly sensuous pout of Angelina’s lips cried out to be kissed? Just as the slender curves of her body begged to be crushed against his much harder ones! Whatever the reason—or perhaps excuse—instead of pushing Angelina Hawkins firmly away from him and leaving the bedchamber as he knew he should, Alexander found himself unable to do anything but draw her more fully into his arms.

Angelina moaned low in her throat as she felt the firmness of Alexander’s lips against her own, parting them to deepen the kiss as he pulled her roughly toward him.

Oh, how glorious it was to be kissed at last! By Alexander. It was so much more intimate, so much more arousing, than Angelina had ever imagined a kiss to be, and she found her neck arching in invitation as Alexander broke the kiss to seek out the hollows of her throat with his lips.

“Touch me, Xander!” she invited breathlessly, taking one of his hands in hers and placing it against one of her aching breasts. They swelled beneath the material of her gown, their tips swollen and sensitive as she felt the palm of Alexander’s hand against her.

But it was not nearly close enough, Angelina decided, as she ached for the feel of that hand against her flesh. She shifted the artfully designed gown and the material moved accommodatingly lower, exposing her breast fully so that her nipple pressed urgently against Alexander’s fingers.

Alexander’s gaze moved down sharply, feeling the bareness of Angelina’s flesh against his hand, desire coursing fiercely through him and causing his already hard and pulsing erection to throb anew as he looked at the fullness of her exposed breast with its tight rosy nipple. Momentary madness came over him as he started bending his head to take that luscious bud into his mouth—

Dear God …!

Alexander pulled back abruptly, jaw clenched as he straightened Angelina’s gown determinedly, before pushing her firmly away from him.

He ignored her seductive pout this time, to rise sharply to his feet, and moved purposefully away from the bedside, hands clasped firmly behind his back as he took several deep, controlling breaths before he dared face her again. “I have no idea where you … That sort of behavior is totally unacceptable, Angelina!” he finally rasped in his most disapproving tone.

Disapproval for himself, as much as for her.

He may never have set eyes on this girl before tonight, may have ignored her very existence these past three years except to pay her school fees, but Benjamin Hawkins had nevertheless placed her under Alexander’s protection. He doubted that his friend had ever envisaged that it was Alexander himself Angelina might need protection from!

“How is my behavior inappropriate?” Angelina gave Alexander a quizzical stare as she sat up to swing her feet down onto the rug beside the bed. “I am sure we will touch each other much more intimately than that once I become your mistress.”

“Once you are become my what?” Alexander glowered down at her in shocked disbelief.

“Your mistress, Alexander.” Angelina smiled. “I assure you I have applied myself most diligently to my lessons these past three years whilst a pupil at Miss Bristow’s school.”

At last, Alexander knew where he had heard the name before!

At the time of Benjamin Hawkins’s death, Alexander’s own father had also recently died, and Alexander had found his time much occupied with his newly elevated status as Duke of Stourbridge.

Even so, it had been remiss of him not to have at least visited Angelina after the death of her parents. Perhaps if he had done so he would have realized that she was not a child at all, but a young lady of fifteen or sixteen years! As it was, he had left all the arrangements for Angelina Hawkins’s schooling to his man Hopkins. Something the elderly man had later happily assured Alexander he had done by placing her in what he believed was a “suitable” school in Brighton.

But suitable for what?

CHAPTER THREE

ANGELINA STOOD UP from the bed, an apologetic look on her face. “I had thought to surprise you by arriving so unexpectedly, but I see now that I should have remained patient and waited for you to come for me.” She reached up to touch the hardness of his clenched jaw. “Do say you are not cross with me, Alexander.”

A nerve pulsed where her fingers had just touched. “I am not cross with you—”

“You are everything that is good and kind!” She beamed up at him warmly.

Good or kind were not descriptions Alexander—or, indeed, anyone else!—was accustomed to hearing in connection to himself.

That Angelina thought him to be so was most unsettling.

Alexander gritted his teeth. “What I am is most displeased with the—the teachings of Miss Bristow!”

Angelina frowned her dismay. “Did I not kiss you properly, Alexander? Were my caresses not to your liking?”

“Of course they were to my liking,” he snapped impatiently. “That is not at all my point—”

“I am so glad that I pleased you, Alexander.” Angelina gave a delighted laugh. “Indeed, Miss Bristow considered me so able a pupil that I have spent the year since reaching my eighteenth birthday instructing the other girls rather than being one of their number!”

After this recent example of Angelina’s capabilities Alexander could well believe it!

He was a man of nine and twenty years, experienced in the many ways of lovemaking. But Angelina Hawkins, with her warmth and lack of all inhibition, let alone guile, had awakened a desire in him unlike any he had ever known before.

Or, indeed, should be feeling now!

“These lessons you mentioned …” He paused, searching for the correct—the most discreet!—way of posing his next question. “Were they only of a theoretical nature, or did practice enter into these—these teachings …?”

“Oh, they were purely theoretical,” Angelina assured him lightly. “Miss Bristow was at great pains to point out to all of us that one’s virginity was a precious gift to be given only to one’s intended protector.”

Dear God …!

This woman, at nineteen years of age, with all the theoretical knowledge of lovemaking, if not the practice, spoke and behaved with a candidness that was becoming more and more difficult for him—for any man!—to resist.

“I believe I shall very much enjoy living here with you, Alexander.” Angelina seemed unaware of his erratically brooding thoughts as she looked appreciatively at the elegant furnishings of the bedchamber.

Angelina live here with him? At St. Claire House? Impossible!

“That would be most unsuitable, Angelina,” he answered her, with an increasing impatience for this situation. “It is far too late for me to arrange for you to go elsewhere tonight, but you must leave here first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Why must I?” She frowned her disappointment.

What was to be done with this young woman? Alexander wondered with frustration. The school in Brighton—School? It sounded more like a bordello, with Miss Bristow as its patroness!—had obviously educated Angelina in a way that was most unsuitable for marriage to the parson Alexander had vaguely envisaged arranging for Hawkins’s daughter once she reached maturity!

A brothel was what Angelina was most educated for!

And how long after being forced to resort to such an occupation, Alexander wondered, would it take for Angelina to lose her infectious candidness and beguiling warmth of affection? Before she became jaded and hardened by the lack of love and warmth in such relationships?

Perhaps he could provide her with a dowry so that she might marry within society—

No, that would not do, either. Any man of means who might be persuaded into marrying Angelina would necessarily have to be told of her background. Besides, there was Angelina’s undeniable knowledge—even if that knowledge was not of a practical nature—of all things sensual …!

His mouth thinned as he answered Angelina’s question as to why she couldn’t stay. “There is no woman in residence here to act as your chaperone.”

“Why should I need a chaperone, Xander, when I am to be your mistress?” Angel reached up to once again smooth the frown from his brow. “Please do not scowl so, Xander.”

He grimaced as he shook his head. “Why do you persist in calling me ‘Xander’…?”

Why? Because it was how Angelina was quickly coming to regard him. Not the elderly and debauched Duke of Stourbridge she had always imagined as her protector. But a young and very handsome man, a vigorous man, with whom she would enjoy every sensual delight. A man whom she might love.

She eyed him teasingly. “Does it displease you …?”

“No.” His frown was now quizzical. “It is only—It sounds a little odd, when no one has ever before shortened my name in that peculiar fashion.”

Angelina laughed softly. “But I am not ‘no one.’ And when we are alone together like this you must always be ‘Xander.’”

Alexander found himself captivated by the warmth in the deep blue of Angelina’s eyes. No woman had ever spoken to him so warmly, and with such unaffected frankness. It would be so easy, he realized, to accept all that she offered so freely. So easy to lose himself in her loveliness, to become deeply enamored— He stepped away abruptly. “I will leave you now—”

“Must you really go …?”

Alexander felt his heart contract in his chest, his gut clench and his breeches tighten as he once again found himself aroused and aching at the invitation writ so blatantly in Angelina’s innocently guileless gaze.

He should not have kissed her earlier. Should not have allowed himself to be drawn in by her burgeoning sensuality. “I most definitely must,” he stated coldly.

Angelina felt a terrible sense of loss as Alexander turned to leave. It had been so long, too long, since she’d had anyone whom she might love and be close to. “Will you not kiss me good-night first?” she prompted wistfully.

He drew in a sharp breath. “I do not think that wise—”

“I do not care for wisdom!” Angel gave a dismissive snap of her finger and thumb before running lightly across the room to throw herself into Alexander’s arms. “I should so like you to stay with me tonight, Xander.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his firmly chiseled lips. Small, lightly biting kisses. “You are so very handsome. So strong and virile. Will you not stay with me, Xander? Hold me? Make love with me?”

