JULIA JUSTISS

SEDUCTIVE STRANGER

(1 of 2 stories in “Forbidden Stranger”)

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PROLOGUE

Sudley Court

Spring, 1808

Apollo was riding down her drive.

Or so it seemed to Caragh Sudley, hand over her eyes and breath seizing in her chest as she squinted into the morning sun at the solitary horseman trotting down the graveled car¬riageway toward Sudley Court.

She was returning to the manor after her early-morning ride when the sound of hoofbeats carrying on the still morning air drew her toward the front entrance. At first merely curious about the identity of the unexpected visitor, as the man grew closer she was stunned motionless by the sheer beauty of horse and rider.

The pale sunshine threw a golden nimbus about the gentleman's hatless head, making his blond hair gleam as if the sun king himself were arriving in regal pomp, his chariot exchanged for the gilded beauty of a palomino. The brightness behind them cast the rider's face in shadow and silhouetted in sharp relief the broad line of shoulders and arms that were now pulling the stallion to a halt.

She shook her head, but that dazzling first impression re¬fused to subside into normalcy. The tall, powerfully built beast tossing his head in spirited response to his rider's command, creamy coat rippling, was magnificent, the man now swinging down from the saddle no less so.

A dark-green riding jacket stretched across his shoulders and fawn breeches molded over saddle-muscled thighs, while up closer she could see his blond locks had tints of strawberry mingled with the gold. His eyes, no longer in shadow once he'd dismounted in her direction, were a shade of turquoise blue so arresting and unusual she once again caught her breath.

The chiseled features of his face—purposeful chin, high cheekbones, firm lips, sculpted nose whose slight crookedness added an intriguing hint of character to a countenance that might otherwise have seemed merely chill perfection—only confirmed her initial perception.

'Twas Apollo, Roman robes cast aside to don the guise of an English country gentleman.

Should she behold him, her sister Ailis would surely be calling for her palette and paints.

Caragh smiled slightly at the thought of her imperious sister ordering the man this way and that until she'd posed him to her satisfaction. And then realized this paragon of Olympian perfection was approaching her—plain Caragh Sudley who stood, jaw still dropped in awe, her face framed by limp wisps of hair blown out of the chignon into which she'd carelessly twisted it, the skirts of her old, shabby riding habit liberally mud-spattered.

She snapped her mouth shut, feeling the hot color rising in her cheeks, but as the visitor had already seen her, she would" only make herself look more ridiculous by fleeing. How un¬fortunate, the whimsical thought occurred as she tried to sur¬reptitiously brush off the largest clumps of mud and summon a welcoming smile, that unlike Daphne, she could not con¬veniently turn herself into a tree.

"Good morning, miss," the visitor said, bowing.

"Good morning to you, too, sir," she replied, amazed to find her voice still functioned.

"Would you have the goodness to confirm that I have reached Sudley Court? I need to call upon the baron."

"That would be my father, sir. You will find him in the library. Pringle, our butler, will show you in."

He smiled, displaying just a hint of dimples. "Thank you for your kindness, Miss Sudley. I hope to have—"

Before he could complete his sentence, her sister emerged from the shrubbery of the garden behind them, a lad laden with an easel and paintbox trailing in her wake. "Caragh! Did that package from London arrive for me yet?"

Caragh waited a moment, but her sister paid no attention to the newcomer. "Well, has it?"

Caragh's delight faded in a spurt of resentment she strug¬gled, and failed, to suppress. With the arrival of Ailis, her all-too-short exchange with the Olympian would surely come to a premature halt.

Wishing her sister could have intruded a moment earlier or five minutes later, she replied, "If it has, Thomas will bring it when he returns from the village." She steeled herself to glance at the stranger.

Who was not, as she expected, staring in open-mouthed amazement at her stunningly beautiful sister, but rather ob¬serving them both, his expression polite. For a moment Car¬agh wondered about the acuity of his eyesight.

"Blast!" her sister replied, still ignoring the newcomer. "I only hope I have enough of the cerulean blue to last out the morning."

Blushing a little for her sister's lack of manners, Caragh motioned her head toward the visitor. "Ailis!" she said in an urgent undertone.

Her sister cast her an impatient glance. "You show him in, Caragh, whoever he is. I cannot miss the light. Come along, Jack." She motioned to the young lad carrying her supplies and walked off without even a goodbye.

Caragh's blush deepened. "M-my younger sister, sir. As you may have guessed, she's an artist—quite a good one! But very—preoccupied with her work. She's presently engaged upon an outdoor study requiring morning light."

"Who are we mere mortals to interrupt the inspiration of the muse?" he asked, his comment reassuring her that he'd not been offended by her sister's scapegrace behavior. "But I mustn't intrude upon your time any longer. Thank you very much, Miss Sudley. I trust we shall meet again."

Before she could guess his intent, the visitor took her hand and brought it to his lips. After that salute he bowed, then led the stallion off toward the entry.

For a moment Caragh stood motionless, gazing with won¬der at the hand he'd kissed. Her fingers still tingled from the slight, glancing pressure of his mouth.

When she jerked her gaze back up, she noted the visitor had nearly reached the entry steps, down which one of the footmen was hastening to relieve him of his horse. Quickly she pivoted and paced off toward the kitchen wing. She'd not want the stranger to glance back and find her still staring at him.

Once out of sight, her footsteps slowed. The handsome vis¬itor had bowed, kissed her hand and treated her as if she were a grand lady instead of a gawky girl still a year from her come-out.

Best of all, he had not been struck dumb when Ailis ap¬peared. He had actually managed to continue conversing in¬telligently after her sister left them. Nor had his gaze followed Ailis as she walked away, but reverted back to Caragh's much plainer face.

The few remaining pieces of her susceptible heart that had not already surrendered to warmth of the stranger's smile and the bedazzlement of his blue-eyed gaze, succumbed.

But of course, in the London from which he must have come, he probably met beautiful ladies every day, all of them elegantly dressed in the latest fashion, and so had schooled himself to maintain a polite conversation, no matter how distracting the circumstances.

Briskly she dismissed that lowering reflection. The thoroughness of his training did not diminish the excellence of his behavior. Indeed, he was a Vrai and Gentil Chevalier, beau et courtois, straight from the pages of an Arthurian leg¬end, she concluded, freely mixing her literary metaphors.

But who was he? Suddenly compelled to find out, she headed into the house.

Creeping past the library, where a murmur of voices in¬formed her the visitor must still be closeted with Papa, she slipped into the deserted front parlor, hoping to catch one more glimpse of the stranger before he departed.

Perhaps when I make my come-out in London next year, I shall meet you again. Only then, I shall be gowned in the most elegant design out of the pages of La Belle Assemblée, my hair a coronet of curls, my conversation dazzling, and you will be as swept away by me as I was by you today...

She was chuckling a bit at that absurd if harmless fantasy when the closing of the library door alerted her. She flattened herself against the wall until footsteps passed her hiding place, then peeped into the hall.

Once again, sunlight cast a halo around the stranger's golden head as he stood pulling on the riding gloves the butler had just returned to him. Caragh sighed, her eyes slowly trac¬ing the handsome contours of the visitor's face as she com¬mitted every splendid feature to memory.

After retrieving his riding crop, he nodded to acknowledge the butler's bow and walked out.

Resisting a strong desire to scurry after him and take one last peek through the fanlight windows flanking the entry, Caragh made herself wait until the tramp of his boots descend¬ing the flagstone steps faded. Then she ran to the library, knocked once, and hurried in.

"Papa," she called to the thin, balding man who sat behind the massive desk, scribbling in one of the large volumes strewn haphazardly about his desk.

Making a small moue of annoyance at the interruption, her father looked up. "Caragh? What is it, child? I must get back to this translation before the cadence escapes me."

"Yes, Papa. Please, sir, who was your visitor?"

"Visitor?" her father echoed, seeming to have difficulty remembering the individual who had quit the room barely five minutes previous. "Ah, that tall young man. Just bought Thornwhistle, he told me. Wanted to pay his respects and inquire about some matter of pasturage. I suppose you shall have to consult with Withers about it before he returns. I simply can't spare the time now to bother with agricultural matters, not with this translation going so slowly."

Apollo would be calling again. Delight and anticipation buoyed Caragh's spirits.

“Very well, Papa. If I will be meeting with him, however, perhaps you had better tell me his name."

“His name? Dash it, of what importance is that? I expect he'll announce it again when he returns. Now, be a good girl and take this breakfast tray back to the kitchen. It's blocking my dictionary."

Inured to her father's total disinterest in anything not connected to his translation projects, Caragh suppressed a sigh. "Of course, Papa." Disappointed, she gathered up the tray and prepared to leave.

"Goodbye," she called from the threshold. Already im¬mersed in his work, her father did not even glance up.

Then a better idea occurred, and her mood brightened. Depositing the tray on a hall table to be dealt with later, she hurried in search of the butler, finally running him to ground in the dining room where he was directing a footman in pol¬ishing the silver epergne.

"Pringle! Do you recall the name of the gentleman who just called? He is to be our new neighbor, I understand."

"Lord Branson, he said, Miss Caragh," the butler replied.

"And his family name?"

"Don't believe he mentioned it. But he left a card."

"Thank you, Pringle!" Caragh hurried back into the hall¬way. There, sitting in pristine whiteness against the polished silver tray, was a bit of pasteboard bearing the engraving "Quentin Burke, Lord Branson."

Smiling, Caragh slipped the card into her pocket. Her own Olympic hero come to earth now had a name. Quentin.

CHAPTER 1

Sudley Court

Early Spring, 1814

Given what a Herculean endeavor getting them to London was turning out to be, 'twas small wonder it had taken her more than five years to manage, Caragh thought, gazing into her sister's stormy face. Indeed, loving animals as Caragh did, she would probably have preferred mucking out the Augean stables.

"Ailis," she said, trying to keep the aggravation out of her voice, "you know you promised me last week that we would surely be able to leave this Friday. The boxes have been packed for days, Aunt Kitty is expecting us, and quite prob¬ably has set up appointments for us in London which it would be very rude to break with so little notice."

"Oh, bother appointments," Ailis responded, with a dis¬dainful wave of one paint-spattered hand. "What difference, does it make when we leave? The shops will still be there, as will the endless round of dull parties hosted by acid-tongued old beldames interested solely in dissecting the gowns, jewels, lineage and marriage prospects of their guests. Besides, you know I agreed to leave only after I complete the painting."

Stifling her first angry response, Caragh took a deep breath. After reminding herself that at least one of them must remain reasonable, she said in a calm voice, "We had a bargain, Ailis! I will allow you to visit the galleries, continue your own work, and even take lessons—but you must do your part, and conduct yourself with the modesty and propriety expected of a young lady embarking on her first Season. Behavior which would not include embarrassing our aunt by compelling her to cancel obligations at the last minute—or issuing blanket condemnations of individuals you've not yet even met."

"Who will, I daresay, turn out to be exactly as I've de¬scribed them," Ailis retorted. "Were I not so anxious to have the benefit of Maximilian Frank's tutelage, I would never have agreed to go at all. 'Twill be a waste of time and blunt, as I've warned you times out of mind. I've no desire whatsoever to marry."

The anxiety always dormant at the back of Caragh's mind returned in a rush. "Ailis, Papa won't live forever. How do you intend to exist if you don't marry?"

"Since you seem so enamored of the estate, why don't you marry? I could come live with you, and everything could con¬tinue as it's always been."

Which might have been a perfectly acceptable alternative, except that the only man Caragh could envision marrying still saw her only as his good neighbor and friend. "Believe me, you would find it much more comfortable to be mistress of your own establishment." Where you can order people about with full authority, Caragh added silently.

Even so, she had to compress her lips to keep a smile from escaping at the thought of the havoc her temperamental sister would wreak in the household of some hapless brother-in-law, should she ever become a permanent guest in his home. No, 'twas still best to try to find Ailis a complacent husband of her own.

"You know when Cousin Archibald inherits, he'll move his family here," she reminded Ailis. "Though he would, of course, offer to let us stay, I am sure he would prefer not to have two female dependents hanging about. There's little chance of going elsewhere, since Aunt Kitty hasn't the room to house us permanently, and with our inheritance tied up in dowry, we'd not have the funds to set up a household of our own. Surely you don't see yourself hiring out as a governess or companion! Tis unfortunate, but if you wish to continue living in the style you do—and keep on with your work—you shall have to marry. At least London will offer a broader choice of potential husbands."

Although Caragh had delivered more or less the same speech on several occasions over the last few weeks, for once her volatile sister's eyes hadn't glazed over. Indeed, Caragh noted with a spark of hope, Ailis actually seemed to be paying attention this time.

"I suppose you are correct," Ailis replied, her expression thoughtful. "I shall hardly be able to work in peace here at Sudley with Cousin Archibald's five little demons roaming about."

Caragh exhaled an exasperated sigh. "That is just the sort of comment you must cease voicing aloud, if you do not wish to spoil all your prospects! Beauty is well enough, but a gen¬tleman of breeding will want his bride to display courtesy toward others and moderation in her speech. And besides, Cousin Archibald's children are quite charming."

Ailis shrugged. "If you like loud, sticky-fingered, imperti¬nent nuisances. The last time they visited, the eldest drove me to distraction, following me like a ghost everywhere I went, while the younger ones burst in whenever they chose, and the squinty-eyed smallest swiped my best detail brush to sweep her doll's house. She's lucky I didn't break her arm when I found she'd stolen it."     

Before Caragh could remonstrate once more, Ailis disarmed her by breaking into a grin. "Come now, Caragh, you know you were as happy as I was when the grubby brats finally departed! And I concede that you have a point. I shall have to give some thought to my future. After," she said, rising from her chair, "I finish this painting. I must get back to it before the light shifts. I just wanted to let you know I would not be ready by Friday."

"And if you might grant me the boon of revealing such confidential information, when do you expect to finish it?''

Oblivious to Caragh's sarcasm, Ailis paused in her march to the door. “Perhaps by the middle of next week. I shall let you know."

Closing her eyes, Caragh uttered a silent prayer for pa¬tience. She would have to dispatch an immediate note to Aunt Kitty delaying yet again their arrival in London. She only hoped their aunt hadn't already arranged the tea with the pa¬tronesses of Almacks she'd mention in her last letter. Cava¬lierly missing such a meeting would doubtless strike a serious blow to her sister's chances of a successful Season.

As she had so often as her sister grew to adulthood, Caragh wished she might consult their long-dead mother. Reputed to have been a headstrong beauty, she might have known better how to successfully handle the equally beautiful and tempes¬tuous offspring who so closely resembled her. At least, Caragh thought the two strikingly similar, based on the miniature she'd tucked away in her desk, the sole image she retained of the mother who had died when Caragh was seven. Her grief-stricken father, unable to bear gazing on the portrait of a lady he'd lost so tragically young, had had the full-length portrait of his wife that once hung in his library removed to the attics.

"Never mind, Pringle, I'll show myself in."

As the voice emanating from the hallway beyond the salon penetrated her thoughts, Caragh's eyes popped open and her heart leapt in her chest.

Over the last six years, her own London Season had been put off for one reason after another—Papa's episode of ill-health, a disastrous fire in the stable wing, the necessity to take over managing all the estate business when their manager Withers died unexpectedly, and most recently, Ailis's reluc¬tance to leave Sudley Court. The shy, awkward girl who'd nervously discussed pasturage agreements had become an assured young woman whose competent hand kept the household and estates of Sudley Court running smoothly.

In that time she'd learned, with no great surprise, that Quentin Burke was not an Olympian, but a flawed and mortal man like any other. She'd even, over the course of managing their horse-breeding operation, encountered among the aris¬tocratic clients who came to Sudley Court, men as handsome as Lord Branson.

But one thing remained constant. The gentleman who had captured her sixteen-year-old heart one fair spring day still held it in as firm a grip as when she'd first lost it to the stranger riding down her drive. And he was just as unaware of possessing it as he'd been that long-ago morning.

She felt her lips lifting of their own volition into a smile. A swell of gladness filled her chest as the man whose face was dearer to her than sunshine, whose friendship had come to be as essential to her existence as air and water, strolled into the room.

"Oh, famous, Quent!" her sister said, meeting him at the door and offering her fingers for the obligatory salute. "You can natter on to Caragh about London while I get some work done."

"Lovely to see you, too, Ailis," he replied as she drew her hands back and skipped out. He turned to Caragh, a twinkle  in those arresting turquoise eyes that, despite the passage of years, could still make her dizzy.

"A lovely surprise to see you, Quentin," she said. "I had no notion you'd be stopping at Thornwhistle this soon after your last trip. When did you arrive?"

She caught her breath as he kissed her fingers, even that slight touch setting her whole body humming. She struggled to resist the impulse to close her eyes and savor the sensation.

"My estate business finished up early," he replied, drop¬ping into the wing chair beside her. "So I thought I'd spend a few days at my favorite property—and stop by to see if my favorite neighbor would actually manage to coerce her beauteous baggage of a sister into London this Season. No, I shan't stay for tea—" he waved her off as she headed to the bell pull "—but I should not refuse a bit of conversation."

Sighing, Caragh reseated herself. “I believe we shall eventually make it there. Though I had to resort to bribery, and only succeeded because Maximilian Frank fortuitously re¬turned from Italy to set up a studio in London. Ailis is mad about his paintings, which are...not in the usual style." She paused to take a deep breath before continuing, "I-I've agreed to let her have private lessons with him. And I trust you'll not bandy that fact about!"

"Lessons!" he echoed, clearly astounded, "A gently-born maiden taking drawing lessons from the illegitimate son of an East India merchant? Da— Merciful heavens, Caragh!" He shook his head. "With the chit cozening you into permitting behavior as questionable as that, do you really think you'll manage to marry her off?"

Although Quentin's query only echoed what she often asked herself, nonetheless Caragh felt herself bristle. "You can't deny her stunning beauty, and her dowry is quite hand¬some as well. In addition to that—"

"She's reached the age of twenty still lacking even the most rudimentary of domestic skills and her manners are... uncertain at best. Now, now," he said, waving off her sput¬tering attempts to remonstrate. "You know I'm fond of her, and freely admit she is amazingly talented. But even her dot¬ing sister must acknowledge she's certainly not the sort of meek, biddable, conventional miss most society gentleman seek in a wife."

Caragh sighed again. "No," she admitted. "I just hope to find for her a gentleman whom she can like and who will treasure her for what she is—not what she isn't."

"If you can bring her to notice one. Is she still spurning all her would-be suitors as imperiously as ever?"

Caragh had to grin. "Oh, yes. The squire's son brings her flowers once a week, which she can't be bothered to accept, and crossed and recrossed sheets of Darlington's turgid poetry arrive in nearly every post, which she tosses in the fire unread. Even the Duke of Arundel's youngest son, having apparently heard tales of her storied beauty from his Oxford classmates, found a pretext to stop by and see Papa on some spurious mission from his classics professor. Ailis either ignores them completely or treats them with a contemptuous disdain that seems to inflame them to further protestations of ardor. Per¬haps they think of her as a challenge, as the suitors of Ithaca did Penelope."

"Only she paints instead of weaves?" Quentin asked with a grin. "Speaking of classical scholars, how does your father? Should I call on him now, or is he currently so lost in versi¬fying he will resent any intrusion?"

“I believe he is revising today, so you may enter the library with impunity. It must be going well, for he actually joined us for breakfast and conversed with Ailis for almost half an hour."

Apparently Caragh was less successful than she'd thought at keeping the bitterness out of her tone, for the look Quentin fixed on her was sympathetic. "Caragh, you know that in the depths of his heart, your papa values all you do to keep Sudley functioning. Even if he seldom expresses his appreciation."

"A gratifying if entirely fictional notion, though I thank you for it," she replied drily, having long since given up hoping her father would notice her or anything she did. Nor did she feel guilty any longer for the stab of resentment that pierced her at witnessing his sporadic demonstrations of af¬fection for the one living mortal he occasionally did pay at¬tention to—her beautiful sister, who could scarcely be both¬ered to converse with him and had never lifted a finger to assist him.

Caragh shook herself free of those ignoble thoughts. "I trust you found everything at Thornwhistle in order?"

"In excellent order, as you well know. Let me once again commend your stewardship! Manning told me you'd taken care of having the north meadows reseeded after the heavy rain earlier this month. With you already so encumbered with the burden of managing Sudley and arranging a removal to London, I certainly appreciate your taking time to oversee my paltry affairs!"

A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks at his approval. '"Twas nothing. I promised I would keep an eye on things, so I did. Friends assist friends, after all."

"So they do indeed," he confirmed, reaching over to press her hands...and setting her tingling once again. "What should I do without my good neighbor? In fact, I think 'tis about time I did something for you."

An electrifying vision flashed into her mind—Quentin haul¬ing her into his arms and kissing her senseless. Her cheeks firing warmer still, she beat back the image, mumbling some¬thing disjointed about there being no obligation.

"I don't feel 'obligated,' I want to help. That is, I expect your father is not accompanying you to London?"

She barely refrained from a snort. "No."

"Given the shambles the estate was in when I inherited, I've not previously felt I could afford to be away for any length of time. But now that everything is finally in good order, I believe I can safely allow myself a respite."

"An excellent notion," Caragh said. "These last few years, we've scarce been able to persuade you to pause long enough to celebrate the Yule season with us."

"Quite wonderful celebrations, and I cannot thank you enough for including me. I even concede," he added with a hint of a smile, "that from time to time I've longed for a break. But the hard work has been worth it, Caragh. It's taken eight long years, but I'm proud to say I've just returned from our bankers in London, having redeemed the last of Papa's debts. Branson Park is unencumbered at last!"

"Quentin, that's wonderful!" Caragh exclaimed. "How proud you must be!"

“I knew you, more than any other, would understand what that means to me. And so, though I had no real need to visit Thornwhistle, I simply had to come and share the news with you."

Those breath-arresting blue eyes paralyzed her again while his handsome face creased in an intimate smile that made her long to throw herself into his arms. She dug her fingers into the armrest of her chair, fighting to squelch the desire and remain sensible. A friend, she reminded herself urgently. He sees me as just his good friend.

"I'm so pleased that you did," she managed to reply at last. "But I can't imagine you lapsing into idle dissipation. What task shall you take on next?"

"I've just completed the other major task dear to my heart—the refurbishing of Branson Hall. A project for which you have been a major inspiration, by the way."

"Indeed? How so?"

"I don't suppose I ever told you what a profound impres¬sion Sudley Court made on me during my first visit—the beauty of its design enhanced by loving and meticulous care. I vowed that very morning that one day, I would restore Bran¬son Park to a similar level of perfection."

He shook his head and laughed. "If you could have seen my home as it was then, you would know how truly audacious a dream that was! Oaken floors dirt-dulled, carpets threadbare, window hangings in tatters, half the rooms missing furniture or swaddled in Holland covers!"

Caragh shook her head dismissively. "Whatever its state when you began, having seen the improvements you've in¬stalled at Thornwhistle, I have no doubt the house is now magnificent!"

"It is," he acknowledged in a matter-of-fact tone that held not a trace of boastfulness. "I should love to show it off to you—but first, you've a Season to manage. And since I've decided I deserve a reward for finally completing two such major projects—and have just purchased a property outside London which will doubtless require a period of close super¬vision—I've decided to go to Town for the Season myself. Now, what do you say to that?"

He would be in London, where she might see him and ride with him and chat with him, not just for the few weeks of his periodic visits to Thornwhistle, but for an entire Season? "That would be wonderful!" she exclaimed.

He smiled, apparently pleased by her enthusiastic response. "So I thought as well. I can be on hand to squire you about when you have need of an escort, and perhaps help you corral Ailis, should she fall into one of her...distempered starts. Be¬sides, with Branson now restored to its former glory, 1 sup¬pose it's time for me to complete my duty to the family and look about for a wife."

Alarm—and anticipation shocked through her. Before she could dredge up a reply, he patted her hand. "You, my good friend, could advise me on the business. Since females know things about other females no mere male could ever fathom, you could be of excellent help in guiding me to make the right choice."

She could guide him. In choosing a wife. As his good friend. Her half-formed fantasy dissolving, Caragh sucked in a breath and somehow managed to force a congenial smile to her lips. "O-of course. I should be happy to."

His smile deepening, he squeezed her hands. "I knew I could count on you! Now, if you think it safe, I'll go pay my respects to your papa. When do you expect to depart for the metropolis? Must you supervise the rest of the planting?"

Thrusting her agitated feelings aside to be dealt with later, she forced herself to concentrate on the immediate question.  "No, Harris can handle that and the repairs on the tenants' cottages. Tis Ailis I'm waiting on. She refuses to depart until this current painting is complete, which should, God willing, allow us to depart by the end of next week." Caragh couldn't help another exasperated sigh. “If she doesn't redo the blasted thing yet again."

"Excellent," Quentin replied. "Since, given your skillful care, I'm sure I will find nothing of importance requiring my attention at Thornwhistle, I should be ready by then as well. Perhaps we can travel to the metropolis together. Only think how diverting it shall be! Two workhorses like you and me, pulled from our traces and forced to concentrate on nothing more compelling than what garments we shall wear or which entertainment we shall attend! I declare, after a period of such frivolity, we shall scarcely recognize ourselves!"

After bringing her hands up for a salute, he released them. "Shall we ride tomorrow morning? Good, I shall see you then." Sketching her a bow, he walked out.

Caragh watched him go, her lacerated heart still twisting in her breast.

If having his company here were not already delightful torment enough, she was now to suffer through a Season watch¬ing him search for a wife? No, even worse—advising him on that choice!

A mélange of misery, outrage and hurt swirled within her at the thought. Sternly she repressed it.

Enough bemoaning, she reproved herself. She would do what she must, as always.

But even as she girded herself to endure the unendurable, from deep within her came unbidden the girlish fantasy she'd thought to have long ago outgrown. The image of a beauti¬fully gowned, impeccably coifed Caragh Sudley whose ele¬gant appearance and sparkling wit shocked Quentin Burke into finally realizing that his neighbor was no longer just an engaging and capable girl, but an alluring woman.

A woman he wanted.

'Twas not so impossible a fantasy, she thought, a renewed sense of purpose filling her. Mayhap London will hold more surprises than you imagine, Quentin Burke.

CHAPTER 2

Half an hour later, after listening politely to a monologue about the latest progress of his host's magnum opus, Quentin escaped into the hall. Ascertaining from Pringle that Caragh was closeted with the housekeeper, he resigned himself to waiting until tomorrow's ride to speak further with her and headed down the entry steps tp collect his bay gelding from the waiting groom.

Fresh and eager for a gallop, the horse danced and fought him for the bridle, so he'd proceeded some distance down the carriageway before Quentin got the beast settled down. He turned in the saddle then to look back one last time at the graceful Palladian facade of Sudley Court.

In the bright noon sun, the weathered stone walls glowed a soft gold beside the dazzling white of the columned portico, whose pristine classical lines always stirred his soul. The scythed lawn, the clipped shrubs and neatly tended flower beds complemented the well-maintained appearance of the structure itself, conveying an impression of timeless order and serenity. As did the rest of the estate, from the stables that housed the famous Sudley horses to the sturdy stone outbuild¬ings to the recently rethatched tenants' cottages.

His own Branson Park was now its equal, he thought with a surge of deep satisfaction. His only regret was that his dear mama had not lived to see it. Still in all, he had much to celebrate, and as he'd told Caragh, good reason to indulge himself with a few months' dissipation.

Especially since doing so would enable him to repay in part the loyal friendship Caragh Sudley had extended him since he bought Thornwhistle, the first of his investment properties, nearly six years ago. Though a Season in London might allow her a welcome break from her myriad duties at Sudley, Quentin thought it unlikely that anyone who'd charged herself with trying to steer the Beautiful Baggage through the social shoals of a Season was likely to have much time to relax. He could help her shoulder that burden, and see she took some time for herself.

What an intriguing assembly of unusual talents his good friend possessed! One of the most skilled estate managers he'd encountered, she could converse knowledgeably about agri¬cultural matters in one breath and in the next, offer an allusion from the classics so beloved by her papa. An absolute genius at handling any beast with four hooves, she was a better rider and as fine a shot as he and could speak about the bloodlines of a horse or a hound with authority. From the first, he'd found her altogether as easygoing and companionable as any of his male friends.

Indeed, around her he could relax and almost forget she was a female. She never bored him prattling on of gowns and gossip and would rather challenge him to a game of whist or billiards than sit over her embroidery or tinkle the keys of a pianoforte. Best of all, she alone of the unmarried females of his acquaintance employed not a particle of the annoying flirtatiousness to which most gently-bred maidens, particularly since the radical improvements in his fortune, were wont to subject him.

He chuckled, remembering how she'd appeared the first day he'd ridden down this drive to call on her father. While still at a distance, he'd taken the small lass in the shabby gown for a maidservant. Once he drew nearer, he'd amended that impression, deciding with her slender figure, her pale face haloed with wisps of golden-brown hair and her great hazel eyes raised up to stare at him, she more resembled a wood sprite.

That whimsical first impression changed to irritation when he returned two days later to consult with her father—and was received by her instead, declaring she would discuss with him the leasing of the Thornwhistle pastures. Believing it a novel but no less blatant ploy to gain his notice by a chit barely out of the schoolroom, he'd uttered a repressive setdown. Only to be handed his head on a platter when she flashed back that since she, and not the baron, handled the disposition of agricultural matters at Sudley Court, he could work with her, or leave.