Alexander put his hands on Angelina’s arms, with every intention of holding her away from him, but instead he found himself once more unable to resist the pull of her sensuality as he drew her close, before lowering his head once again and capturing her mouth with his.

Not a soft or gentle kiss, either, but that of a man who deeply desired the woman whose body was pressed so intimately against his own, the throbbing of Alexander’s body increasing to an almost painful degree as Angelina rubbed herself sensuously against the hardened length of his erection.

If he wasn’t careful, this young woman was going to drive him out of his wits!

Alexander wrenched his mouth from hers, his eyes dark and stormy as he pushed her away once more. “You must get to bed now. Alone!” he added quickly when he saw her face light up expectantly. “We will talk again in the morning.” He marched forcefully from the bedroom to close the door firmly behind him.

Angelina was not at all perturbed by Alexander’s abrupt departure. No, she was not perturbed at all. Alexander St. Claire was everything and more that she could ever have wished for in the man who was to be her protector.

So much so that Angelina believed her heart may already have forgotten Miss Bristow’s warning as to the wisdom of falling in love with one’s protector …

CHAPTER FOUR

“IS IT NOT A GLORIOUS DAY, Xander!” Angelina prompted brightly the following morning as she breezed into his bedchamber shortly after nine o’clock.

There was a stirring beneath the bedcovers. “What the—!”

“But, of course, you cannot see how beautiful a day it is when your curtains are still drawn.” She crossed to the windows and pulled back both sets of curtains to allow in the bright sunlight. “There.” Turning back to the bed, she smiled warmly at Alexander as he attempted to sit up against the pillows.

The long darkness of his hair was endearingly ruffled from sleep, the deep brown of his eyes slightly unfocused and his face harshly beautiful in the sunlight. The bareness of his chest, with its light covering of dark hair, was also revealed as the bedclothes fell down to his muscled stomach when he sat up abruptly. Making Angelina curious as to whether Alexander might not be completely naked under the bedcovers.

“Good morning, Xander,” she greeted huskily as she crossed quickly to the bed to sit down beside him.

“Exactly what time of morning is it?” Alexander’s initial confusion with this intrusion into his bedchamber was fast evaporating as he recognized that intruder.

“It is a little after nine o’clock, I believe—”

“Nine o’clock!” he repeated thunderously. “What do you mean by waking me at this time? What do you mean by entering my bedchamber at all uninvited?” he added harshly. “Damn it, Angelina—”

“Angel,” she reminded.

He scowled darkly as he omitted to call her anything. “You should not enter a gentleman’s bedchamber in this brazen manner, let alone at this ungodly hour!”

She gave him another enigmatic smile. “You are scowling again, Xander.”

“Of course I am scowling!” he snapped impatiently. “I have been woken before it is even daylight by a young lady who—Good God, what is it that you are almost wearing?” He had been admiring the long fall of her un-confined golden curls when she suddenly flicked her hair back over the slenderness of her shoulders and he instead noted her attire. Or lack of it!

“Do you like them?” Angelina stood to give an obviously excited twirl so that she might show off her nightgown and robe.

Did Alexander like them? A certain part of his anatomy certainly appreciated the cream-colored garments, most especially the way the already sheer material was made almost transparent by the sun shining behind and through it. Attire surely more suited to a brothel than a bedchamber?

More importantly, to Alexander’s bedchamber! “Where did you get them?” he grated through clenched teeth as he held the bedcovers firmly over the swell of his arousal. This young woman was surely going to be the death of him—no doubt from the repeated and frustrated battering his self-control had suffered since she appeared so suddenly in his life the evening before!

Angelina appeared undaunted. “Miss Bristow accompanied me into Brighton and helped me choose them.” She beamed happily.

Miss Bristow again!

Alexander was fast coming to the conclusion that he wished to ring Miss Bristow’s overly instructive neck!

It was she who was responsible for Angelina’s lack of inhibition, and for the low neckline of Angelina’s gown and robe as it revealed the half-exposed pertness of her breasts above a slender waist and curvaceous thighs.

Alexander felt himself throb anew as he imagined parting those slender thighs to his avid gaze, his caressing hands, before pleasuring her with his lips and tongue until she screamed—

No, damn it, no!

Angelina was already under the mistaken impression that Alexander intended making her his mistress. If he were to seduce her, as the increasing ache of his penis told him he was so longing to do, then he knew he would be well and truly lost, totally enslaved by her beguiling loveliness!

He viewed Angelina through narrowed lids. “What sort of woman was this Miss Bristow?” Certainly not a lady, if her teachings to Angelina were anything to go by! What had Hopkins been thinking by placing a sixteen-year-old Angelina in such an establishment? Perhaps, knowing of Angelina’s background, the man had mistaken Alexander’s eventuaal intentions toward her.

“Oh, she’s a wonderful woman, Xander!” Angelina moved to once again sit beside him on the bed. “Very much a lady.”

“A lady!” Alexander repeated scornfully.

“Oh, but she is, Xander.” Angelina frowned. “She insisted on teaching ‘my young ladies,’ as she called us, all the social graces as well as our normal lessons. We had to learn to embroider, paint and play the piano before she would even consider telling us about our own sensuality.”

Alexander eyed her warily. “Your own sensuality …?”

Angelina gave a husky laugh. “Miss Bristow saw no reason why a woman should not enjoy the bedding as much as the man, and with that in mind—”

“Enough!” Alexander rasped as he held up a protesting hand.

Angel smiled warmly. “Many of the other girls thought some of the things Miss Bristow explained to us to be quite impossible, but I was sure that the right man—you, Alexander—would be interested in ensuring that I also experienced pleasure in our lovemaking …”

“Stop, Angelina!” Alexander said forcefully, realizing he would have to attend to having Angelina’s disruptive presence removed from St. Claire House as soon as possible. If he did not, he was sorely in danger of giving her that “pleasure” she spoke of so openly!

“Well … perhaps not now,” she allowed. “But tonight, once we have become better reacquainted …? Miss Bristow was at great pains to tell us lovemaking should be a mutual pleasure. Of all the senses. Vision. Touch. Hearing. Smell. As well as taste.” She licked her tongue slowly over the firm swell of her bottom lip as she said the latter.

Alexander found his gaze mesmerized by the eroticism of her tongue’s movement, in that moment easily able to imagine Angelina lowering her head to caress his erection in the same way.

Dear God, he ached intolerably just thinking of Angelina doing such things with him!

“Cease and desist, Angelina!” he muttered agitatedly. “And kindly remove yourself from my bedchamber at once. As I am now fully awake I may as well take my bath.” He glared at her.

She stood slowly, the sunlight once again making the material of her nightgown and robe transparent. “Perhaps I might help you with your bath, Xander, and we could become better acquainted in that way? I could wash your back and chest and—other things.” She threw back the bedclothes to fully expose the length of his erection to her avid gaze as she reached out and touched him.

Alexander found the strength to push her hand away and pull the bedclothes back over himself. “As soon as I am dressed I am going to soundly spank your bottom!” he warned thunderously.

“Really?” Angelina’s eyes widened with interest. “Would it not be better if we were both to remain undressed when you did that, Xander? Miss Bristow said that a little pain during lovemaking—only a little, you understand?—can heighten the senses and—”

“I believe Miss Bristow has said altogether too much!” He gave another aching groan.

Angel looked at him with concern. “Are you in pain, Xander? Can I do anything to help?”

‘Xander’ was in great pain! He was also in danger of completely embarrassing himself as visions of putting Angelina over his knee and spanking the bareness of her bottom threatened to tip him over the edge!

“My only need is for privacy, Angelina,” he declared gruffly. “Now!” he added with firm emphasis.

“As you wish, Xander.” And, as she had the night before, Angelina pouted her disappointment before turning and slowly walking to the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

“HAS IT NOT BEEN A happy day, Xander?” Angelina beamed across the small table at him as they dined alone together that evening.

Alexander’s gaze glowered over the rim of his glass of claret as he grudgingly acknowledged how lovely Angelina looked this evening in a gown of cream silk, with her golden hair curling onto her bare shoulders.

In fact, Alexander had found it a most frustrating day!

For one thing, it was proving far more difficult to relocate Angelina than he had initially thought.

Having promised Hawkins that he would see to Angelina’s future, Alexander could not just throw her out into the street to fend for herself. Neither could he send her to a hotel when she had no chaperone.

Instead, he had decided that perhaps his aunt Elizabeth might be persuaded into having the girl—as long as Angelina was cautioned first concerning any attempt on her part to discuss the finer points of her education with his aunt … Alexander had driven Angelina in his carriage to his aunt’s house in Grosvenor Square this morning, only to find his aged relative had unhelpfully taken herself off to the country for the day to visit her daughter, and was not expected back to town until much later this evening.