He stayed. He quickly came to admire her competence, and over the intervening years always consulted her about estate business during his frequent visits to Thornwhistle. From the first she'd offered to oversee the solution of any small prob¬lems that occurred between his periodic inspection trips, and occasionally he'd taken her up on that offer, with excellent results.

He smiled again at Sudley Court's stately facade, knowing well how many hours of Caragh's toil were represented in its timeless beauty. For years, she had shown herself a shrewd manager and a staunch friend. He would indeed, he thought as he urged his horse back in motion, prize her opinion on the necessary but uninspiring business of acquiring a wife.

He only hoped he could be of equal assistance in her quest to find a suitable husband for her sister. Despite Ailis's daz¬zling beauty, he was certain the hunt would not be easy, and keeping the baggage from committing some irretrievable so¬cial faux pas until they'd accomplished the matter harder still. Caragh might well have need of his steadfast support.

It was likely to be the only support she received. Lady Catherine Mansfield, the aunt with whom the sisters would be residing, he knew to be silly and rather feather-witted, un¬likely to offer much resistance if the strong-willed Ailis set her mind to something, no matter how ill-judged. And despite his conciliatory words to Caragh, Quentin privately thought

Baron Sudley shockingly remiss in his duty to his family— not unlike, he thought with a bitter twist of his lips, his own sire.

Though Caragh handled the mulitiplicity of duties it en¬tailed magnificently, still the baron should never have pushed the heavy burden of running the estate off on his daughter's slender shoulders. Neither had Sudley ever, as far as Quentin could tell, attempted to exert a father's steadying influence over his headstrong younger daughter.

Reaching the end of the lane, Quentin turned his mount back toward Thorn whistle and kicked him to a gallop. He could not in good conscience be too severe with the baron for neglecting his duties, however, when he himself had for sev¬eral years been putting off one of his own.

With his debts paid and Branson Park refurbished, he had no further excuse to delay finding a wife who could maintain the splendor he'd so painstakingly restored and breed the next generation of Bransons to carry on the name.

Which was why, despite any problems Ailis might cause, knowing his dear friend would also be in London made him view the upcoming Season with much greater enthusiasm. With Caragh nearby to visit and ride and confer with, to brighten even the most insipid of ton parties with her dry wit and stimulating conversation, perhaps the dull business of finding a wife might not be so tedious after all.

Caragh peered out the fanlight windows flanking the front entry to find Quentin riding away. She'd hoped to catch him before he departed and invite him to remain for nuncheon, and perhaps discuss further what appeared would be their joint venture in London.

He was already beyond hailing distance, however. Just as well she'd missed him, she told herself, sighing. She must take these papers in for Papa's signature and get a letter written to Aunt Kitty so James might ride it into town to be posted this afternoon.

After lingering until Quentin disappeared around the corner of the carriage drive, Caragh headed off to face her father. Best to catch him straightaway, before he became reabsorbed in his work, and thus annoyed by her visit.

She knocked once and waited, then knocked again. When a third rapping on the heavy oak panel still had not produced a response, with a resigned shake of her head, she pushed the door open and walked in.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Papa, but there are some docu¬ments you must sign."

Her father started, then looked over, his expression dis¬tracted. "Caragh?" He glanced out the window at the sunny afternoon garden before turning back to her. "As 'tis still light out, it cannot be time for dinner. So what is the matter now, child?" He drew his brows together, frowning. "You know I detest interruptions when I am nearly at the end of a chapter!"

"I regret the intrusion, Papa, but I must mail back imme¬diately the authorization the lawyers sent you to allow them to set up an account for us in London." When he continued frowning, she added, "You do remember Ailis and I are to leave next week?"

His frown faded, leaving him thoughtful. "Yes, I recall your mentioning it. You've arranged to have matters here at Sudley taken care of in your absence, I trust?''

Suppressing her aggravation, she took a deep breath and began to repeat once again the information she'd conveyed to him at least three times already. “Naturally, Papa. The spring planting is nearly complete and the colts from this year's foal¬ing are already bespoken. Pringle and Hastings have instruc¬tions for managing the household, and Harris will inform me of anything requiring attention on the farms, so," she con¬cluded, her tone turning a touch acerbic, "you need not fear some domestic disturbance will disrupt your work."

He nodded, apparently satisfied, and bent to sign the papers she extended. But after he'd affixed his seal, as she reached to pick them back up, he caught her hand. "I suppose, much as I despise London and all the memories it holds, I...really ought to be accompanying you there."

She looked up, startled. His eyes, usually bright with fervor for a distant time and people long dead, had misted over.

Caragh knew the tragic tale—the Quorn country hunt at which the handsome young baron and London's reigning belle had fallen in love, marrying as soon as the banns could be called and then retiring to the country. Her mama's triumphant return to the metropolis six years later, where, despite her long absence and the presence of younger beauties, she soon re¬claimed her mantle as Queen of the Ton. Her untimely death from a fever a bare two months afterwards, upon which her father quit the metropolis, vowing never to set foot in the city again.

Tenderness rose up to penetrate her resentment. "It's all right, Papa. Aunt Kitty will take good care of us, and you should almost certainly find the busyness of a Season tedious. Nothing but dressmakers and social calls and parties, and the city so noisy that working would be difficult. You wouldn't wish your progress to be slowed now, not when you're so close to finally finishing the first draft."

Her father straightened, the sorrow leaving his eyes. "You are right, of course. Did I mention I'd received a letter yes¬terday from Briggs at Oxford? He thinks the university might be interested in publishing my translation, and asked that I send him a copy once it's complete! Though it's not nearly ready for that—I've scarcely finished the draft, and there's much, much work remaining. Still, his interest was very heart¬ening."

'"Twill be a magnificent achievement. We're so proud of your scholarship, papa."

"Thank you, my dear. You will...watch over Ailis? There are so many dangers and temptations in the city, and unlike you, she's not very...practical. She doesn't always realize what is best for her."

Ever Ailis. Once again suppressing that lingering sense of hurt, she replied, "You may trust Aunt Kitty and I to keep her from harm."

"I expect I can. And—keep yourself safe, too. You've been a good daughter to me, Caragh. Better than I deserve, prob¬ably."

A lump formed in her throat, preventing reply, and ridic¬ulous tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He might not be the most considerate of papas, but Caragh still loved him, and his rare praise touched her deeply.

"Here, then," he said, handing over the documents. "En¬joy the idle gaiety of the metropolis. And with this, I trust you will not have to interrupt me again? Having just read them over, I'm not entirely sure I've caught the rhythm of the last cantos correctly, and I cannot quit now until I've rewritten them. I shall not manage it before midnight if I'm compelled to stop every hour to attend to some trivial household matter."

Their tender moment of tenuous connection was obviously at an end, Caragh thought, suppressing a wry grin. "I shall endeavor to see there are no further interruptions."

"Good. Have Cook send my dinner in on a tray, won'i you? Between Quentin's visit and all these perturbations, I've lost so much time already today, I shall have to work straight through the evening."

After his jovial and unusually attentive presence at break¬fast, Caragh had assumed her father, who on most days barely noticed the dishes placed before him, would for once appre¬ciate a well-prepared dinner. To the Cook's delight, she'd in¬structed her this morning to prepare a meal more elaborate than their usual simple fare.

The kitchen would already have begun upon the menu she'd chosen, a fine roast with several removes and Ailis's favorite cherry tarts for dessert. Upon learning her efforts for her master were to be reduced to a covered plate upon a tray, Cook was likely to suffer palpitations.

"If you insist, Papa. What time should you like it?"

But her father, having evidently expended the full measure of time his self-absorption would permit for something not directly connected to his work, had already returned his gaze to his manuscript. Knowing any attempt to wrest his attention away would likely be greeted with a sharp rebuke and a recommendation that she do what she thought best, Caragh made no attempt to repeat her inquiry. Silently she gathered up the papers and left the library.

Though the task awaiting her in the city might be no less thankless than the duties she was leaving behind at Sudley, as Caragh looked down at the document that would fund their visit, she felt her spirits lift.

In London there would be bookshops, theatres, exhibitions, entertainments the likes of which she had never before experienced. She'd have a whole Season's worth of time to en¬joy, as Quentin described it, an existence devoted mostly to frivolous dissipation.

And one last chance to dazzle open the eyes of Quentin Burke.

CHAPTER 3

On a foggy morning three weeks later, Quentin pulled up his lathered mount at the far reaches of Hyde Park and turned to Caragh, who was reining in her equally spent mare beside him. "That was marvelous!" she cried.

A profusion of gold-brown tendrils peeping out from be¬neath her riding hat, her cheeks becomingly flushed from the wind, she favored him with a smile so brilliant he was doubly glad he'd hit upon the happy notion of stealing her away while the fashionable world—-including her sister and aunt—were still asleep. "It was indeed," he agreed.

"Thank you so much for insisting we come! I've been so busy since arriving, I've scarcely had a moment to myself, and have dearly missed a daily gallop."

"Then you must resolve to take one with me every morn¬ing, no matter how busy you are. I hope your campaign to launch Ailis is going well, for you've been quite neglecting me the last two weeks. Whatever happened to our plan to*, spend the Season in frivolous dissipation?"

"And here I've tried to be courteous and not place demands upon your time!" she replied indignantly, nudging the mare to a walk. "Besides, I have been frivolous. Ailis and I have indulged in a positive orgy of shopping, expending funds whose total I refuse even to estimate, though I am quite cer¬tain the sum could fundi seed and repairs for Sudley for the whole of next year. We've visited Hatchard's, been to Gun-ter's for ices and had a splendid evening viewing the feats of equestrian daring at Astley's. Anyway, with Tattersall's and

Gentleman Jackson's and your clubs to visit, I take leave to doubt you've felt neglected."

Signaling his gelding to keep pace beside the mare, he grinned at her, pleased to have roused her fighting spirit. Yes, these morning rides were a good first step, but he'd have to think of other ways to detach her from Ailis and ensure she didn't waste her entire Season in London playing duenna to the beauty. "You must take care that your impractical sister doesn't tow you down River Tick before the Season even begins."

"Oh, 'tis not Ailis who likes shopping—it's our aunt. Al¬though it seems we've purchased enough clothing to outfit seven women, Aunt Kitty assures me we've acquired only the barest essentials. Ailis considers an excursion to the dress¬maker more curse than enjoyment, and told me yesterday she refuses to stir another step from the house if our destination requires her being measured, pinned or basted."

"How go the plans for her presentation?"

"Well enough, I suppose. These first two weeks we've been laying the groundwork, Aunt Kitty says, having suitable gowns made up to allow us to pay calls on the most important hostesses." A mischievous sparkle glinted in her eye. "In¬deed, 'tis a good thing my aunt sleeps until noon, for she would have apoplexy were she to know I'd gone riding in this old habit! And I must admit, we have spent a good deal of time visiting galleries, meeting with Mr. Frank and setting up Ailis's lessons."

Quentin frowned. Nothing that tied Ailis to the middle-class world of working artists was likely to advance her marital prospects among the ton. "You were not able to dissuade her from that?"

Caragh threw him an exasperated look. "You sound like Aunt Kitty. No, I couldn't dissuade her. Considering her main reason for agreeing to come to London was to further her artistic education, I thought to have a better chance of winning her cooperation on social matters if I first allowed her to begin lessons. I've made it quite clear that if she doesn't honor her part of our bargain and participate in the ton activities Aunt Kitty considers necessary, I am prepared to cancel the sessions and return with her to Sudley."

Quentin chuckled. "Ah, blackmail! And how did she re¬ceive that bit of news?"

Caragh grinned back at him. “Without throwing a tantrum, if that's what you're implying. I think I've finally managed to bring her to realize that with Cousin Archibald in line to inherit, she simply must make plans to secure her future. Since, for a woman, marriage to an agreeable partner is the only practical way to achieve that, 'tis best to act now, while she is still young and lovely enough to have a real choice. In any event, my genteel threat seems to be working. Aunt Kitty had the Almack patronesses to tea, and Ailis was on her best behavior, at once demure and charming. Lady Jersey and Countess Lieven both pronounced her a handsome, pretty-behaved girl and promised vouchers."

"Ailis, demure? Now that I'd like to behold!"

"Give her some credit, Quentin," Caragh protested. "She can behave when she wishes to."

“Ah, but how long will she wish to?''

As soon as the teasing words left his lips, Quentin regretted uttering them, for the sparkle faded from Caragh's eyes. The thought that her sister might not choose to contain her high-spirited and rather unconventional nature until she was safely affianced would have to be his friend's chief worry.

Before he could think of some light comment to bring the smile back to her face, Caragh shrugged, as if shaking off whatever unpleasant thoughts his remark had aroused. "The first of the new evening gowns is to be finished by tomorrow, so Aunt Kitty intends to present us to a select circle of friends at dinner before going on to the Duchess of Avon's ball. And so, if you will not be too busy—" she stressed the word, giving him a darkling look, "may I count on you to attend?"

"Of course. And I'd be happy to escort you to the Duch¬ess's ball as well."

She made him a little bow. “Thank you, my gallant knight. There shall also be the small matter of Ailis's presentation ball the end of next month. Aunt Kitty is already awash in fabric samples, trying to decide whether to deck out the ball¬room in white netting and baby's breath or pink satin and roses."

"Now that's a charming image: Ailis in white satin and ostrich plumes, or pink silk and rosebuds, launching off to snare a mate." Quentin tried to picture Caragh, currently wearing a shabby, outmoded riding habit all too typical of her wardrobe, dressed to the nines and gliding into a ballroom. He couldn't. "Which of the two garments shall you choose?" he asked, suppressing a chuckle.

She swiped at him with her whip. "Neither, as well you know! Ailis shall be in pearls and white satin, and would doubtless darken your daylights if she heard you describe her as intending to 'snare a mate.' Why should she bother, when suitors flock to her quite willingly? I'll wear something in green, probably, as befits the elder sister. It is to be my pre¬sentation as well, you know."

Although after his father's death Quentin had been too preoccupied tending to the business of restoring his estates to visit London, he'd assumed that Caragh must have had the obligatory Season at eighteen and returned to Sudley by choice. "You were never presented?" he echoed, incredulous. Though the baron was an indifferent parent at best, Quentin could hardly believe he would have neglected so important a responsibility.

"No. With one thing or the other, there was never time." She glanced away from him, faint color flushing her cheeks. "Are you going to say I am off to 'snare a mate?'"

Quentin felt an unpleasant jolt, such as he sometimes experienced when picking up an iron poker after walking across the thick Axminster carpet in the library to tend the fire. "Certainly not!" he blurted without thinking, distracted by the intensity of the disagreeable sensation.

When Caragh looked over sharply, eyebrow raised, he hast¬ily continued, "Not that you wouldn't be perfectly capable of attracting a desirable offer, but—well, surely you cannot focus on anything else until you get Ailis riveted, which should take the Season at least. Nor can I imagine your father wishing you to stir far from Sudley."

"Perhaps not. But at some point, I shall be forced to 'stir' from Sudley, unless I'm willing to be reduced to the status of superfluous dependent in the household over which I was formerly mistress."

She was right, he realized suddenly. This Season she really ought to concentrate on finding a husband not just for Ailis, but for herself as well.

Unsettled by the dismaying consequences that possibility engendered, he protested, "But your father is in excellent health. There's no reason to believe your cousin will inherit anytime soon."

"Lord willing, Papa will be baron for a good many years. But that makes it no less important for me to settle my future now, for the same reasons I've argued to Ailis," she pointed out.

"I suppose so." But even as he agreed, Quentin was con¬scious of a strange sinking sensation. Although he realized Caragh was no longer the shyly charming young girl next door but a woman grown, somehow he'd vaguely assumed she would stay on at Sudley for the indefinite future. That their friendship would continue unchanged, as warm and vital a presence in his life as it had been these last few years. Surely she wished for that, too!

"Make what plans you must," he said at last, giving her his most charming smile, “but I absolutely forbid your taking any steps that might endanger our friendship!"

She smiled sweetly. "Perhaps my eventual husband will be a friend of yours. Then we could all be friends together."

Somehow that solution didn't seem particularly appealing. Unwilling at the moment to examine any more closely the reasons behind the sour feeling that had settled in his gut at the prospect, he was glad to seize upon a diversion.

"I thought you said Ailis always slept late. Isn't that her, riding toward us now?"

Caragh swiveled in the saddle. "Why, yes, it is!" Her ini¬tial expression of surprise turned grimmer when a tall young man on a flashy black stallion rounded the corner of the bridle path in her sister's wake.

The man caught up with Ailis, who slowed her horse and turned to him. Though they were too far away for their conversation to be intelligible, Quentin read in the flirtatious arch of the girl's neck, the sinuous bend of her body as she leaned toward the man—and the arrogant confidence with which the newcomer inclined toward her—that the two were more than chance-met acquaintances. He squinted into the sun, trying to identify the vaguely familiar male figure.

"Who is the gentleman?" he asked, giving up the task.

Caragh's lips had thinned and her expression was eloquent of disapproval. "Viscount Freemont. He's something of a pa¬tron of the arts, I understand. He was at Maximilian Frank's studio the first day we visited, so of course, the artist intro¬duced us. Since then, he's 'happened' to drop by several times just as Ailis was finishing her lesson, escorting us home on the first occasion and insisting we accompany him to Gunter's for ices on the second. Although she received him, Aunt Kitty confided that his reputation is rather—fast. You know him?''

"Not personally, although he's a member of White's. Fam¬ily is impeccable, but the talk in the clubs holds him to be wild indeed. Certainly not the best sort of companion for an innocent maid entering upon her first Season. Particularly," he added as they approached, "a young lady riding at dawn with nary a groom in attendance."

Caragh gasped in consternation, but as they urged their horses nearer, Quentin's guess was soon confirmed. Freemont and her sister walked their mounts side by side, their heads as close together as Ailis's position in the sidesaddle would permit. Her groom, unlike the man who trailed Quentin and Caragh at a discreet distance, was conspicuously absent.

They made a striking pair, Quentin had to admit. Ailis, her dazzling blond beauty displayed in a form-filling habit of pale-blue velvet, mounted sidesaddle on her gray, and Freemont with his Adonis-handsome face and blue-black hair, his tall, broad-shouldered figure all in black on his midnight-hued stal¬lion.

Caragh exhibited no appreciation whatsoever of the picturesque tableau. "I shall have to have a chat with Ailis," she muttered, her jaw set.

When they reached the couple, Ailis hailed them cheerfully, no hint of guilt or embarrassment in her manner as she pre¬sented the viscount to Quentin. However, Freemont's quirk of the lip and raised eyebrow as he returned the acknowledge¬ment showed clearly, Quentin thought, anger stirring, that the gentleman was quite conscious of the impropriety of his ac¬tions.

"Do ride along with us," Caragh invited. Picking up on the urgent look his friend threw him, Quentin sidled his mount up to Freemont's, while Caragh cut her mare in between the viscount's stallion and her sister's horse.

The viscount grinned at the maneuver, but signaled his horse to drop back. "The dragon protectress?" he drawled.

Quentin gave him a stone-faced look. "As the lady is a particular friend, I'd advise you to mind your language."

"No offense intended. I suppose so luscious a damsel has need of protecting."

Quentin found any desire to engage in socially innocuous conversation deserting him. "From you, perhaps?" he re¬torted.

"Most definitely," the viscount agreed with a laugh. He eyed Quentin up and down with a mockingly assessing look. "You're an ally of the protectress, then. Should I expect a challenge?"

Restraining the desire to pull the viscount from his saddle and plant a fist in the middle of that arrogant face, Quentin replied, keeping his voice carefully even, “Not if you remem¬ber the maiden in question is a young lady of quality and treat her accordingly."

"Ah, but a damsel not at all in the common way, you must admit. An amazingly good artist, for one. Such drive! Such fire! It quite compels a man to wonder where one might lead such a passionate creature."

Curbing his temper, Quentin forced himself to ignore the man's baiting. "If you wish to wonder about it while enjoying the young lady's company, I'd advise you to curtail any... inappropriate conduct that might lead her family to cut the acquaintance."

Freemont laughed out loud. "You think she would be gov¬erned by the dragon, should her inclinations run otherwise?"

Quentin glanced at Caragh, who was leaning toward her sister, speaking in tones too low for them to hear.

"I wouldn't underestimate her influence."

Freemont followed his glance and raised an eyebrow. "Per¬haps you are correct. Although certain gentlemen might con¬sider that just adds spice to the challenge."

Quentin clenched his teeth, wishing furiously he had the authority to ban Freemont from calling on Ailis then and there. "Certain gentleman?" he grated out, his voice dripping scorn. "I wonder, Freemont, do you box?"

"Occasionally," the viscount replied, turning back to him with that irritating smirk Quentin longed to smack off his face.

"We should have a go at Jackson's some day. You look to be almost up to my weight."

"Perhaps. Although in general I prefer to protect my pretty face. Makes it easier to entice the ladies, you know. Bran¬son," the viscount nodded a dismissal and spurred his mount to a trot.

Ailis had broken away, riding ahead of her sister, and once again the viscount brought his mount beside Ailis's sidesad¬dle. "Shall I escort you home, my angel?"

"You need not put yourself to the trouble," Caragh called out quickly. "Lord Branson and I will take her. We couldn't invite you in for refreshments in any event, for we shall have to depart again almost immediately."

"I'm sure Holden would not consider it a trouble," Ailis said, giving the gentleman in question a provocative glance from under her long lashes.

The viscount seized Ailis's hand and brought it to his lips. "No service I could render you would ever be a trouble, Miss Ailis."

"There, you see?" Ailis nodded toward Caragh, then turned back to the viscount. "Let's have one last good run. Race you to the chestnut copse!"

Before Caragh could protest, both riders spurred their horses and galloped off.

Doubtless realizing that tearing after the pair, like a nurse¬maid chasing her recalcitrant charge, would only make her appear ridiculous, Caragh did not, as Quentin had feared, go in pursuit. Instead, she reined in, letting him draw up beside her.

"I worry about her," she said quietly.

As well you should, Quentin thought. “Would you like me to make further inquiries into the viscount's character?"

Her face cleared and she looked up at him, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Would you? Yes, I should very much appre¬ciate it! Naturally, of all the admirers she's had fall at her feet, she has to notice the only one whose behavior I fear may not match the level of his breeding. And she's such an in¬nocent, she has no notion how easily an unprincipled black¬guard could ruin her reputation and her prospects."

By the time they'd cantered to the far side of the park, there was no sign of her sister or Freemont. Caragh sighed. “I shall have to speak to her again, more forcefully, once we're back at the house. And then drag her off for one last fitting, which means she's likely to be in a tearing ill-humor the rest of the day."

Quentin curbed his first, bitter retort. Blast the baggage! Could Caragh not have even one morning's respite from deal¬ing with her troublesome sister?

"Let's get you back, then," he said, keeping his tone light. "And when you go for those fittings, I hope you'll be getting yourself something pretty, too." He reached over and squeezed her hand.

And felt another small shock—but this time, a pleasant one. Startled, he released her hand. "Shall we be off?"

For a brief moment, Caragh left motionless the hand Quen¬tin had squeezed. Faint tremors reminiscent of the first, strong jolt that had pulsed through her at his touch still throbbed through her fingers. Surely he had felt it too, that...force that surged between them?

But Quentin was already riding off, seemingly oblivious. Well, perhaps not. With a small sigh of disappointment, Car¬agh wrapped the reins back around the hand and kicked the mare to a canter.

During their short ride together, she'd refrained from taking Ailis to task about her conduct in coming unchaperoned to the park, not wanting to trigger her volatile sister's temper or spur her to an ill-judged and probably public reaction. But once they arrived home, the jobation Ailis urgently heeded to hear could not be put off.

Bless Quentin, who apparently did intend to support her in dealing with Ailis, just as he'd promised. Although, if he turned up anything truly salacious when he investigated the worrisome viscount, she wasn't sure how she was going to induce Ailis to give Freemont up.

Well, no point worrying over that now. At the moment, she had the more pressing, if no less disagreeable task of deliv¬ering a lecture to her probably unreceptive sister.

As expected, she found Ailis in the sitting room they shared between their two chambers. She entered upon her knock to find her sister gathering her painting supplies in preparation for the afternoon's lesson.

"Oh, hullo, Caragh. Be a dear, and buy me another package of this yellow pigment while I work with Max today, won't you? I'm sure I won't have enough to complete the sunset study he's helping me with."

Her thoughts concentrated on marshalling her arguments in a way most likely to make an impression on her sister, Caragh absently accepted the packet Ailis extended. "Did you enjoy your ride?"

"Yes, 'twas very pleasant. Put this thinner in my box, won't you?"

Caragh stowed the tin Ailis handed her. "I was surprised to see you, though. I didn't realize you'd planned on riding this morning."

"I hadn't planned on it, until Holden came by this morning and invited me. He is a handsome devil, isn't he? Such a countenance! I told him I should like to do his likeness." She sidled a glance at Caragh. "Bare-chested, in Greek draper¬ies."

"Ailis, you didn't tell him that!" Caragh gasped.

Her sister merely grinned. "I shall have to talk to Max about arranging it."

"Perhaps you should concentrate on finishing the sunset study first," Caragh countered quickly. "Indeed, you must take care not to let Lord Freemont act the devil he looks. This isn't the country, Ailis, and the more...casual manners we practice there will not do in London. You really shouldn't address him as Holden on such slim acquaintance."

Ailis shrugged. "Tis what Max calls him. I should feel rather foolish 'my-lording' him in the studio."

“Perhaps such familiarity might be permitted there, but certainly not among the polite world. And if you ride with him, you must bring a groom along."

Ailis stopped in her packing and looked up. "A groom?" She tossed her blond head back and laughed. "Is he supposed to rob me of my virtue in broad daylight within the confines of Hyde Park? Or beside some merchant's cart on some busy London street? Such a feat of equestrian skill would be worthy of Astley's!"

"I agree, the likelihood of him compromising you on horseback is slim. Still, as nonsensical as the rules of behavior seem to you, Ailis, to flout them brings discredit not only upon you, but also upon Aunt Kitty—and me." Caragh smiled, trying to soften the reprimand. "And although I certainly would never bother with it in the country, in town I take a groom even when I ride with so good and longtime a friend as Quentin."

"Which is both ridiculous and unnecessary, since Quent would hardly try to compromise you, even had he a perfect opportunity," her sister retorted.

Caragh bit her lip against the pain of her sister's tactless words. "True enough," she allowed. "Still, we've only just met Lord Freemont, and know little of him. Surely you'll agree that the character of the gentleman with whom you might spend the rest of your life is vitally important."

"Who said I have any intention of marrying him? It's just that he alone, of all the so-called gentlemen I've met thus far, does not bore me senseless reciting bad verses in praise of my eyebrows, or turn cow-eyed and speechless when I enter a room. He admires my work, Caragh—and he's quite knowl- edgeable about painting, as well being a major patron of Max and several other artists. He talks to me of things that matter, treats me like a woman—-not some celestial being upon a ped¬estal to be gazed upon with awe."

Caragh could well understand the appeal of a gentleman treating one like a woman. "I can see how refreshing that would be. But we've hardly arrived. Once we begin attending parties, I imagine you will meet any number of handsome and well-spoken men who will admire both your beauty and your intelligence."

"Society gentlemen?" Ailis sniffed. "Not if they are like the coxcombs whose portraits Max has done."

"Since Mr. Frank meets them as employers, his relations with them would naturally be...different than that of a lady they wished to court, or marry."

"Indeed?" Ailis raised her eyebrows. "I should think their treatment of an employee—although to treat someone of Max's genius as a mere servant is preposterous!—would be much more illuminating of their character than their behavior as suitors."

As Maximilian Frank made no secret of his often contemptuous opinion of the aristocracy, Caragh wasn't surprised to hear that the man's impressions of some of his employers were less than complimentary.

“I suppose you are correct. Still, Mr. Frank is known as something of a radical. I'd be a bit cautious about accepting without question his rather Jacobean views on the equality of man and the abolition of the monarchy."

Ailis grinned. "I shall not go that far...yet."

Caragh gave her a severe look. "There are certainly men of true character among the nobility—is not Quentin Burke an example of that? I just ask that you be open to meeting them. And that you be a bit more...circumspect in your deal¬ings with Lord Freemont. Here in London, the code of be- havior for unmarried ladies is very strict, and with your pre¬sentation—''

"Bother my presentation!" Ailis exclaimed, tossing down the paint case and rounding to face Caragh. "I've told you all along that it matters little to me whether I'm a success with the ton or not, as long as I achieve my goals in London. I like Holden and I intend to continue seeing him, so you might as well accustom yourself to it."

Caragh struggled to keep her anger in check. "And you, dear sister, had better 'accustom' yourself to the fact that if you wish to remain in London, you will honor our agreement and not do anything to embarrass Aunt Kitty."

Caragh braced herself for an explosion, but to her relief, Ailis held up both hands. "Come, let's cease quarrelling over trivialities. I'll agree to try to remember the rules of dull pro¬priety, if you will cease preachifying on the virtues of virtue."