Alexander did not even entertain the idea of sending Angelina back to Brighton to the dubious guardianship of the overinformative Miss Bristow!

Consequently Angelina had now been at St. Claire House with him for almost twenty-four hours, during which time she had more than capably confirmed her claim to be able to deport herself with all the elegance and charm of a lady.

Andrews, Hopkins much younger replacement, had taken one look at Angelina this morning, when she strolled into Alexander’s study uninvited, and completely fallen under her spell, rendering the normally reserved young man virtually incapable of fulfilling his secretarial duties.

The household staff were falling over themselves to accommodate her. So much so that their meal this evening had consisted of Angelina’s favorite dishes.

All that was needed to complete the bedlam would have been a visit from one of his younger brothers, who no doubt would have become equally smitten with Angelina’s beauty and charm. Luckily Alexander had at least been spared that!

Still, despite keeping himself busy, it had hardly been a happy day as far as Alexander was concerned, and dinner alone with Angelina was making his head ache almost as much as another part of his anatomy had once again begun to do the moment he joined her.

“You are looking tense again, Xander,” Angel chided softly before rising to her feet. “I shall endeavor to help you feel better.”

Alexander could envisage several ways in which his tension might be eased, but he turned to eye her warily as she moved to stand behind him. “What are you doing?”

She smiled. “One of the girls at school suffered from severe headaches and I learned a way in which I might ease them. Just relax, Xander.” She turned him firmly to face forward, before placing her hands either side of his head so that her thumbs rested against his temples and her fingers over his brow. “There, does that not feel better?” she prompted huskily as she rested his head back against her breasts so that she might look down into his face as she continued to lightly massage his brow and temples.

Alexander gave a groan as he kept his eyes firmly closed, dark lashes resting against harshly chiseled cheeks, and his mouth thinned in a grim line.

“You really must try to relax, Xander,” Angel encouraged soothingly.

How could Alexander possibly relax when the back of his head was nestled between Angelina’s breasts?

He could not suffer this torment a moment longer …!

He had watched as Angelina charmed all about her all day. Listened as her tinkling laugh filled his normally austere and quiet household. All the time wishing that her charm was for him alone. Her delicate laugh for his ears only …!

Now, to have her touch him—!

Alexander jerked away from her caressing hands as he stood abruptly to turn and take Angelina in his arms, pulling her fiercely against him as his mouth captured hers in a kiss that owed nothing to gentleness and everything to the wild clamoring need he had to possess her.

Angel felt a thrill of excitement as Alexander pressed her body fiercely against his as his lips claimed hers, her arms moving up so that she could release the ribbon from his hair and entangle her fingers within his thick dark locks.

The initial fire of his hunger satisfied, Alexander began to flick his tongue lightly against her lips before surging hotly inside the heated cavern beneath, Angelina’s tongue meeting his in a duel of desire that could have only one outcome.

Her throat arched as Alexander broke the kiss to nuzzle and then bite the sensitive lobes of her ear before trailing his burning lips down the length of her throat to seek the swelling tops of her breasts.

“Oh, yes, Xander …!” she gasped encouragingly as he impatiently pushed aside the material of her gown so that his tongue might meet one roused nipple. “Please, do not stop …!” She moaned as she cradled the back of his head to hold him against her, her knees buckling slightly as Alexander began to suck oh-so-satisfyingly.

“You have far too many clothes on!” he growled disapprovingly as he raised his head slightly, his breath hot against the cool dampness of her breast.

“We both do,” she acknowledged breathlessly. “Lock the door, Xander, so that we shall not be disturbed.”

“Angelina—” Alexander’s protest arrested in his throat as she stepped back to unfasten half a dozen tiny—and conveniently placed—buttons at the back of her gown, before allowing it to slide down her arms to fall onto the carpeted floor.

Any chance Alexander might have had of putting an end to this dangerous situation fled completely as Angelina stood before him dressed only in her almost transparent chemise, which clearly outlined her firm breasts, and white stockings that stopped tantalisingly short of the nestle of dark blond curls now clearly visible between her thighs.

Until the advent of Angelina into his life, Alexander had always prided himself on his self-control, but he would have to be made of marble to be able to withstand the invitation Angelina’s seminakedness now represented.

“The door, Xander,” she reminded as she reached up to take the pins from her hair. The riotous golden curls fell down to her waist before she slipped the thin straps of her chemise down her arms to bare her lovely breasts and curvaceous hips, as she now wore only those tantalising white stockings held up with garters of blue ribbon the exact color of her eyes.

The darkness of Alexander’s gaze remained transfixed on all that wanton loveliness even as he moved to the door to turn the key in the lock.

CHAPTER SIX

THE TURNING OF THAT lock brought Alexander momentarily to his senses and he gave a shake of his head in an effort to clear it of its riotous longings. “Angelina, we cannot …”

“We will not complete the act tonight, if you prefer that we not do so, Xander. It will be enough for now if we give each other pleasure,” she promised huskily.

“What—” His second protest ended abruptly as Angelina moved across the distance that separated them to stand in front of him, the warmth of her nakedness, pressed against him from breast to thigh, becoming his complete undoing as he pulled her into him roughly and his lips once again laid siege to hers.

Even as his kisses deepened, his breathing becoming ragged, Angelina reached up to pull his jacket down his arms and loosen the necktie at his throat, before unfastening the top of his shirt and unbuttoning his waistcoat. She then slide it down his arms before pulling his shirt from his breeches and sliding her hands underneath the material so that she might touch the hot, bare flesh of his back and chest.

Alexander groaned low in his throat as Angelina began to move her hands across that muscled heat, the groan turning to a growl as she ran her nails over the hard pebbles of his nipples nestled amongst the darkness of the hair on his chest. She moved her hands lower still as she followed the path of that soft, downy hair to the waistband of his breeches, caressing the hardness there that throbbed and strained against the tightly stretched material.

Alexander wrenched his mouth from hers. “Angel …!”

His first use of the name she preferred made her bolder still as she released the buttons of his breeches to allow all the pulsing hardness to surge powerfully free, and her fingers curled about him.

“Angel—”

“Sit, Xander.” Angelina stepped back to urge him in the direction of one of the dining room chairs, before dropping down onto her knees in front of him.

“Angel, I cannot allow you to—Oh, my God …!” Alexander’s cry was one of pure ecstasy as he felt the heat of her mouth on him, his fingers clenching the arms of the chair as her tongue circled the tip of his erection.

Alexander’s head fell back, his knuckles white as he continued to clutch the arms of the chair, teeth gritted, jaw rigid, as Angelina began to suck.

It was all Alexander could do to keep himself from instantly giving in to his release. Instead, he suffered the agonies of hell for long, timeless minutes as Angelina continued to alternately lick and suck as her hands caressed him.

How he needed … wanted—“Take all of me, Angel! He groaned as he reached down to thread his hands fiercely into her golden curls that draped so erotically across his hips and thighs. As she took the full length of him into the heat of her mouth he began to thrust his hips until he felt his climax surging in an agony of pleasure such as Alexander had never experienced before.

Angelina instantly drew back, having been told the exact moment to cease the ministrations of her lips and tongue. Knowing that a man took time to recover from climax, if she paused now she would be able to reinvigorate him, to bring him to that peak again and again.

“Don’t stop, Angel …!” Alexander murmured achingly.

Angelina kissed down his still-pulsing length, enjoying Alexander’s groans of pleasure and renewed hardness as her fingers encircled him, and she began to rub rhythmically up and down until she gave him the pleasure he so sought.

Dear God, how she had pleasured him, Alexander thought as he felt the ache in every part of his body from the fierceness of his release.

A release that Angel had still to attain herself.

Alexander pulled her up so that she now stood between his parted thighs, his eyes dark as he gazed upon the firm thrust of her breasts. “I believe it is now my turn to pleasure you, Angel,” he drawled in anticipation.

“Yes, please, Xander,” she accepted almost shyly.

Alexander’s gaze held hers as he moved his mouth onto one bared breast, Angel’s hands clinging to the broadness of his shoulders as his tongue stroked across her hardened nipple. One of his hands moved down below the gentle slope of her waist in search of the nub nestled in the softness of her curls and, upon finding it, caressed her rhythmically until she moaned and writhed beneath him.

Angelina’s breathing became ragged and uneven, and she parted her legs to give him greater access, allowing him to slide one finger inside her, and then two, as he thrust into her rhythmically, all the while the soft pad of his thumb caressing the hardened, pulsing nub above until she collapsed weakly against him.

Alexander raised his head to look at her as he slowly slid his fingers from inside her. Immediately he knew he wanted to give her that pleasure again.

He grasped her hand in his as he led her over to the rug in front of the unlit fireplace, laying her down upon its softness, before spreading her legs wide so that he might kneel between them. He thought how beautiful she looked as he lowered his head to rasp the heat of his tongue over the still-swollen place between her thighs, and began to rouse her once more.

Angelina cried out as Alexander’s hands moved upward, over her stomach, to cup both her breasts, fingers caressing and lightly pinching her nipples as his tongue pressed against with ever-increasing urgency.

She could feel the rising of her second release as the pleasure became almost unbearable and she arched up into him. Her breathing became shallow as that pleasure centered, pooled, at the place Alexander stroked so rhythmically with his tongue. Higher, and still higher, that pleasure rose, until Angelina felt as if she might shatter into a millions pieces.

“Oh, Xander, please,” she choked, her fingers becoming entangled in the dark thickness of his hair as she pressed him harder against her. “Please …!”

One of his hands released her breast to once again seek out the throbbing nub hidden in her curls, stroking harder, and then harder still, as his tongue thrust deep inside her, over and over again.

Angel almost sat up as she cried out in ecstasy, her body meeting Alexander’s thrusts as her climax flowed through her, before she fell back, her breathing labored and rasping.

Alexander moved slowly up the length of her body to lie beside her, his head against her breast as his hand moved to curve about its twin, fingers lightly teasing the erectness of her nipple.

Alexander found himself thinking of numerous—no, dozens!—of ways in which he wished to make love with and to Angel. Again. And again.

But where? When? Did he make Angel his mistress, after all? No! He could not—would not—do that to this warmly giving and beautiful woman. What to do with her, then? How could he keep her in his life and at the same not be her ruination? What—

“The reality is much more … exciting than the theory, is it not, Xander?” Angel breathed happily at his side. “It was truly a—a wondrous experience!”

He laughed softly, forgetting the future for the moment. Time enough to decide upon that later. For now it was enough that he held this enchanting creature in his arms. “It was indeed,” he assured warmly. “In fact, I have become quite taken with the teachings of your Miss Bristow!”

“Did I do everything correctly, Xander?” Angelina prompted softly.

“Everything!” he assured her with a self-derisive chuckle, as he recalled how completely he had been undone as Angel had kissed and caressed him with her own unique blend of innocence and seduction.

Angelina’s face glowed, her eyes shining with emotion. “I am so very glad that I pleased you, Xander.”

If Alexander had been any more “pleased” he may have expired completely! As it was, he still could not believe the intimacies he had shared with this young lady. He had never, ever allowed himself release in a woman’s mouth before. He had not “allowed” it this time, either, he recalled ruefully; his arousal, the excitement of Angel’s mouth and hands upon him, had been such that he had simply been unable to prevent it!

Still, indulging in such licentious behavior in his own home had been both rash and impulsive. Anyone might have found them together—

“Stourbridge!” The loud and imperious barking of his name reverberated through the house.

“Oh, God, no …!” Alexander gasped in protest as he turned to stare toward the locked dining room door.

“What is it?” Angelina looked up at him in concern.

“Not what, Angel, but who!” Alexander corrected harshly as he rose hastily to his feet and began to pull on his clothes.

“Who, then?” Angelina prompted as she less hurriedly got to her feet.

He fastened his breeches before answering her. “It would seem that my aunt Elizabeth has indeed returned to town and decided to pay me a visit …!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“SIT UP STRAIGHT AND do not fidget, Angelina.” Lady Elizabeth Montague instructed brusquely but not unkindly as the two women sat together in the elegance of her town house drawing room, awaiting the arrival of afternoon visitors.

Angel instantly stilled in rearranging the folds of her cream gown, still somewhat at a loss to know how it was she came to be in residence at Lady Montague’s home at all.

The elderly lady had swept into the dining room at St. Claire House the evening before, having been informed by not one acquaintance but several that the Duke of Stourbridge had been seen in his carriage that very morning with a young, unmarried female at his side. An occurrence that she had felt the need to look into personally. “Being seen with a female and having that female stay in his home unaccompanied,” Alexander had been informed disgustedly, “were two completely different things!”

Having taken in the intimacy of their situation at a glance—how could she not when Alexander had only had time to hastily don his shirt and breeches, and Angelina’s own appearance showed signs of their lovemaking in the untidiness of her hair and lips swollen from the force of Alexander’s kisses!—she had ordered Angelina to collect her things immediately as she would be returning home with her instantly.

Such had been the older woman’s force of will that Angelina had felt compelled to comply with the instruction. Quite what had taken place between aunt and nephew in her absence Angelina had no idea, but when she returned down the stairs, her appearance suitably tidied and her belongings duly repacked into her trunk, she had found Alexander to be in complete agreement with his aunt’s arrangements.

Angelina had personally received no word of rebuke from that lady, either last night or this morning, Lady Montague seeming to attribute any and all blame, for the intimacy of the situation she had so obviously interrupted, to her nephew.

Something Angelina knew she must now correct. “Lady Montague, I feel I must tell you—”

“I would rather you did not, my dear,” the older woman assured her hastily. “I saw enough yesterday evening to know the way things are between you and Stourbridge,” she added kindly. “The sooner the two of you are married the happier I shall be!” Angelina’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, but—” “The Duke of Stourbridge, my lady,” the butler announced while standing in the doorway, only seconds before Alexander himself strode forcefully into the room.

Angelina was only vaguely aware of the butler withdrawing and closing the door behind him, her attention all on Alexander as he crossed the room to bend and place a kiss upon one of his aunt’s powdered cheeks. He looked every inch the haughty duke this afternoon, his hair tied back meticulously, his dark blue jacket and paler blue waistcoat impeccably tailored above cream silk breeches.

At last, Alexander turned to look at Angelina, frowning darkly as her lashes instantly fanned down onto the paleness of her cheeks and so hiding her expressive blue eyes from his gaze.

“What have you been saying to Angel in order to cause this uncharacteristic demureness, Aunt?” he drawled ruefully, his gaze unrepentant as Angelina’s lashes rose instantly so that she might give him a censorious frown for his levity in the midst of a situation that was obviously causing his aunt some distress.

“I am afraid that your aunt is under the misapprehension that the two of us are to be married, Your Grace,” she informed him worriedly.

“Indeed.” He gave an inclination of his head.

“Yes,” Angelina confirmed breathlessly. “When you arrived I was just about to inform Lady Montague that I am intended as your mistress and not your wife!”

“Stourbridge!” his aunt prompted in alarm at the same moment as Alexander gave an uncontrolled shout of laughter. “I fail to see anything in the least amusing in this situation!” she admonished severely.

Alexander smiled ruefully. “That is because you are you and not me, Aunt.”

She looked scandalized. “Stourbridge—”

“Aunt Elizabeth—” he sobered, his narrowed gaze still fixed intently on the beautiful vision Angelina made in her cream gown “—would you be so kind as to allow Angel and I a few minutes alone in which we might converse privately?”

“Very well. But a few minutes only,” his aunt warned sternly as she rose majestically to her feet. “I am expecting dozens of visitors this afternoon, all of them anxious to meet and gaze upon the young lady who has succeeded in capturing the elusive Duke of Stourbridge’s heart!”

Angelina waited only long enough for the elderly lady to leave the room before rising sharply to her feet, her expression one of alarm as she beseeched. “Xander, you must put a stop to this instantly!”

“Must I?” he drawled mockingly.

“But of course you must!” Angelina chided impatiently. “Your aunt is under the misapprehension that the two of us are to be married. You must go to her and tell her the truth. That I am to be your mistress—”

“I have always found it wiser by far never to lie to my aunt Elizabeth,” he assured softly.

“But you would not be lying in this instance—What on earth do you mean, Xander …?” Angelina now eyed him guardedly.

Alexander’s eyes glowed as he looked across at her. As he took in the glorious gold of her hair. The pale beauty of her face. The depth of her blue eyes, the sprinkling of freckles upon her tiny nose and the full and sensuous curve of her lips. As for the fullness of her breasts …! She really was the most exquisite creature.

St. Claire House, the place Alexander had called home all of his adult life, where he had always been perfectly at his ease, had seemed empty and cold today without Angelina’s warmth and laughter in it. All of which had told Alexander exactly what his future relationship with Angelina must—had—to be!

He drew in a ragged breath. “I mean, my dear Angel, that it is my intention to marry you at the earliest opportunity.”

She gasped. “Xander, you cannot possibly mean to marry me simply because your aunt expects it of you!”

He gave a pained wince. “I do not recall ever saying that was my reason for marrying you.”

“But of course it is the reason—”

“You claim to know my thoughts and emotions so well, then?” he mused.