Although Caragh wasn't sure she ought to concede the point while Ailis still referred to the serious matters under discussion as "trivialities," her sister was offering to com¬promise—a rather unusual occurrence. At any rate, 'twas probably the best she was likely to wangle from Ailis at the moment. "Agreed. Now, at the risk of immediately breaking our truce, I must remind you that we have one last fitting this morning on the gowns for Friday's rout."

"Not today!" Ailis groaned. "I must finish the sketches for the sunset study by this afternoon!"

Once Ailis immersed herself in her art, she was as hard as papa—and even less congenial—to pry loose. "Do the fitting immediately," Caragh cajoled, "and I promise I'll occupy Aunt Kitty so you may have the rest of. the day to work on sketches."

Ailis gave her a reluctant smile. "Blackmailer."

"Revolutionary." Caragh linked her arm with her sister's. "Let's be off to battle tape measures and straight pins."

And so Caragh was able to bear her sister off to the mantua-maker. While Ailis, a long-suffering expression on her face as they stood being pinned and prodded, doubtless used her time to contemplate her sketches, Caragh found herself won¬dering if Quentin was merely being kind in recommending that she buy herself something pretty.

Well, she thought, taking a nervous breath as she regarded her image in the glass, if this gown didn't inspire him to see her in a new light, nothing ever would.

CHAPTER 4

As it turned out, Quentin did not join Caragh for dinner at Lady Mansfield's townhouse, nor did he escort them to the Duchess of Avon's ball. What he'd expected to be a short visit to his new property outside London turned into a day¬long marathon of dealing with disgruntled tenants and trying to assess how best to remedy the damages wrought by years of mismanagement on the part of the estate agent, whom he dismissed upon the spot.

Knowing by midmorning he would not be able to get away, he dispatched a servant with his regrets and a note promising Caragh he would seek her out upon his return and lend her his support for whatever remained of the evening.

Night had long since fallen when he galloped back to his lodgings. After downing a platter of cold meat and a tankard of ale while his valet helped him into his evening clothes, he hurried off again, arriving in time to be presented to the duch¬ess along with the last of the guests waiting in what must have been an endless receiving line. That duty completed, he went off in search of Caragh, his progress slowed by a number of hopeful mamas determined to add his name to their blush¬ing daughters' dance cards.

Recalling with sardonic amusement the scant attention such ladies had paid him eight years ago, when all he possessed was a modest title, a heap of debts and a crumbling estate, Quentin noted at the corner of the ballroom a large gathering of gentlemen. As he struggled closer through the crush, he saw Ailis at the center of a milling group of admiring swains.

Who had, he noted in fairness, a great deal to admire. In a pure-white gown of simple cut that emphasized the classical perfection of her profile, her blond curls threaded through with pearls, matching pearls at her ears and throat, she looked the portrait of innocent maidenhood. Though he might privately deplore her rag manners and the cavalier manner in which she took advantage of her sister, he could not deny Ailis possessed beauty enough to dazzle even the most jaded palate.

The throng vying for her attention included not just younger and more impressionable men, but a number of older, cultured gentlemen as well. Also among the group, he noted, were those of the dandy set who, although they themselves had no intentions of becoming leg-shackled, always wished to be seen among the court of the latest Incomparable. An indica¬tion that Ailis was well on her way to becoming the diamond of the Season.

He devoutly hoped Caragh could harness that attention to lure her sister and some unsuspecting victim into matrimony before the ton discovered how drastically the lady's character varied from the appearance of docile, well-bred loveliness she currently presented.

Nearby, its wearer obscured by the press of gentlemen, he saw a tall nodding ostrich plume in cherry red, which must denote the presence of Lady Catherine. He did not as yet see Caragh.

Having elbowed and pushed his way through the crowd, he maneuvered past the current contender for Ailis's attention to present his compliments. The slight raise of her brows as she rose out of her demure curtsy told him that, for the moment anyway, she was finding the role of Innocent Virgin highly entertaining. For Caragh's sake, Quentin prayed that amuse¬ment lasted long enough to get the chit safely riveted.

Reassured that the unpredictable Ailis seemed to be on her best behavior, Quentin relinquished his place to the next eager gentleman and backed out of the crowd, still searching for Caragh. As he scanned the vicinity, a flash of light from the corner snagged his attention.

The crowd shifted and once again the glitter of what must be candlelight reflected by golden fabric caught his eye. A moment later, a dark-coated man moved aside, revealing first the gilded silk of a lady's skirt, then the lady herself. As Quentin's appreciative gaze moved upward, he felt his lips curve into a smile.

The fluid gown gave an alluring hint of its wearer's hips and molded closely over a very fine bosom, its décolletage low enough to entice, but high enough to thwart all but an arousing glimpse of what lay beneath. Aroused in truth, Quentin's eyes wandered slowly over shoulders showcased in a teasing puff of gold-dipped fabric, up a graceful neck where curly tendrils of honey-gold hair escaped from a loose top¬knot of Grecian curls. And finally came to rest on lips curved in a half smile in a heart-shaped face that was...Caragh's?

Shock made his jaw drop and halted him in mid-step. Suddenly dizzy, he closed his eyes and shook his head. But when he opened them again, the vision hadn't changed. The alluring woman in the enticing gown truly was his neighbor and friend, little Caragh Sudley.

He'd never again be able to consider her "little." The thought sputtered through his head before he jerked his gaze from that slither of gown and tried to reassemble his scattered wits.

Before he managed that feat, she spotted him. In a flutter of gilded skirts, she approached. "Lord Branson, I had about despaired of you!" she said, extending him her hands.

For a long moment he stood staring at her, oblivious to her outstretched hands as another bolt of entirely unplatonic appreciation sizzled through him. He couldn't seem to tear his gaze from the soft, never-before-viewed skin of her neck and shoulders and collarbones, that shadowed cleavage that posi- tively dared a man to tug the silk bodice lower and feast his eyes and lips on the treasures just teasingly out of view....

Desperately he tried to channel his errant thoughts back to properly fraternal channels and summon some intelligent re¬ply. "C-Caragh, how...how lovely you look tonight. L-like a glimmer of candlelight!"

Tantalizing. Seductive. He clamped his lips shut before he could add the words, while Caragh raised her eyebrows, no doubt surprised by his stammering enthusiasm.

Feeling himself flush, he stumbled on, "A very...stylish gown indeed." And how intriguing the view!   "If this is an example of the new wardrobe you've been accumulating, I heartily sanction the expense."

A soft blush tinted her cheeks and her clear eyes sparkled. “It is, and thank you. Aunt Kitty will be quite thrilled to know it meets with your approval. Though you needn't empty the butter boat over me—or do you mean to practice your wife-wooing wiles?"

"Are they working?" he asked as he belatedly bent over her fingers she still offered.

She uttered that throaty gurgle of a laugh that always brightened his spirits, made him want to chuckle in return. Relax, he told himself, trying to calm his still-agitated mind. Despite the gown, it's just Caragh.

“As I expect the mamas of the young ladies you decide to court will soon be drenching you in quite enough flattery, I shall not answer that," she replied.

He did laugh then, before brushing his lips against her knuckles. A faint, heady scent of honeysuckle enveloped him and a low hum seemed to resonate between their joined fin¬gers. He straightened slowly, finding himself strangely reluc¬tant to let her go.

Don't be a clutch, he rebuked himself. This is Caragh, not some demi-mondaine.

While he struggled to order his disturbing and unprecedented reactions, Caragh stood quietly, her face tilted up to his, an expression of puzzlement—and something else he couldn't quite place—in her eyes.

Finally, her blush deepening, Caragh gently detached the fingers he'd forgotten he still held and placed them on his arm.

He certainly seemed dazzled, Caragh thought hopefully. And surely...surely he must have felt it too, that little shock when he kissed her hand. That sort of quivering that still vi¬brated between them, her gloved fingertips resting where she could almost feel the pulse beat in his wrist. Surely such a reaction could not be all one-sided?

Or was he just confused at seeing her out of her drab outmoded garb and in this form-revealing ball gown? Find out,  a little voice whispered.

"Is the gown the height of fashion?" she asked. "The mantua-maker swore 'twas so, but we are so newly arrived, I have nothing to base my judgment on. You've visited London often enough. Would you say the décolletage is right—neither too daring nor too matronly?"

His gaze drifted down to her chest and lingered there. He opened his mouth, closed it. The intensity of his stare made her skin heat. Then, cheeks reddening, he abruptly raised his glance back to her face. “It is... attractive. But you might wish to have the bodice cut a trifle higher in future. You don't wish men to gape at you."

"Would they gape?"

"They will if you show them much more," he muttered.

He had noticed! Caragh exulted. Having been achingly aware of him from the moment he first rode down her drive, excitement buoyed her spirits at this confirmation that, for the first time, it appeared Quentin was finally seeing her not as his helpful little neighbor, but as a woman.

Just what did he mean to do about the realization? Heart pounding with recklessness and hope, Caragh vowed to find out.

“Did your business prosper today? I hope the problem was resolved."

He was still staring at her as if he didn't quite recognize the woman addressing him. But given the din in the ballroom, perhaps he hadn't heard the question.

She leaned closer, close enough to see the shades of blue shimmer in his turquoise eyes, to denote each separate golden lash that framed them. From inches away, he exuded the heady fragrance of shaving soap and virile male. Her glance lowered to his firm lips, and for a moment she couldn't re¬member what she was supposed to be asking.

Now or never, she thought, and took a deep breath, trying to slow the trip-hammer beat of her pulse. “Ailis is dancing this set, which should keep her out of mischief for the mo¬ment. It's too noisy and crowded here for conversation. Come out on the balcony with me and get some air." She tugged at his arm.

To her alarm and delight, he nodded and led her out of the ballroom.

The breeze on the balcony was chilly. After closing the doors behind them, Quentin turned back to Caragh and no¬ticed her shiver.

"You don't have your shawl! Perhaps we should go back in. I don't wish you to catch a chill."

With him standing this close, her blood was more apt to boil, she thought. "No, the cold is...refreshing."

"Stand here in front of me, then. I'll block the wind." He maneuvered her a step closer into his warmth.

Lift her head, and she could feel the breath from his lips... "How did you find matters on the new estate?" she managed to ask.

"In a muddle, I'm afraid. I have, by the way, set some further inquiries abroad about the matter of Lord Freemont. I hope to have a full report for you soon."

"I'm relieved that he hasn't appeared this evening. Perhaps he views such ton entertainments as the duchess's ball too tame."

"Quite possibly."

"In any event, I can only be glad for his absence. It frees me of worrying that he might tempt Ailis into doing some¬thing improper."

As she was tempted, she thought, her glance once again lingering on Quentin's lips. If she were to brace a hand on his shoulder and raise up on tiptoe, she could brush her mouth against his....

He was staring down at her, gaze focused on her lips. Did his blood pound like hers to the pulse of her nearness? Was a voice shrieking in his head, as it was in hers, for him to lean through the small distance that separated them...and kiss her?

Past the lump the size of a crumpet that had somehow lodged itself in her throat, Caragh managed to whisper, "Though sometimes, being improper is...quite tempting."

Time seemed suspended, breathing ceased, and with every nerve braced in anticipation she thrilled to his mouth's gradual descent. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The first brush of his lips was sweet and so intoxicating she immediately hungered for more. Her hands rose of their own volition to grasp his lapels and she leaned into Quentin, deepening the kiss.

He clutched her shoulders and opened his mouth, gave her the ardent wash of his tongue against her lips. Her pulse leapt, something heated and urgent tightened within her, demanding release.

But before she could think to seek his tongue with her own, he stepped back suddenly and pushed her away. Already nearly boneless, she would have fallen had his strong grip at her shoulders not kept her upright.

"Your...your aunt will be missing you," he said, his voice uneven. He steadied her on her feet and then, with an insistent hand to the small of her back, propelled her back into the ballroom.

In his haste he half pushed her across the floor until they located her aunt, whereupon he quickly removed his hand. “I think I need a glass of the duchess's excellent champagne," he said, avoiding her glance. "May I bring each of you ladies one?"

Nearly weeping with disappointment, Caragh clamped her lips, still fired by his touch, tightly together to keep them from trembling and nodded.

He set off immediately. Around her, bejeweled dancers whirled like colorful tops through a waltz, Aunt Kitty's high-pitched voice babbled a falsetto note over the chorus of a hundred conversations. Caragh saw them, heard them, but comprehended nothing.

Well, she thought despairingly, the daring ball gown had done its work. Quentin Burke now realized that Caragh Sudley was a woman, with a woman's desires. And, she noted, watching him struggle with obvious impatience through the crowd, the knowledge thrilled him so much he couldn't wait to get away from her.

Quentin downed a glass of champagne in one gulp, his hand trembling, then seized another.

What had come over him? Kissing Caragh Sudley on the balcony as if she were some...lightskirt out of the Green Room!                                                          

He was lucky he'd come to his senses before she fainted or struggled free and slapped his insolent face. True, she'd looked so impossibly lovely, so—seductively female, 'twas little wonder that shock had made him overreact. She shouldn't have surprised him so!

Of course, he realized she was now a woman grown. Still, he didn't appreciate having the fact brought home as blatantly as it had been by that demirep's excuse of a gown! Any man seeing her in it would instantly conceive thoughts just like his, which meant he'd better snap up the champagne and get back. And here he'd expected his escort tonight would protect Ailis from importunate suitors!

He paused to take a long, slow sip. He'd have to make it clear to Caragh that she must never wander out onto deserted balconies with gentlemen. Some other man with more muscle than morals might have taken advantage of her innocence, imprisoned that slender body against his chest and tasted much more than that tempting mouth.

Though it would have been the last thing the bounder tasted for a fortnight, once Quentin's fists got done with his lech¬erous lips.

Still, Caragh's suddenly changed appearance was...trou¬bling. Not that he grudged her the frivolous, flirty gown, but he certainly preferred seeing in her familiar, sensible, Caragh-type garb.

Did he indeed? his still-simmering body instantly riposted. Could not passion add a spicy zest to what was already a deeply enjoyable friendship?

Not before a tolling of wedding bells, his mind answered. The implications of that conclusion shocked him anew. Though he'd never before conceived of marrying Caragh— any more than he'd considered marrying Alden or any of his male friends—the idea, now that he did consider it, wasn't without appeal. He might keep his good friend permanently close...and indulge in every fantasy that golden gown had evoked.

The idea fizzled for a moment, but then like champagne left too long in a glass, went flat. For one, he had no idea if Caragh would be interested in proceeding in such a direction. More important, though he'd never made the attempt before, he knew instinctively that though they might be able to travel the road from friends to lovers, there would be no coming back.

Growing up with all male cousins, he'd not had any female playmates. Caragh was the first and only woman with whom he had ever developed a true friendship, except for his mother. He certainly didn't see Caragh in that guise, however deep had been the affection he bore for that sainted lady. As for his other relationships with females...

There'd been the blond charmer right after he left Oxford, with whom he fancied himself violently in love until she in¬formed him that, as he stood to inherit only a debt-ridden barony, she must not let him dangle after her any longer. Stung by that dismissal, he'd willingly let his Oxford mates introduce him to females of another class, who were pleased to settle for well-paid pleasure of the moment and no promises for a future.

But even such uncomplicated relationships had the potential to become disruptive. He recalled with a grimace a well-endowed opera singer whose coloratura shriek and unerring aim with a wine bottle had rendered the ending of their affair singularly unpleasant. And three years ago, there'd been A1-. v den's younger sister, with whom he thought he'd established a teasing, older-brother rapport. Until his friend, in some em¬barrassment, asked him to stop visiting him at home for the present, as his sister was fancying herself in love with the still-ineligible Quentin.

When he examined the matter, he had to conclude that every dealing he'd had with women since coming of age had been complicated—except for his friendship with Caragh. In that bond alone had he managed to combine the easy cama¬raderie he shared with his male friends, the exhilaration of discussing matters of importance he found at gatherings of estate managers, and the stimulation of intellect he found when debating his scholarly acquaintances. It was, in sum, a relationship like no other. A relationship he valued like no other.

A relationship he would go to great lengths to preserve and had no wish to risk losing by trying to overlay it with the tantalizing but dangerous and unpredictable elixir of passion.

No, far better to rein in his overactive imagination and overeager body, lest he stumble into a situation that led not to marriage and happy-ever-after, but to heartache and the per¬manent loss of one of his dearest friends.

His troubled mind settled by that sage decision, he drained the last of the second glass and motioned the waiter to hand him two fresh flutes. Straightening his shoulders, he paced purposefully back to the ballroom, ready to banish all thoughts evoked by provocative golden gowns and keep Caragh Sudley firmly where she belonged—as a dear platonic friend.

CHAPTER 5

Several mornings later, Quentin awaited Caragh in her Aunt Kitty's parlor. Too concerned and restless to take a seat in the chair to which the butler conducted him, he stood by the hearth, gazing into the fire.

The facts he'd just confirmed about the character of Ailis's favorite admirer, Viscount Freemont, were disturbing enough that he'd felt compelled to bring a report of them to Caragh without delay. The urgency of his mission had succeeded, at least for the moment, in relegating into the background the discomfort he still hafbored after that incident with Caragh on the balcony at the Duchess of Avon's ball. Feelings that, he admitted, had led him to avoid her for the past several days.

Resolving to keep his relationship with Caragh platonic was certainly wise. However, acknowledging a decision as wise and managing to carry it through were two entirely separate matters a fact he'd been forced to admit as soon as he'd walked back into her golden proximity that night and handed her the champagne. Neither his imagination nor his body proved easy to restrain, leading to an awkwardness that had marred the rest of the evening.

He must do something to alleviate that subtle tension, restore them to the easy relationship they'd always en¬joyed... though as yet he had no idea what. However, years of focusing on only the first step in solving what might oth¬erwise seem nearly insurmountable problems had allowed him to bring his estate back from the brink of disaster. Perhaps he should use that technique here, put aside for the moment these disturbing new impulses and concentrate instead on the most pressing concern—the matter of Ailis and Viscount Freemont.

The news he must impart was sure to distress Caragh, confirming as it did that the viscount was most definitely not a fit suitor to a maiden of her sister's tender years. Especially one as volatile and heedless of convention as Ailis.

Caragh's appearance at the parlor door a moment later distracted him from his musings. And disturbed him, he admitted with exasperation and an almost wistful annoyance, far more than it ought

Her fashionable muslin morning gown, in a soft green that complemented her gold-burnished curls and hazel eyes, was neither low-cut nor especially form-fitting. Yet once again Ouentin found himself instantly, intensely aware of the swell. of her breasts beneath the modest round neck, the curve of shoulder that seemed to emphasize the graceful lines of her throat, the lips, now curving into a welcoming smile, that had yielded so bewitchingly under his own.... He jerked his gaze upward.

Damn and blast! he swore silently, his neckcloth now chok¬ing his suddenly overheated neck. Subconsciously he must have been hoping, he realized, that time and the prosaic light of day would dissipate the disturbing alchemy that had sur¬rounded them that night at the ball.

Obviously it had not. Working to stifle his body's instinc¬tive reaction, he watched her approach and wondered whether the tantalizing physical appeal that now struck him so forcibly had bonded itself inseparably onto the strong fraternal attrac¬tion he'd always felt for his easygoing, intelligent neighbor. After that scene on the balcony, would there be no way to separate them again?

“What a nice surprise, Quentin," she said, extending her hands.

"Hullo Caragh." Cautiously he took them, steeling him- self for the zing of response that raced through his nerves when he touched her.

She jerked her hands free and turned aside, as if she, too, had been scorched by that brief contact.

"I'll have Evers get us some tea," Caragh said, breaking the uneasy silence. "Is this a social call, or does some busi¬ness bring you here? Whatever it is, I hope 'tis nothing that requires my going out. With Ailis's come-out ball in just a week, the household is in an uproar, Aunt Kitty is all flutters, and I've a thousand details still to attend before we go to Lady Cavendish's rout tonight." She looked up at him inquiringly.

Dropping his gaze from her too-compelling eyes, Quentin gathered his disjointed thoughts.

"I'll be brief, then, and we can dispense with tea. But I felt you ought to hear this as soon as possible."

"What is it?"

"I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing information to impart concerning Lord Freemont. Perhaps you'd better sit down."

"Oh, dear. Should I call for brandy?" she asked wryly as she seated herself on the sofa and motioned him to a place beside her.

"Perhaps. And ready a gag and some restraints for Ailis."

Caragh sighed. "I was afraid it would be bad. So, tell me  the wretched whole."

Despite her unprecedented behavior on the balcony, for which he must surely be somehow responsible, Caragh had always been a calm and rational individual, so best to just tell her directly, he decided. Without further preamble, Quentin began, "To his credit, I can report Freemont is indeed a knowledgeable patron of the arts and a generous supporter, particularly of talented newcomers. The rest is not so positive. I regret to confirm that the rumors of his taking under his protection a number of the highest flyers are quite accurate. Worse, however, it appears he has also made mistresses of females outside the demi-monde, all of whom have borne him illegitimate offspring. One of them was even gently born, though whether or not he seduced her into ruination with false promises of marriage I could not ascertain. His club mates report he is quite proud of his prowess among the ladies and frequently boasts that no female, be she duchess or drudge, will ever leg-shackle him into marriage."

With a soft exclamation of distress, Caragh closed her eyes. For an instant, Quentin worried she was about to faint. After all, stalwart she might be, but she was still a lady bred, and his news must have shocked her.

"Damn him!" she exclaimed, relieving him of concern for her maidenly sensibilities. "Why, of all her suitors, did Freemont have to be the one to entice Ailis? I shall have no choice now but to forbid him the house."

She shook her head and sighed. "As his rogue's reputation is more likely to enhance his appeal to Ailis than lessen it, keeping them apart is going to be the very devil. Especially as I've no doubt the wretch will attempt to see her during her lessons with Max, once I refuse to receive him here."

"I suppose there's no chance of suspending those...?"

She jumped to her feet and paced to the window, her speak¬ing glance rendering a verbal response to that question un¬necessary. "She's already contemptuous of the rules that gov¬ern proper behavior, unconcerned about the judgments of society and since she evinces no desire to marry anyway, cer¬tain to be furious at my banning her from seeing Freemont. I wouldn't dream of trying to ban her lessons as well."

"If she has so little inclination to marry, are you sure you're right to more or less force her into it?"

"How else is she to survive if she doesn't marry?" Caragh demanded. "Make her living as an artist? Oh, I don't expect you to understand! Even when your estates were crumbling, you had the freedom to choose your course of action! You might have sold off some land, sought employment in the church or the army, or even abandoned everything and emigrated to the Americas. But we have no funds not tied up in dowry and no authority to manage even those! There is no choice, no chance, for a woman outside marriage. It's Ailis's whole future at stake here, and I can't stand by and let her ruin it, even if I must push her to it against her will."

She looked so fierce, he wanted to applaud her—and so desperate, he wanted to take her in his arms.

But, remembering what had happened the last time he'd done that, he'd better restrict himself to verbal support.

"You know I'll help in any way I can. Would you like me to break the news to her? I'm the one who confirmed the truth of Lord Freemont's behavior, after all. Perhaps she would take it better were the information to come from an impartial out¬sider."

Her fierceness faded, leaving her looking weary and discouraged. Once again, Quentin resented the thankless effort Caragh expended on her sister's behalf.

"I appreciate the offer, but no. She'll doubtless rail and complain and weep. I won't subject you to that."

Having observed a few such scenes with Ailis, Quentin shuddered. Unable to force himself to face that daunting pros¬pect again, he said instead, "Then how can I help?"

“If you could escort us tonight? Perhaps you could amuse and distract her on the journey, occupy her until her other admirers bear her away—and keep Lord Freemont at bay, should he happen to be present. That is..." she colored and looked away, "if my...behavior the other night didn't give you a disgust of me."

She knows I've been avoiding her, he thought with a hot flush of guilt. "No, of course not! I...expect 'twas much more my fault than yours. It was just...a surprise."

"An unpleasant one, apparently," she said dryly, her cheeks still rosy as she reached over to adjust the perfectly straight pleats in the window curtains.

"No! That is, not...exactly." As uncomfortable as this abrupt shift in conversation made him, perhaps 'twas best to address the problem head-on. Oh, that they might resolve it now, banish the lingering awkwardness that had grated at him these last few days and recapture the pleasant relationship he so prized!

Doggedly he made himself continue. "But...I've never thought of you in...those terms. We've been friends, good friends, for years, in a relationship that has been straightfor¬ward, congenial, and as enjoyable for you, I hope, as it has been for me. Proceeding down the road we dallied near that night would...complicate it."

With a gusty sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. "Usually, everything about dealing with women is difficult! That's why I found you so different, so delightful. What we've shared over the years is unique in my experience. I... I just don't want to do anything that might ruin that."

"I see," she said softly, toying now with the curtain tie-backs. "But...isn't it possible that taking that...road might lead to a relationship even more enjoyable? And if so, would that not be worth the risk?"

"I don't know, Caragh," he said, determined to be as hon¬est as possible. "This whole matter is beyond the realm of my experience. I do know your friendship is very special to me. And I know that if we try to make it...more, things be¬tween us will have to change. If...what happened then wasn't pleasing to us both, I fear we'd not be able to turn back and recapture what we have now." He shrugged his shoulders, helpless to explain it any more clearly. "And what we have now is too precious for me to chance losing."

For a long time she said nothing. Quentin sat motionless, terrified he might have already said too much and offended her beyond repair, furious at himself for not having avoided the conversation.

Finally, when he thought he would have to either babble something else or bolt from the room, Caragh eased his anxiety with a smile. "You could never do anything that would destroy what we have." She took a long, unsteady breath. "I shall be your friend 'til my last breath."

Everything would return to the way it had been before the ball. His spirits soaring on a burst of euphoria, he sprang up and strode to the window. "As I will be yours," he promised, seizing her hand and bringing it to his lips.

A charged awareness sizzled through the hand that held hers, burned in his lips as they brushed her fingers. Startled, he released her.

Yes, everything would return to the way it had been...as long as he could ignore this disconcerting, and annoyingly automatic physical response to her.

Her precious dreams turning to cinders, Caragh watched Quentin's troubled brow clear, unmistakable relief lighting his eyes. Sternly repressing a missish desire to burst into tears, she finished the prosaic business of setting a meeting time and place, then walked Quentin to the door and bade him goodbye. Her chest felt hollow, her heartbeat echoing within its hope-deprived space like Quentin's retreating footsteps in the empty hallway as she listened to him depart.

She'd tried to reassure herself when, instead of calling on her the day after the ball, Quentin had sent a note. Tried to buoy her sagging spirits as one by one the days slipped past with no further word from him, telling herself that her radi¬cally changed appearance had surprised Quentin—she had wanted to shock him, hadn't she? Of course he would require some time to adjust to the new and startling fact of their mu¬tual attraction. Once he did, he would want to at least cau¬tiously explore this new development.

But she knew now her instincts on the night of ball had been right. The speech he'd just delivered proved beyond doubt that attracted to her Quentin might be—but he wasn't happy about it. He had no desire whatsoever to attempt to take their relationship to another level. Indeed, he'd practi¬cally begged her to allow them to go back to the way they'd always been.

She stifled a bitter laugh. She supposed her female vanity should be gratified that he wasn't repulsed by her physical charms, though, as the end result was the same, it made little difference.

No, Quentin Burke was not willing to admit the physical connection that whispered between them. All he wanted was for them to remain platonic friends.

Friends.

Could she bear that now, knowing he had responded to her touch? When she hungered for so much more?

It appeared that, unless she were prepared to do without him entirely, she would have to endure it. He was not prepared to offer her anything more—and she'd just given him her word she'd accept that decision.

Until this moment, she hadn't realized how much her heart had counted on persuading Quentin Burke to follow a very different path. The stark truth that he would not hurt more than she could have believed possible.

Blinking back the tears that stung at her eyelashes, for a few minutes she allowed herself to grieve, to acknowledge the devastating depth of that sweet and painful longing. Then she took a long, ragged breath and forced herself to walk from the room.

Like other unpleasant facts about her life she couldn't do anything to change, she would think no further on it now. Besides, she had a pressing duty to perform that was just as unpleasant.

Telling Ailis she must give up Holden Freemont.

Since Lord Freemont sometimes stopped by to escort them to Ailis's art lesson, Caragh first summoned Evans to inform him that the viscount would no longer be received by their household. Then she mounted the stairs to her sister's cham¬ber.

Her head throbbed with an ache almost as sharp as the one piercing her heart. But, despite her personal anguish, she must somehow summon words convincing enough to persuade her volatile sister to end her friendship with Lord Freemont. She could only hope that desperation would make her eloquent— and pray that for once, Ailis would prove reasonable.

She stood for a moment before the door, girding herself for the combat to come. Then, putting her own unhappiness aside, she knocked on the door and entered.

Ailis looked over in surprise. "Caragh—I was just about to summon you! I wish to go to the studio early today. Max said it would not disturb him to have me there while he works and I need to complete underpainting the background before today's lesson."

"I've no objections. But first, I need your agreement on a matter of much graver importance."

Occupied in packing her art supplies, Ailis didn't even look up. "I can't imagine anything more important than getting the background right. But if you will allow me to go to the studio early all week, I'll agree without discussion to participate in whatever tiresome social ritual about which you're preparing" to harangue me. Only please, no more teas with that pack of old harridans that govern Almack's."