Angelina frowned her consternation with his behavior. “Of course I do not,” she assured agitatedly. “But I have been … tutored, groomed, these past three years for the role of your mistress—”

“Not at my bidding, I do most fervently assure you!” he rasped. “Not that I am complaining, you understand?” he added gently as Angelina recoiled at his vehemence. “On the contrary—to date I have found your … tutorage more satisfying than anything I have ever before experienced. So much so, that after only a few hours of being apart from you, I find I wish to repeat it every day—and night—for the rest of my life.”

Angelina gave a confused frown. “I fear you must explain yourself better than that, Alexander.”

“You have only been with my aunt Elizabeth a matter of hours and already you are starting to sound like her!” His smile was rueful. “Yes, my dear Angel, I have no doubts whatsoever that you will make a formidable Duchess of Stourbridge,” he added appreciatively.

“Duchess—!” she gasped”—What on earth are you doing, Xander?” she protested as he fell to one knee in front of her.

His eyes glowed darkly gold as he looked up at her. “I believe, Angel, that I am endeavoring to propose to you. If you would be so kind as to allow me to proceed …?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“PLEASE RISE AND cease this nonsense at once, Alexander,” Angelina told him anxiously.

Not quite the response Alexander had been hoping for to his first attempt at a marriage proposal. His last, too, he hoped! “I assure you it is not nonsense, Angel,” he said gruffly, making no effort to stand. “It is perhaps a little soon in our acquaintance for you to know the state of your own heart—”

“Soon? Soon!” Angelina repeated incredulously. “We have known each other but two and a half days, Alexander.”

He raised dark, slanted brows. “During which time we have come to know each other as well, I believe, if not better, than most betrothed couples of the ton do on their wedding days!”

“Oh, please do get up!” Angelina clasped his arm and attempted to pull him to his feet. Unsuccessfully. “You must rise, Xander! What will your aunt think if she comes back into the room and sees you like this?” She shot a nervous glance toward the closed door. “I do not know her terribly well as yet, but I am sure she would not think it at all the thing for the Duke of Stourbridge to be down on his knees in this undignified manner!”

Alexander tried to hold back his amusement—he really did try—but in the end he failed miserably as a bark of laughter broke free, and then another, followed by yet another.

Angelina stared down at him incredulously. “Xander, have you completely taken leave of your senses?”

“Probably.” He sobered slightly, although he could not seem to prevent the smile that still curved his lips. Something he found he did all too easily when he was in Angelina’s company. “Do you have any idea how adorable you are, Angel? How utterly, utterly unique?”

Angelina ceased trying to force him to his feet to instead stare down at him in wary—if hopeful!—disbelief. Hopeful, because she was very much afraid she had forgotten Miss Bristow’s warning completely and fallen in love with the haughty and aristocratic Duke of Stourbridge the moment he walked into that cavernous hallway two evenings ago and demanded to know what she was about, interrupting his dinner party! And she was very sure that she had fallen in love with the Alexander with whom she had made love with and to the evening before!

Could Alexander really be serious in this marriage proposal? Surely he could not, she instantly rebuked herself. A duke did not marry the daughter of a—a—

“My mother was an actress and a mistress of my father,” she announced with a challenging rise of her chin.

“I am well aware of the fact.” Alexander gave an inclination of his head as he finally rose slowly to his feet and took both of her hands into his own. “Your father, until his death, was one of my closest friends.”

Angelina swallowed hard at this mention of the dear and kind man whom had visited her often whilst he was alive. “He was not married to my mother.”

“No,” Alexander acknowledged softly. “He was unfortunately married very young, an arranged marriage to a cousin, I believe, and so was not free to marry your mother when he met her several years after that marriage had taken place.”

“He would have married my mother if he had been free,” Angel protested fiercely.

“Again, I am well aware of the fact,” Alexander assured her gently. “Angel, your family history is of little matter to me—”

“How can you say such a thing?” she gasped incredulously.

“Quite easily—when it is the truth. I admit, sending you to a school, where you were tutored in subjects most young ladies are never fully made aware of, does not give that impression but … Angel, I had no idea, until you informed me of it two days ago, that you had attended such an academy.” His expression was grim. “I had been the duke only a matter of months at the time of your father’s death, and he made his request to me to see that you were not left alone and destitute now that both your parents were dead. In my preoccupation with my new duties, I foolishly left the details of your education to my then man of business. Obviously I was not clear enough as to my wishes in the matter.” He scowled.

Angelina’s eyes were wide. “It was never your wish that I be—be schooled to become your mistress?”

“Certainly not! At least.” His hands tightened about hers. “Angel, it is now my dearest wish that you do indeed become my mistress—but only if you will first become my wife.”

She gave a quizzical frown. “You wish me to be your mistress, as well as your wife …?”

He smiled roguishly. “In the usual way of the ton, I believe I would be expected to first take a wife and then a mistress. But in you, my darling Angel, I have found both those things in one saucily seductive woman. Of course, it also helps that I love and adore you,” he added matter-of-factly.

Angelina’s eyes became even wider. “You love and adore me …?”

“To distraction,” Alexander confirmed decidedly. “From the moment I first looked at you, it would seem,” he added self-derisively. “I had not realized how empty my home was until after you had left it yesterday evening, Angel. How soulless. You have brought joy and warmth into my life, into my very household, in a way I had never imagined.” His eyes glittered darkly.

“I have …?”

He gave a rueful nod of his head. “All these years, I have thought my inability to love to be some defect in my character. That there must be a blank space where my heart should be. After you left yesterday evening, I discovered I do have a heart, after all. And that, with your going, you had taken it with you. I do love you so very much, Angel. Do you think you might ever come to love me in return?”

“Miss Bristow advised against any of us falling in love with our protectors—”

“And, in the normal course of things, Miss Bristow was wise to issue such a warning.” He nodded abruptly. “But it is my dearest wish to become your husband, Angel, and not your protector. A husband you will hopefully come to love as dearly as he already loves you.”

She shook her head. “It is too late for that, Xander—” “Never say that, Angel!” He groaned. “I will wait to make love to you again until you feel the same way about me, I swear. I will court you. Shower you with diamonds. Angel, I cannot bear it if you do not one day come to love me in the same way that I already love you—”

“By all means, court me and shower me with diamonds if you feel you must, darling Xander,” she acknowledged happily. “But abstinence from our lovemaking is going too far!”

His expression softened slightly. “Then I will make love to and with you day and night until you fall in love with me,” he vowed fiercely.

“Make love to me day and night by all means, my darling, but when I said it was already too late to hope that I might one day come to love you, I simply meant it was too late because I already do love you! From that very first moment, too, I believe,” Angelina assured softly. “I had not expected the Duke of Stourbridge to be so young. So tall. Or so arrogantly, wonderfully handsome. His features and body so—so incredibly and magnificently formed! Or his lovemaking ecstasy beyond my wildest dreams! I already love you so very much, Xander,” she repeated quietly.

“My darling!” Joy lit up the previously austere lines of Alexander’s face.

Angelina placed her hands upon his chest as he would have taken her in his arms. “Xander, a duke cannot marry the daughter of a woman who was both an—an actress and a—”

“This duke can certainly marry whom he damn well pleases!” he stated with all the arrogance of that duke, his expression once again softening as he saw how apprehensive his beloved still looked. “Please say you will marry me, Angel. I cannot bear even the thought of living another day without knowing you are to be mine forever!” he admitted gruffly.

Could she? Could Angelina Hawkins, the illegitimate daughter of an actress and a lord, really marry a duke? No, that was not the question. The question was, how could she not marry Alexander, duke or otherwise, when he asked her, when he proclaimed his love for her, when he said he adored her and could not bear to live without her?

Her eyes glowed and her cheeks felt warm. “I do love you so very much, Xander.”

“And …?”

She smiled up at him lovingly. “And I did so enjoy our lovemaking yesterday evening.”

His eyes glittered with the same remembered enjoyment. “And …?”

“And if you are really sure that you want me—”

“Angel, I have never been surer of anything in my so-far jaded existence!” he vowed fiercely.

“Then, my love, my darling Xander, I wholeheartedly accept your proposal of marriage!”

“Angel!” Alexander drew her into his arms and pulled her down onto the chaise beside him before his mouth claimed hers.

“Your aunt …?” Angelina reminded worriedly as those kisses threatened to spiral into another bout of lovemaking.

Alexander stood to cross the room and turn the key in the lock. “Has plenty of other salons in which she might receive her afternoon guests,” he assured dismissively as he returned to her side.

Clothes were discarded. Murmurs and ecstatic sighs followed. A gasp as Alexander thrust into Angel to claim her. A soft and muffled scream minutes later as Angel’s pleasure reached its satisfying peak. Quickly followed by Alexander’s own achingly ecstatic groans as those inner quakes and spasms caused him to spill himself deep inside her.