"Really, Ailis, that description is as unflattering as it is inaccurate, and is just the sort of imprudent comment I would have you refrain from voicing, even to me! Lady Jersey— who, I must point out, is barely older than I am—is known for her wit and charm. Countess Lieven and Princess Esterhazy both combine a lively intelligence with a vast—''

"'Silence' Jersey would rather skewer with her wit than charm, and the others do not enjoy discussing anything out- side their narrow little aristocratic experiences. But come, let us not pull caps. What do you wish from me now?"

For an instant Caragh wavered, tempted to let herself con¬tinue lecturing Ailis on a breach of propriety much less con¬tentious than the one she'd come here to discuss. But she knew she'd best harness the limited span of attention her sister spared to anything not directly connected to her art for ad¬dressing the problem of Lord Freemont.

Letting the easier topic go, she took a deep breath. "I'm afraid what I must ask will be difficult, and you may not understand or agree with the necessity of it. Nonetheless, it is crucial that you obey me in this. Ailis, you must cut your acquaintance with Lord Freemont."

A tin of mineral spirits suspended in one hand, Ailis looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. "Cut Holden's acquaintance? ' But he's the only man of our class in London who understands art and is not crushingly, boringly conventional. Why should I avoid him?"

Briefly Caragh recounted to her sister the litany of transgressions the viscount had committed. However, as she'd feared, Ailis appeared unimpressed.

"A penny-press tale of rumor and innuendo," Ailis said with a wave of her hand as she returned to packing up her brushes and paints.

"So I had hoped. But concerned about your deepening friendship with him, I asked Quentin to investigate the alle¬gations. He did—and what I've just related is fact, not rumor. I'm sorry, Ailis, but surely you see you cannot continue to associate with a man who has shown himself to possess so reprehensible a character."

Ailis shrugged. "So he keeps opera dancers and actresses. If that offense renders a gentleman unacceptable, I should have to give the cut direct to half the men of the ton."

"He did more than that, Ailis. Making mistresses of women of a certain class is regrettably all too common, but there is a code of behavior to which even such gentlemen adhere. 'Twas offense enough that Lord Freemont dallied with servant and shop girls, but when he trifled with a girl of his own station, he transgressed beyond redemption. To seduce such a girl and not marry her—to make her an outcast among her own class and a disgrace to her family, is just not done, Ailis!"

"How do you know she did not pursue him? I, for one, have no trouble imagining a girl finding him fascinating enough to willingly forfeit her family's good opinion and her place in society. And how many 'gentlemen' would refuse a comely woman if she threw herself at his head?"

"Even if it transpired as you describe—though I take leave to doubt that any gently-born girl, no matter how lovestruck, could be heedless enough to actively seek her own ruination— a true gentleman would have refused her. And quietly returned her to family. Besides, there's the matter of the...illegitimate children he's sired."

"Once again, a natural and certainly not uncommon oc¬currence among gentleman who take mistresses. As long as he provides for the brats, I cannot see what all the fuss is about."

Exasperated and alarmed, Caragh stared at her sister, trying to understand the girl's seeming acceptance of actions she herself found unforgivable. Was Ailis dismissing Caragh's ar¬guments simply because she resented being ordered to give up her friend? Or could she honestly excuse Freemont's prof¬ligate and irresponsible behavior?

Shrinking from that disturbing conclusion, she persisted, "Even if it is as you say, do you really see no harm in the viscount's having allowed a girl to ruin herself and her child, subjecting the innocent babe—his own innocent babe—to the lifelong shame of illegitimacy?"

Ailis shrugged again and resumed packing her supplies. "The girl was most likely content. And if she did regret it later—though I can't imagine why anyone would regret being excluded from a society as vain, boring and hypocritical as ever I predicted before coming to London—'twas her own fault for not knowing what she wanted."

At least at this moment, Ailis was not going to be brought to admit Freemont's guilt, Caragh realized. Submerging her distress over what that might say about her sister's character, she shifted her focus to the more pressing task—getting Ailis to shun the viscount.

"If you cannot see his culpability, I am sorry. But society considers his character flawed, and so do I. Holding that view, I cannot allow you to associate with such a man and put at risk your own reputation and your chances to make a good marriage."

Caragh paused, bracing for the reaction, but intent upon packing her supplies, Ailis did not even glance up.

"I've instructed Evers," she continued after a moment, "that we will no longer receive Lord Freemont. I expect you to respect that decision. I further expect you to refrain from seeing Lord Freemont, or speaking to him should we chance to encounter him—even at the studio."

With that, she had the dubious pleasure of knowing she had once again captured her sister's full attention.

Ailis set down a vial of paint and turned to face Caragh, her eyes narrowed. "Society may do as it likes, and so may you. But Holden has been a friend to me—a friend who un¬derstands and shares the things I consider important! How dare you forbid me to see him? Is not attending these endless social functions punishment enough? Do you wish to make me totally miserable?"

"What I wish," Caragh replied, trying to hold on to her temper, “is to secure you a future that allows you to continue doing what you want. You know the only way you'll be able to pursue your artistic ambitions is to marry a congenial man who will approve of that goal! Destroy your reputation by associating with Holden Freemont and you'll destroy any chance of achieving that."

"Smile sweetly, say nothing of substance, and marry, marry, marry! Faith, how sick I am of that refrain!" Ailis retorted as she flung her last brush onto the case and then flounced to the window.

Her own temper dangerously near a boil, Caragh stalked after her. "Then perhaps you'd better remember that if you don't marry, marry, marry, after father's death your dowry will become a part of the estate—to be dispensed, along with all funds, at Cousin Archibald's discretion. Papa has always indulged your passion for painting—but how willing do you think our dear cousin will be to spend money on canvas, paint or lessons? Be sensible, Ailis!"

Though her sister's rigid jaw, flashing eyes and rapid breathing spoke of a fury that might already have galloped far beyond the reach of reason, Caragh grabbed her sister's arm and forced her to turn around. "You will listen to me! Papa's lawyer already agreed to make your having sufficient funds to continue your painting a part of the settlements when you marry. I hope and trust you will find a gentleman with whom you wish to spend your life. But even should you not, surely you can see it would be easier to cajole some starry-eyed contender for your hand to agree to those terms than to try to v persuade Cousin Archibald to do so! Is giving up Lord Free¬mont so much compared to safeguarding your artistic future?"

"Cousin Archibald," Ailis hissed through gritted teeth, "can go to devil!" Jerking her arm free from Caragh's grasp, she once again stormed away.

At this last evidence of intransigence, Caragh's reserves of patience finally ran out. "Very well," she said to her sister's retreating back, masking her anger and irritation behind a ve¬neer of calm. "But heed this, and heed it well. We made a bargain before we left Sudley that you could pursue your painting while I found you a husband—which, if you continue to associate with Lord Freemont, will become impossible. If you refuse to give him up, there is no point in our remaining here. Defy me in this, and we will return to Sudley at once."

Ailis stopped in mid-stride, then slowly turned to face Car¬agh. "You would stop my lessons and drag me back to Sud¬ley?"

"I don't wish to do so. But if I must, I will."

Her face contorting in rage, Ailis grabbed the nearest object—a small vase from the bedside table—and hurled it at Caragh, who, with years of experience in dealing with her sister's wrath, ducked out of the way.

As the vase shattered against the far wall, Ailis shouted, “I hate you! And I hate this shallow, useless society you keep pushing me to move in! I won't give up Holden, I won't give up lessons and you cannot make me!" Tears beginning to spill from her vivid blue eyes, she crossed her arms and glared at Caragh.

Shaken and near tears herself, Caragh glared back. "No, I cannot make you behave. But I can restrict your actions until you've calmed down and had time to think. I'm sending word to Mr. Frank that you are indisposed and cannot come to your lesson today. Perhaps you can use the time to envision what your life will become if you refuse to comply—and end up losing your lessons forever."

"You wouldn't!" Ailis gasped.

Caragh strode to the bell pull. "I'll have Mary take him a message at once."

Tears flowing freely now, Ailis stared at Caragh. "Get out!" she cried at last. "Get out and stay out! Oh, how I h-hate—" her words ended in a sob.

"I know," Caragh said softly as her sister flung herself on her bed, weeping, "how you hate me."

Heartsick and weary, knowing she could accomplish noth¬ing else until Ailis calmed, Caragh left. The pain in her throb¬bing head now so intense she feared she might be sick, Caragh stumbled back to her room by blind reckoning, jerked on the bell pull and sought her bed.

Numbly she waited for the maid to bring her cold com¬presses and headache powder. She could only hope after the storm of fury had passed, Ailis would recognize the truth of her arguments and honor their bargain—so that Caragh would not have to carry out her threat.

CHAPTER 6

Lady Catherine's townhouse seemed uncommonly quiet when Quentin arrived that night to escort the ladies to Lady Cavendish's rout, a circumstance soon explained when the butler conveyed to him that neither his mistress nor Miss Ailis intended to go out. Only Miss Caragh awaited him in the salon, the butler explained.

Surprised and a bit concerned, he followed the servant down the hall, curious to hear Caragh's explanation for her missing relations.

His concern intensified the moment he walked into the sa¬lon. So pale and drawn was Caragh that alarm overpowered that punch-to-the-gut physical awareness that hit him now whenever she came near.

"What is it, Caragh? Are you ill?" he asked as soon as Evers withdrew.

"I must look wretched indeed for you to greet me thus," she answered wryly, motioning him to a seat. "I've a bit of the headache still, but otherwise I'm quite well, thank you."

"Evers told me your aunt and sister would not be down. Is the malady contagious? Or," he guessed, reading the ten¬sion lingering in her eyes, "did Ailis treat you to a scene that left both her and Lady Catherine prostrate?"

For a moment the pain in her eyes intensified and she sighed. "I suppose there's no reason to mask the truth—not from you. Yes, I'm afraid it was rather wretched. Just hearing about it second-hand was enough for Aunt Kitty to take to her bed."

Anger at Caragh's supremely self-absorbed sister shook Quentin again. "You told her she must no longer receive Freemont...and she took it badly?"

"About as badly as you could imagine. Not only does she refuse to admit his unsuitability, she vows she will not give him up. To which I threatened to remove her from London and her precious art lessons. To demonstrate how seriously I meant that, I cancelled her lesson today and compelled her to remain at home. Whereupon she locked herself in her room and now refuses to admit anyone."

Once again Quentin felt that deep compulsion to take her in his arms. He settled for grasping her hand and squeezing it. "I'm so sorry, Caragh. It must have been awful for you."

To his horror, her chin trembled and tears welled up in her eyes. Before he could think of some comment to avert the impending flood, she pulled her fingers free of his and swiped at her eyes.

"It...it was, but you needn't worry that I'm about to turn into a watering-pot. Between Ailis and Aunt Kitty, I've had enough of scenes and sobbing! Still...I—I only wish Ailis realized I'm trying to do what is truly best for her."

"She blames you."

Pressing her lips together again, she nodded.

Once again, Quentin yearned to gather her against his chest, offer the comfort of a sympathetic shoulder. But he dared not, any more than he could give voice to his furious opinion that Ailis should remain in her room on bread and water until it finally penetrated her single-mindedly selfish skull that Caragh not only had her best interests at heart, but for years had submerged her own needs and wishes to care for her su¬premely unappreciative sibling.

Caragh took a shuddering breath, pulling him from his men¬tal recriminations. "Maybe you were right," she said softly. "Perhaps it is wrong of me to try to force her to marry when she has so little inclination. But neither can I give her free rein to ruin herself and bring scandal down on poor Aunt

Kitty's head! Perhaps I should just pack us up and head back to Sudley—even if I have to drug Ailis and lash her to the carriage to get her there."

"I'll bring the laudanum and the rope."

Her unexpected gurgle of a laugh surprised him—and warmed him to his toes.

"Oh, Quent, I'm so glad you stopped by! But I mean to release you from escorting me tonight. As Ailis will not be in attendance, I won't need reinforcements to head off poten¬tial disaster. And since I myself shall be doing nothing more dangerous than attempting to explain Ailis's absence to her hordes of disappointed suitors, I believe I can manage on my own."

"Perhaps you ought to stay home and rest as well," he replied, giving her tired face another inspection.

"Here?" She gave an eloquent shudder. "After Ailis's tan¬trums and Aunt Kitty's swooning, even the vestiges of a head¬ache aren't enough to keep me in this abode of lamentation! No, a few hours of ordinary conversation with individuals not in the process of railing or fainting sounds quite appealing! However, since I imagine you consider such entertainment rather tame, I acquit you of the duty to come with me."

Though Quentin had been tempted at first to accept Caragh's offer and hie himself off to the more congenial sur¬roundings of his club, he decided upon the spot to squire Caragh—and make sure she enjoyed herself.

For one evening at least, he vowed, still furious with Ailis on her behalf, someone would make Caragh's happiness a priority. Unfortunately, he had a hard time keeping his mind from contemplating ways of distracting her from her familial troubles that had little to do with ballrooms or society banter.

Firmly squelching such thoughts, he replied, "On the con¬trary! I'd been looking forward to it."

At her raised eyebrow, he grinned. "Looking forward to spending time with you, then," he amended. "And supporting you, as you have so often supported me. That's what friends do for each other, after all."

Her eyes lifted to his, then roved his face before stopping to linger on his lips. "Yes...friends do," she said, almost in a whisper.

The intensity of her glance was as potent as a touch. Quen¬tin's lips burned from it, and suddenly from deep within him boiled up a fierce need to pull her into his arms, to feel her lips, rather than her gaze, upon his own.

Before he could decide whether or not to commit such in¬sanity, Caragh turned away and called for her wrap. Shaken, Quentin wasn't sure whether to be relieved or regretful.

Amusing Caragh turned out to be much easier than Quentin had expected, given the tumultuous day she'd suffered.

By the time they climbed into her coach, she'd masked her troubles behind her habitual calm. With a few well-informed questions about the problems he had encountered at the new property, she soon launched a conversation about pasturage and tenants that outlasted the wait in their hostess's receiving line.

After that, he stood aside while she greeted and consoled a crowd of gentlemen disappointed at the absence of her sister. Still, Quentin noted that several discriminating men in the. group lingered after the others wandered off, evidently as in¬terested in Caragh as they were in her more striking sister.

Garbed in another new gown of pale green that brought out the hazel of her eyes—and whose simple, unadorned style once again emphasized the ample curves of her body—she was lovely enough to engage any gentleman's interest. Con¬cern over her distress had at first muted his awareness of her as a woman, but by the end of their carriage ride, he was once again uncomfortably conscious of her strong physical allure.