“I believe Hawk to be a fitting name for our first son,” Angel murmured sometime later as she lay still naked and deeply sated in Alexander’s arms. “In order that my own name is not lost completely.”

“Whatever you wish, my darl—First son?” Alexander echoed as he sat up slightly in order that he might look down at her. “How many sons are you planning on giving me?” he prompted indulgently, knowing that he could deny this woman nothing. That she did, indeed, hold the whole of his heart in her tiny hands.

“Oh, at least two, possibly three,” his Angel assured him lightly.

“As long as we also have a daughter, or two, with your beauty, golden curls and determined nature,” Alexander murmured with satisfaction. “Although I think I would prefer that they not attend Miss Bristow’s school in Brighton!” he added dryly.

“I have so far heard no complaints from you concerning my own tutelage,” Angelina teased huskily.

“And neither will you,” Alexander assured warmly. “In fact, I am already looking forward to sharing the revelations of your next lesson!”

Angelina laughed softly. “We have only just begun, my darling,” she promised warmly.

Alexander gazed down at her adoringly, utterly sure of his love for this warm and wonderful woman. Knowing that, with her, each day together would be a joy, each night a revelation, to be savored and cherished for as long as the two of them lived….

* * * *

Author’s Note

Welcome to the sensual and exciting world of The Notorious St Claires!

Angelina and Alexander’s love story, as the matriarch and patriarch of the St Claire family, is where the story all began and it was great fun matching wits between these two strong-willed lovers.

Do look out for:

The Notorious St Claires—Historical romances

THE DUKE’S CINDERELLA BRIDE

THE RAKE’S WICKED PROPOSAL

THE ROGUE’S DISGRACED LADY

LADY ARABELLA’S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE

The Scandalous St Claires—Modern™ romances JORDAN ST CLAIRE: DARK AND DANGEROUS January 2011

THE RELUCTANT DUKE February 2011

TAMING THE LAST ST CLAIRE March 2011

I hope you enjoy the new St Claires!

The Rake’s Intimate Encounter

ANN LETHBRIDGE

I dedicate this book to my husband, who is my inspiration

About the Author

ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1815

BRUNETTES, BLONDES and even a redhead displayed their mouthwatering attributes while they handled the cards at the green baize-covered tables with the dexterity of Captain Sharps. Tony Darby sauntered ahead of the Evernden brothers into what had once been a ballroom. At each table, fashionable gentlemen leered at their scantily clad banker, or stared at their cards.

Piquet. Whist. Vingt-et-un. Women. All the usual pastimes. Tony sighed as ennui swept through him and then turned to his companions. “This is why you dragged me all the way to Hampstead, Stanford? A gambling hell in a brothel?”

“Indeed,” the fair haired and usually cheerful Christopher Evernden said with a grimace. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, Garth.”

On the other side of Tony, Christopher’s brother, Lord Stanford, grinned, his dark eyes unrepentant. “Lady Falstow will have your head if she hears the word ‘brothel’ in her establishment. The women here are looking for amusement, not money.”

“Good Lord,” Christopher said. “Is that Lady—”

“No names,” Garth murmured. “In this club, discretion is the watchword. One wrong word and we will never darken these hallowed portals again. Look at them. It’s a banquet of female desires.”

Following the direction of Christopher’s stunned gaze, Tony recognized one of London’s foremost hostesses, known for her sumptuous dinners and witty conversation. Tonight, the blonde wore a carnivorous expression and a gown diaphanous enough to shame a courtesan.

She caught his glance. Her gaze ran down his length, obvious and assessing. Clearly liking what she saw, she beckoned.

Tony stifled the urge to flee and pretended he hadn’t noticed.

Christopher groaned. “I have no interest in playing stud for some bored hausfrau. You promised piquet in interesting surroundings.”

“Can it get more interesting than this?” Garth asked. “Look at them. They’ll rip your clothes off, they’re so desperate.”

“The next time I go to White’s I don’t want to shake some fellow’s hand knowing I tupped his wife,” Tony said, speaking from an experience that still gave him nightmares.

“Nor me,” Christopher said.

“You do the ladies no favors,” Garth said. “They are here because their husbands don’t give a damn whether they are happy or not.” Strangely enough, the usually insouciant Garth sounded rather grim. “And besides, many of them are lonely widows.”

“I don’t have the ready to set up an indigent widow with a host of hungry mouths to feed,” Tony said. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment to view a property, which, if he decided to purchase, would empty his pockets.

“I thought you came into some money,” Christopher said.

“Gone.” He wasn’t going to let the cat out of the bag and let them ridicule his decision to give up a life of idleness. Not until he made a success of it. “If you want gambling and a prime article on each arm, I know a great little hell in the Seven Dials—no limit on play and no commitment.”

“Such gratitude,” Garth muttered. “I invite you to London’s most exclusive club and you prefer Haymarket ware. Do as you please. I have someone waiting upstairs, and I never disappoint a lady.”

“Who the hell are you tangled up with now?” Christopher said with a frown. “You’ll find yourself on Primrose Hill with a bullet lodged somewhere in your person.”

“Nor do I bandy about a lady’s name.” Garth stalked off down the hall, the slight stagger an indication of the quantity of brandy he’d consumed on the drive over.

Tony smothered a yawn. Garth’s legendary exploits among the ton’s females had palled long ago. “Let’s leave.”

Christopher expelled an impatient breath. “I’ll wait for him. He’ll no doubt be too foxed by the end of the night to get home in one piece. Join me in a game of whist?” He gestured to a nearby table with three men and a pile of tokens waiting for a winner. “At least it presents a challenge.”

“I pity the woman who holds the bank at your table,” Tony said.

Christopher laughed. “It’s a game of chance. I simply count better than most.”

The blonde holding the bank had a lovely face and hard calculating eyes. The kind of woman Tony had found appealing when he first made his bows. “You know, I think I’ll wander about for a bit.”

“See if anyone strikes your fancy?” Christopher said, his eyes twinkling.

“See if they have any food. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

Christopher raised a brow. “Bon appétit. He headed for his chosen victim and Tony spared a second’s worth of pity on those about to lose their money to his friend’s mathematical acumen.

He strolled down the hall and peered into a library lined with books and occupied by a couple sprawled on a couch. The next open door revealed a drawing room. No food there either. A young dandy, perhaps no more than twenty, knelt at the feet of a gorgeous creature in a red gown cut low across a magnificent bosom. The severe smoothed-back style of her dark-brown hair emphasized her prominent cheekbones and, along with her almond-shaped eyes, gave her face an exotic look. The boy seemed to be sobbing, while the striking brunette patted his shoulder.

Tony started to back away, but she raised her head and their gazes met. She rolled her eyes heavenward with rueful smile of full lips and a glimmer of laughter in her dark eyes. An instant of connection, yet he was sure he’d never met her before. One thing he knew for certain, her melting brown eyes contained a cry for help. He bowed.

“May I be of assistance?”

The boy raised his head. “She won’t have me.”

“I didn’t mean you, you puppy,” Tony said. “Madam, may I remove this watering pot?”

The young man sat up then, and fumbled in his pocket.

The woman handed him a scrap of lace. “Use this, Radcliffe. A man with puffy eyes and a red nose is rarely taken with any degree of seriousness.”

“A red nose?” The boy sprung from the couch and ran to the mirror between the two tall windows overlooking the square. “‘Pon rep. You are right.” He dabbed at the offending aristocratic proboscis.

The blatant sensuality of the woman’s smile, as she watched the lad, held Tony captive. No wonder she had the youth on his knees at her feet. And her breasts? Well, they were magnificent. Glorious mounds of pale, soft flesh. He didn’t need another glance for confirmation. Didn’t care to look, because her smile intimated she’d discovered life’s greatest jest and hinted that if the right person found the key, she might share the joke. He wanted that key.

“Vanity,” she said, with a mock shake of her head at the lad. “It does wonders for a broken heart. I recommend cold water at once.”

Radcliffe spun around. “Cold water, madam? Will it not make it worse?”

She laughed, a throaty chuckle with a pulse-quickening effect. Had he lost his mind?

“Not at all,” she said. “Take the word of someone who has cried many tears.” She turned her amazingly liquid eyes on Tony. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Tony smothered a smile as the young man paled. “Without a doubt. As one who has been the cause of many tears.”

The woman laughed outright. More heat to his blood. Good God, he’d never met a woman who so instantly aroused his interest. Aroused. An unfortunate word, with hardening results.

“Countess, you will forgive me if I go in search of cold water?” Radcliffe asked, returning to stand in front of her, much like a lad before a governess. “I will return. Then you will listen to me.”

“Try some ice,” Tony said. “I suggest you use it elsewhere on your anatomy. Cool your ardor. Can’t you see you are bothering the countess?”

“Am I, Countess?” Radcliffe asked with a boyish smile. Tony wanted to punch him in the mouth.

The woman smiled. “Darling boy, I am old enough to be your mother. Now run along and find a nice young girl of your own age.”

Radcliffe pouted. “You are not old enough to be my mother. She is ancient. And girls my age are dull.”

The boy needed a lesson in manners. Tony took a half step into the room. “The lady is being polite to protect your manly pride. I, on the other hand, have no such scruples. If you don’t leave now, you might find your nose a deeper shade of scarlet.”

The countess’s handkerchief held to his nose, Radcliff scuttled from the room.

The countess sighed. “I made a mistake in letting him speak to me alone. I had intended to let him down gently and instead, seemed to have raised his hopes. The dashing of them was hard, I think.”

“I apologize for my countryman, Countess.”

“Oh la, sir. No need for that. I’m as English as plum pudding, born and raised.”

Not plum pudding. Perhaps baked apple with cinnamon or a succulent lemon curd, or a rich honey cake. He pulled back from the images and smiled. “I did wonder, given your lack of accent. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Anthony Darby, at your service.” He bowed and as he rose, raised a brow in question. “Countess …?”

She inclined her head and held out her hand. “My deceased husband was a Russian count. I am recently returned to England. I was beginning to think I would require the help of a servant to release me from the poor boy’s clutches. Thank you for your timely intervention.”

A widow and thus available. Something feral and hungry sharpened its claws in Tony’s gut even as he noticed she had not supplied her name. Damnation, he was mad, because instead of bidding her farewell, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the filmy lace covering her fingers.

The view of creamy breasts rising from plush red velvet, and the shadows in their valley sucked the breath from his chest. Even so, he inhaled the subtle fragrance of lavender. “The pleasure is all mine.” He was surprised at the low growl in his voice

She tilted her head, a flicker of amber in warm brown eyes. Interest. Perhaps even challenge. Definitely not fear.

She withdrew her fingers slowly, lingeringly.

He regretted the loss. “I was looking for something to eat. May I escort you to the dining room?” He blasted well hoped food was laid out somewhere, because he needed something to counteract his light-headedness.

“Why not?” she said, rising.

Only then, did the full glory of her figure reveal itself. Full bosomed, tall for a woman—almost his height in fact—and with long, elegant limbs, she embodied each and every aspect of female charm he preferred.

Perhaps he wasn’t in such a hurry to depart, after all. Dash it. Hadn’t he said less than five minutes ago that he didn’t want any commitments? He held out his arm.

Margaret put her hand on the sleeve of the man holding out his arm with élan, felt muscle and sinew beneath the dark blue superfine coat as they walked. An athletic man, as lithe and sleek as a racehorse. Quite beautiful, in fact. Unlike the bear-like Russians to whom she’d become accustomed, this man oozed finesse. And he was tall. Lovely and tall.

She studied his profile. Handsome in that narrow-faced, rather vulnerable English way, he’d looked too young at first glance. On closer inspection, the cynical mouth and the world-weary silver-gray eyes marked him as older. Around her age, or a little older, some thirty summers, she guessed. He glanced at her, caught her staring. The flicker of heat in the depths of his steely gaze had the same effect as too many glasses of champagne on her blood. A dizzy sort of breathlessness.

“I don’t suppose you know where we might find supper?” he asked with a heart-stopping smile, his deep voice hinting at seduction. The dark, wicked places in her body responded with a delicious thrill. This man positively created havoc on her senses.

“Aah,” she said, indicating the direction. “This is your first visit to Lady Falstow’s infamous establishment.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “But not yours?”

“No indeed.” In a rash moment of utter abandon, she bit back the information that her only previous visit was for afternoon tea. After all, such an admission would weaken the armor of scarlet gown and carefully constructed air of confidence. After five minutes alone with young Radcliffe, she’d decided her wild flight of fancy to experience a little danger, to savor some of the joys she’d missed these past many years, wasn’t really her cup of tea. Now she was wondering if perhaps this man could change her mind. It was a long time since her heart had fluttered, and right now it beat within her chest like a caged wild bird. A heady and youthful sensation she’d almost forgotten.

“This must be it,” Darby said, ushering her into a room at the back of the house. A table set with epergnes and covered dishes lined the wall opposite the door. Artfully scattered small round tables allowed for groups of guests to talk, while equally tasteful screens permitted an element of privacy for those who wished it.

Margaret tensed at the sight of an inebriated noble plying his female companion with champagne. Couples and groups also occupied some of the other tables. An army of burly footmen hovered throughout the cream and gold painted room ready to intercede, as her ladyship had promised, should matters get out of hand. Margaret wasn’t ready for this. She wished they’d remained in the drawing room’s seclusion.

Their hostess, a gargantuan figure in a gown of gold tissue, and shimmering with diamonds, circulated among her guests, her plump face beaming, her be-ringed hands gesturing volubly. She surged towards them in a tidal wave of hastily moved chairs. “There you are,” she cried. “I heard you’d gone off with young Radcliffe. I was about to send Peter—” she gestured vaguely at one of her minions “—to see if you were all right.”

A rush of warmth filled Margaret. It had been a long time since anyone cared about her comfort. “Thank you. As you can see, I am quite rescued already.”

Lady Falstow turned her gaze on Margaret’s escort. “Darby, isn’t it?”

He bowed. “Good evening, my lady. I regret I did not see you when I first arrived.”

“Came with the Everndens, did you not? The youngest brother is going to ruin me.”

“I hope not, my lady.” Darby grimaced as his gaze swept the room. “You have a full house tonight?”

Apparently, he also did not relish the crowd.

“Looking for a quieter spot, are you?” Lady Falstow tapped Darby on the shoulder. “Tell the fellow at the buffet what you would like, and run along to the conservatory where it is quiet.”

A perceptive woman, Lady Falstow. Margaret lowered her lashes, fearing her eagerness to flee the room might show. As Darby headed for the food, she pulled her hostess aside. “What do you know of him?” she asked in low tones.

“A younger son, I think. His friend Stanford’s a bit of a rake. Not sure I know much about Darby.” She frowned.

“Married?” For some odd reason, Margaret held her breath.

The older woman shrugged. “I don’t believe so. I’d have warned you off right away, if that were the case.”

Margaret winced. She needed more than a guess and Darby was headed their way with a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm and two flutes held in one large hand.

Lady Falstow leaned closer. “Take my advice. If you want to enjoy him to the full, don’t play the innocent.” She held out a sliver of metal. “This opens the door to the room I showed you. It is up to you whether you use it.” The heavily ringed hand caught Margaret’s as she reached for the key. “Courage, lass. If you change your mind, ring the bell. You will find one in every room. A footman will arrive in an instant. I promise, you will be fine. Not one of my ladies has ever complained about their treatment in this house.”

Swallowing, Margaret tucked the silver key into her reticule before Darby reached her side.

“Now,” he said with a smile sweet enough to make the older lady flutter her eyelashes. “Where is this conservatory?”

Lady Falstow fanned her face as if suddenly hot, sapphires, diamonds and rubies winking and glittering. “At the back of the house. Run along. The food will follow in a moment or two.”

They wandered in the direction indicated, and Darby opened an etched-glass panelled door.

Margaret gasped. A glass cathedral met her gaze. The domed structure ran the length of the side of the house. Air, warm and moist and redolent with fragrance, filled her lungs. Orange trees, lemons and limes too, lined the walks among splashes of red, yellow and blue blossoms.

“Look at this,” Darby said, indicating a long stem crowned with waxy petals of the palest cream and leopard-like spots. “An orchid. Did you ever see anything so delicate?”

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

“Like you,” he murmured.

She glanced up to see hunger in his eyes, naked and raw. A surge of heat rushed up from her breasts to her face. Blushing like a schoolgirl, dash it. And the color no doubt clearly visible in the light of the torchères strategically placed along the walkway. “La, sir, a compliment indeed.”

He tilted his head as if puzzled by her coquettish tone. Did he see through her defenses to the rapid beat of her heart? He smiled and waved his bottle. “Let us find somewhere to sit. We can open this and talk.”

Further on, they did indeed find a loveseat fashioned from bamboo and wicker, and cushioned with chintz, and set in an arbor of vines.

“How lovely,” she said.

“A perfect setting,” he replied and led her to the seat. While she settled her skirts, he eased the cork free with a gentle pop. Vapor issued from the neck of the bottle. He filled the glasses, not spilling a drop.

“You do that with great expertise,” she said.

“Had lots of practice.” He glanced upwards. “I didn’t dare shoot the thing though that lot.” He grinned with nothing of the cynic about his mouth. Her heart tumbled slowly and pleasurably.

She raised her gaze to the gleaming arch of glass. “Oh, gracious. No indeed.”

Their voices mingled in laughter swiftly absorbed by the verdant greenery. A companionable sound. Her stomach clenched. A painful longing within the joy of discovery of a kindred spirit. What would it have been like to marry a man with the ability to laugh? She forced the thought aside. Regret had no place in this evening. Lady Falstow had advised her to live for the moment. After all, she’d paid her full dues as a dutiful wife.

Darby handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed. Little shimmers of something hot ran up her arm. A shiver of anticipation ran across her skin.

The quick uplift of the corners of his lips said he, too, felt the spark. “To your beautiful eyes.”

“To your lovely mouth,” she replied and drank deeply, the champagne cool and tart on her tongue, the bubbles misting her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

“My lovely mouth?” He raised a brow and leaned back against the cushion, his eyelids lowering a fraction as if to hide the heat in his gaze. Not possible. She was veritably scorched.

“I like the way it smiles.” Oh, lord, one mouthful of wine and she sounded foxed, when in reality it was he who made her feel giddy. Or perhaps it was the perfume of so many flowers? “You must think me a fool, Mr. Darby.”

“Please, call me Tony. And no, I find you … delightful. Uniquely charming.”

Her heart beat a little faster. Her skin tingled. This was how it began, the dance of intimacy. Words and looks and sighs. Only she wasn’t sure she remembered the steps. Still, she would not sit like the proverbial wallflower and let the music pass over her head.

“Tony.” She shook her head. “I think I prefer Anthony. And I am Margaret.”

He took her free hand in his large warm one. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Margaret. It suits you.”

“Plain and proper is what my father said.” She smiled, remembering her beloved father’s face.

“I see nothing plain and proper about you, Margaret.” His gaze drifted lower, and once more, betraying heat rose up her neck and blazed in her cheeks. “You cast a hothouse of exotic flowers into the shade.” He leaned closer and breathed in slowly. “You smell wonderful.”

Carried by his soft outward sigh, the words brushed her collarbone. Her heart picked up speed, a breath caught in her throat, her lips parted. Things were moving far too fast with this man. She knew nothing about him. Yes, she would indeed live for the moment, but only if the moment was right. She sipped at her champagne, using the glass as a shield. A poor one, to be sure, but a symbolic gesture any gentleman would recognize.

He leaned back with a smile, his hand along the back of the sofa, a hairbreadth from her shoulder. “So, you are recently returned from Russia. How did you find it?”

“Cold.” She laughed, because she really did not mean the weather. “My husband spent most of his time at court, but in the summer we traveled to his estate. The country is vast and very different from here.”

“In a good way, I presume?”

How did one express five years of homesickness without whining? “I learned a great deal about the land and its people, but I am glad to return to England.”

Another question lurked in his eyes. She could see him trying to decide whether he should ask it or not. She asked, “What do you want to know?”

He smiled. “Am I really that obvious? I was wondering if you left ties back in Russia. If you will return there?”

“A politic way of wondering if I have children, perhaps? And no. I have no ties and no intention of returning. My husband had more than one heir from a previous marriage. His position at court required a hostess. I learned Russian. I can organize a banquet for a thousand people or a tête à tête for two.” Why was she telling him all this? He would think she was looking for another wifely position, when nothing could be further from the truth. “My husband left me a comfortable independence, and I now seek my own amusement.”

“Was it really that bad?” he murmured.

The gentleness in his voice cut through her carefully constructed defenses, not something she wanted on a night such as this. “You mistake me. It was not bad at all. The Russian court glitters beyond anything imaginable. The czar is all powerful.”

“And many of the people are serfs.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t see how it can last. Look at France.”

The man was talking to her as if she had a brain. She shook her head. “You are right. I do not see it lasting either. And nor did my husband. He advised following England’s lead. Alas, I do not see anyone taking up his standard. Certainly not his heir.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For your recent bereavement. It was tactless of me to remind you.”

“Ah, once again you mistake the matter. Konrad died more than a year ago. I mourned his passing, but he was not a young man, he lived a full life, and I fulfilled my duty.”

He withdrew his hand from the sofa’s back and for a moment she thought she might have given him a disgust of her callousness, but he lifted her hand from her lap. He gently turned it over and bared her wrist of glove with his forefinger, then leaned down to brush the pulse point with his lips. Tingles ran across her shoulders and lifted the hairs at the base of neck. “Now it is your turn for life,” he said softly.

Footsteps rang on the flagstones. She snatched her hand back. They jumped apart like guilty children. She laughed.

He grinned ruefully. “Dash it. The food.”

She arched a brow. “You said you were hungry, Anthony.”

“I’m starving,” he said. The low growl in his voice did not speak of bread and meat. Her inner muscles tightened pleasurably. She shivered.

The footman coughed loudly, then appeared round the corner carrying on high a silver tray loaded with several small plates. He dragged a small table from concealment behind the trellis and set the tray in front of them. He unfolded the napkins, placed one on each of their laps. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Anthony eyed the tray. “Thank you, no.” The footman withdrew.

He had selected nothing but the best. Oysters nestled in ice, caviar in a silver bowl, mouthwatering frosted grapes, light temptations designed to sharpen the senses. A hedonistic feast.

Anthony picked up an oyster and held it to Margaret’s lips. Tipping her head back, she swallowed the delicate flesh, salty and sweet and tangy with lemon. She licked her lips.

He leant forward and tasted the corner of her mouth with a delicate lap of his tongue. “Delicious.”

A flutter pulsed between her thighs. Wicked man. “Me or the fish?”

“Both, of course.”

She smiled and heaped a tiny water biscuit with a mound of blue-black beads. The finest caviar, all the way from the Black Sea. She knew, because she had ordered it, sent packed in ice. When she raised her gaze from her hands, she found his gaze fixed on her face, intent, hungry and hot.

“Open,” she murmured, the thrumming in her veins growing stronger, more demanding.

He did, and his grin was that of a wolf about to be fed a small tender morsel. She popped the tiny cracker in his mouth and watched him chew, experiencing the delightful burst of salty flavor in her mind as his eyes closed in pleasure.

He picked up his wine glass and held it to her lips, watching as she sipped and swallowed, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

How did he breathe so evenly, the wretch, when her heart raced out of control? She reached for her glass, determined not to be beaten. The glass shook only a little as she brought it to his mouth. His eyelashes flicked up as the rim touched his bottom lip, his gray eyes, glinting with more than laughter, met her gaze. Her hand trembled. He grasped her wrist, held her hand steady and drank deep. She felt so weak, he might have been draining her blood.

He took the glass from her slackened grip and placed it on the table. Fine trembles ran through her body, running deep beneath the surface, an ache in her center, a yearning in her heart. The heart she could do nothing about. The rest? Well, time would tell. She managed a smile.

He returned his attention to the platters, his hand hovering above the dainty offerings, looking for the choicest piece. For her. She felt like some medieval lady, with her knight searching his trencher for the most tender cut of meat. He settled on a crescent of pastry. It hovered at her lips, and unable to resist the gentle urgaing in his expression, she opened her mouth.

Dear God. It tasted wonderful. What was in it, she could not tell. Something savory rather than sweet: spiced meat perhaps. The pleasure was all about him, his look of satisfaction, the slight curl to his lips, the scorch of his eyes. He selected again and again, little bursts of heaven filling her mouth, until she put up a hand in defeat.

He dabbed at her mouth with his napkin. “Crumbs,” he said. He refilled their glasses. They chinked them together and drank an unspoken toast that was all about what would happen next. Her pulse beat faster.

“Eat something,” she said, her voice husky.

He leaned forward, tilted her chin with the tip of his finger, and pressed his lips to hers, a gentle brush, a butterfly wing of a kiss, a sweet touch of his tongue. Sweet sensations tingled in her breasts, tightened her stomach.

She put a hand on his collar for support and deepened the kiss, swept his champagne-flavored mouth with her tongue. Delicious.

His hand, warm, steadying, strong, came up to her ribs. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, a tantalizing touch, a sensual promise. A cry of surrender lodged in her throat.

Too fast. Too soon. She felt thrilled, and wicked and completely out of her depth. Today had simply been a testing of the waters. To meet a man she liked so quickly seemed beyond the realm of possibility. Dare she trust the desires of her body, when it knew so little?

He must have felt her slight resistance, for he pulled slowly away, his lids at half-mast, his breathing faster than before, she noticed with a surge of heat.

“There are chambers upstairs where we could ensure our privacy,” he murmured. “Should you wish?”

He stood and brought her to her feet.