The orchestra struck up a tune, and one of the gentlemen led Caragh off. A number of other couples left for the dance floor, thinning the company around him until he was rather too visible to matchmaking mamas for comfort. Not wishing to fend off any who might approach, Quentin strolled after Caragh into the ballroom.

She was dancing with Lord Sefton, an affable baron a few years Quentin's senior. And though that gentleman appeared to be making proper conversation, Quentin noted his eyes fre¬quently dropped to the attractive décolletage beneath his nose.

He would be tempted, he thought, eyeing the man with distaste, to stalk over, pull Sefton aside, and demand that he stop ogling Caragh as if she were some Covent Garden bal¬lerina. Except that he suffered from a similar fascination him¬self.

Nor was he the only gentleman watching her. Sir Desmond Waters, one of the group that had surrounded her after they left the receiving line, had also drifted into the ballroom and stood near the dance floor, his attention fixed on the graceful lady in the pale-green gown.

Unsettling as it was to see her the object of masculine attention, Quentin knew it was nonsensical to allow that to ir¬ritate him. After all, as she'd pointed out back at Sudley, no less than Ailis did Caragh need to marry, and nowhere else would she find a larger selection of potential husbands. Though Quentin would prefer that they go on as they always had, at least in his head he understood how prudence de¬manded that Caragh take advantage of her time in London by fixing some worthy gentleman's interest—a development, he reflected gloomily, that would inevitably bring about changes in their relationship.

Unless...he could insure their friendship changed as little as possible by promoting a match between Caragh and one of his friends!

His spirits rebounded as he considered the advantages of such a plan. If Caragh chose a friend of his as husband, since the man would already be assured of Quentin's honorable character, he was unlikely to be jealous or mistrust Quentin's long-standing relationship with his bride. Quentin, in turn, could be assured that Caragh wed a man worthy of her. Meld¬ing the two separate friendships into a single, comfortable whole would be much more feasible were he already on in¬timate terms with both parties.

In addition, knowing she was his friend's wife would re¬inforce his efforts to ignore her physical appeal.

Yes, he decided, promoting such a marriage for Caragh offered his best chance to see her suitably settled while pre¬serving their relationship with as few alterations as possible.

To devote full concentration to this delicate matter, he'd have to put off his own search for a spouse. But since he'd prefer to have Caragh's assistance in that, and she would be unable to focus on his affairs until her troublesome sister was safely riveted, he'd most likely have to wait on that anyway.

Besides, he was in no hurry to get leg-shackled. Unlike a maiden who needed to marry in her tender years, he was just coming into his prime. And as long as his refurbished for¬tunes, if not his looks, remained intact, he thought sardoni¬cally, there would be no shortage of eager aspirants to the honor of becoming his wife.

After subjecting his catalog of unmarried friends to a rapid mental review, he set off through the ballroom to hunt down the most likely contenders. To his satisfaction, he spied the man at the head of his list, Lord Alden Russell, in conversa¬tion with their hostess.

Waiting until Russell extricated himself from that garrulous lady, he waved his friend over.

"Quentin, well-met!" Alden said as he approached. "Have a glass of champagne with me in honor of my escaping Lady Cavendish without promising her a dance!"

"Since it's that lady's champagne, it hardly seems fitting," he said, grinning. "Besides, I'm about to entreat you about something myself."

"Please, no accompanying you to inspect some weed-infested acreage in the wilds of the country!"

"It was just outside York and the inn where we stayed had, as I remember, a very superior claret," Quentin countered. "But this request should be a pleasure. Are you acquainted with Miss Sudley?"

Alden groaned. “Please don't tell me you need me to dance with some squinty-eyed ape-leader dear to the heart of your sainted mother! Perhaps I should throw myself on our host¬ess's tender mercies after all."

"She's hardly an ape-leader," he assured Alden, accepting the glass his friend snagged for him from a passing servant. "Miss Sudley is the lady in green—dancing over there."

Alden lifted his quizzing glass in the direction Quentin in- , dicated. After subjecting Caragh to a head-to-toe inspection, he let his gaze linger, as Sefton's had, upon her bosom.

"My apologies for maligning you;" he said, turning back to Quentin with a grin. "I'd be happy to dance that little lady into a dark corner."

Although Quentin had often traded such assessing remarks with his friends, with Caragh the female being assessed, he found Alden's comment unexpectedly irritating. "That little lady," he replied rather stiffly, his enthusiasm for Alden as a potential suitor dimming, "is a good friend of mine."

Alden's grin widened. "Wouldn't mind making her a good friend of mine—that is, if you've not already put your bid in?"

"My 'bid?' This ain't the Cyprian's Ball," Quentin replied, his irritation increasing. "Miss Sudley is a lady, you'll re¬member."

"And a particular friend, you said? Meant no disrespect, as you should know." He cocked an eyebrow and studied Quen¬tin. "Sure you haven't an interest there yourself?"

"Only in seeing that, as she is newly come to London, she meets gentlemen of the better sort. Though I begin to doubt my wisdom in including you in that number," he added.

"Quentin, you wound me!" Alden protested, clapping a hand to his heart. "I'm the soul of gentility."

"See that you demonstrate it. Miss Sudley, you might re¬member, is my neighbor at Thornwhistle. I imagine you've heard me speak admiringly of her on any number of occa¬sions. An intelligent and charming girl."

"Then I should be delighted to do the pretty. You'll intro¬duce me?" He placed a hand on Quentin's elbow and urged him forward.

By now Quentin was beginning to regret he'd approached Russell, but having come this far, he couldn't fob the man off without truly offending him. Reluctantly he allowed himself to be led onward. “I suppose so. But I must warn you to treat her...gently. She's had a rather agitating day, and for once does not have to chaperone her younger sister. I want her to enjoy the evening."

Alden snapped his fingers. "Now I recall the name! She's the elder sister of the new blond Incomparable?" He halted and subjected Caragh to another long look. "Lovely enough, though she can't hold a candle to the chit, which is why I didn't recognize her, I suppose. The duenna's night to play the belle, is it? Well, we shall just have to see that she does." .

Alden picked up his pace, angling for the edge of the ball¬room floor where Caragh had just made her final curtsey. Quentin had no choice but to trot in his wake, already ques¬tioning the wisdom of what he'd just set in motion.

"Thank you, my lord, for a delightful dance," they heard her say to her partner as they approached.

Lord Sefton patted her hand. '"Tis me who should thank you, m'dear, for having the courage to allow such a heavy¬weight to guide you about the floor."

Caragh laughed. "Nonsense! I've seen you in the field, my lord, and there's not a better rider to the hounds at any weight.  I'd not otherwise have allowed you to buy one of Sudley's best colts last spring." As she gazed up into her partner's face, she spied Quentin approaching, and a smile leapt to her lips.

"Coming to claim a dance, I hope, Lord Branson?"

A shaft of delighted gratification warmed him as he bowed to her. "Miss Sudley, Lord Sefton. I believe you know my friend, Sefton, but allow me to present him to the lady. Lord Alden Russell, Miss Sudley."

Caragh murmured a polite greeting and curtseyed. While Russell's salute of her fingertips was entirely proper, Quentin felt he retained her hand a tad longer than necessary. And need he stand quite so close?

"I've been eager to meet you, Miss Sudley," Russell said. "Branson tells me you are a most accomplished lady—a fair Athena, able to train any horse to bridle."

Sefton shook his head approvingly. "Indeed. The Sudley stables breed the best hunters in England!"

"Hardly the 'gray-eyed Athena,'" she said, looking at Al¬den with heightened interest. "You are a student of the clas¬sics, Lord Russell?"

He shook his head, an engaging smile on his lips. "Not a scholar of your father's caliber, I fear."

"Fair Athena" indeed, Quentin thought, throwing Russell a disgusted look. "Miss Sudley inherited her grandfather's eye for horseflesh," he said, determined to fix the conversa¬tion in more prosaic channels. "In the course of stocking my properties, I've inspected the best animals on the market, from Devon to Yorkshire to Coke's at Norfolk, and I've seldom seen a farm produce such consistently superior beasts."

"The colt I purchased has certainly proved superior, m'dear. I hunt with three mounts now—switch from one to another to keep 'em from tiring, carrying my twenty stone over a good long chase! Though that horse of yours has such heart and speed, I swear he'd go the distance and none the worse for it—not that I mean to let him, of course. Dash it, I'll offer you a thousand guineas if you'll promise to sell me another come spring."

"A generous offer, my lord, but I'm afraid all the foals for this spring are already bespoken."

"You must promise me one next year, then. Truly, you should persuade your papa to expand your operation. You've a steady customer in me, and I daresay I know a dozen more who'd leap at the chance to purchase Sudley stock."

Caragh shook her head regretfully. "Though I've often dreamed of doing so, I fear we haven't sufficient pasturage at Sudley to expand."

"Perhaps Sudley should buy more acreage, ma'am," Rus¬sell said. “It so happens that I have a farm that might be suitable—prime fields, but rather at a distance from my other holdings. Since the tenant chose to emigrate to the Americas when the lease ran out, I've decided to sell it rather than seek a new occupant. I should be happy to offer it to your father— and gain myself such a delightful new neighbor."

To Quentin's irritation, Russell accompanied that speech with a beguiling smile that caused Caragh, innocent of dalli¬ance as she was, to blush. "Thank you, my lord. I shall cer¬tainly keep the possibility in mind."

As the orchestra tuned up, couples filtered past them to the  floor. "If I might have the honor of the next dance, Miss Sudley?" Russell asked.

Did Quentin only imagine her directing a brief, longing glance toward him? After that short pause, she replied, "I'd be delighted, sir."

As Russell walked past him to claim her, Quentin stayed him with a hand. "She's an innocent, remember," he mur¬mured in Alden's ear. "Rein in the flirtation."

"I'll be artless as an altar boy," Russell promised, a gleam in his eye as he pulled free and offered Caragh his hand.

Damn, it would turn out to be a waltz Alden had purloined.  Disgruntled more than he wished to admit, Quentin could do little but remain at the edge of the floor making desultory conversation with Lord Sefton, who soon sought out a more encouraging audience.

Watching Caragh dance with Russell, Quentin found him¬self noticing small details he'd never particularly noted before. Such as how a man was permitted to clasp his partner so closely, 'twas virtually an embrace. That when danced ener¬getically—and Russell was certainly energetic—the waltz's spiral patterns allowed a man to spin his lady in circles diz¬zying enough that she cried out in mingled alarm and exhil¬aration, while her breasts, temptingly displayed by the low décolletage of her gown, rose and fell rapidly with exertion.

Gritting his teeth, he looked away from the sight. Russell couldn't seduce her in a single dance, after all. Quentin would do better to stop watching their progress around the floor like a hound held back from the hunt and concentrate on conjuring up other, more suitable prospects for Caragh.

Though he tried to keep his mind on that important matter, his glance strayed with lamentable frequency back to the floor. Alden's gaze seemed to be focused where it should be, on Caragh's face. Still—wasn't he clasping her rather too closely, even for the waltz? And continually inclining his lips to her ear, as if murmuring some intimacy?

Two actions in which Quentin could not permit himself to indulge, he thought with some indignation.

He took a deep breath and tried to soothe away his annoy¬ance. Just because he must restrain himself around her, surely he wasn't...jealous of Alden's ability to act freely.

He had about succeeded in calming himself when the dance ended. However, rather than escorting Caragh back to where he stood waiting, Alden took her elbow and began to walk her away from Quentin.

Puzzled, Quentin stared for a moment at their retreating figures before an explanation occurred. That blackguard better not be attempting to take her out into the garden! With a flash of indignation, he sprinted after them.

Instead of guiding Caragh to the tall glass doors leading onto the balcony, though, Alden turned aside and disappeared with her into the hallway.

A deserted anteroom would be just as bad as the shadowy garden, Quentin thought grimly, as he dodged through the crowd after them. Before his temper heated any further, though, he burst into the hall—and saw they were still stroll¬ing down the passageway.

As he quickly narrowed the distance between them, Alden glanced over his shoulder. The amused twitch of his friend's lips told Quentin he wasn't at all surprised to find him in rapid pursuit.

"You seem in a bit of a hurry, Quent," he drawled. "Hunt¬ing someone?"

"We were about to partake of some refreshment," Caragh said. "Would you join us?"

"I'm sure he would," Alden said. "Branson does like to remain close to his friends.''

"My pleasure, Miss Sudley," Quentin replied, throwing Alden an annoyed glance over Caragh's head.

After tussling over who would procure Caragh champagne and a plate of fine slivered ham, the threesome moved to a   small table. “Miss Sudley, you must tell me more about the horses you raise—before I claim my second waltz," Russell said.

"Unfair," Quentin found himself objecting. "I've not yet had the pleasure of even one waltz with Miss Sudley."

Caragh looked up at him, her eyes widening with surprise and her cheeks turning pink. “I should be happy to waltz with you, Lord Branson."

Then he remembered the implications: Caragh in his arms, her soft brown ringlets teasing his chin, her rounded curves almost but not quite touching him. The mere idea of holding her that close tightened his body and made his senses swim. Which was exactly why, he belatedly recalled, he'd meant to avoid waltzing with her!

But he couldn't fob her off now, leaving the field to Rus¬sell... or disappoint the eager anticipation he read in those great hazel eyes.

Take her home, he decided. If he could persuade her to leave now, he could avoid both the danger of waltzing with her himself and the threat inherent in allowing Russell to do so.

"But how thoughtless of me!" he exclaimed. "I should rather have asked if you were feeling up to it. Though you've done an excellent job of masking it, with the heat and candle smoke so thick in here, your head must be paining you more than ever. Allow me to escort you home instead. I know you must be anxious to check on your aunt and your sister." Quentin turned to Alden. "Miss Sudley's relations were a trifle...indisposed this evening."

Even as imperative as it was to part her from Alden, Quen¬tin felt guilty for the worry that immediately shadowed her eyes.

"Perhaps you are right," she conceded. "I do still have the headache a little, and I should like to check on...my re¬lations."

"Allow me to escort you," Alden interposed quickly. "You could console me for the loss of that second waltz by giving us an opportunity to become better acquainted. I'm entirely trustworthy, as Branson will attest! You can rely on me to get you home safely."

Over Caragh's head, Russell gave him a disingenuous smile. Quentin felt a sudden urge to slap it off his erstwhile friend's lips.

"I'm sure I can," Caragh was replying, "but I'm afraid Ailis would not be able to receive you tonight. Tomorrow, however, if you wish to call, I trust she will—''

"Miss Sudley, when I call, it won't be to meet your sister," Russell interrupted softly.

Lips still parted, Caragh stared at Alden, confusion on her face until the import of Russell's words finally registered. Once again her face colored and she lowered her eyes, stut¬tering some inarticulate reply.

Quentin had to grudgingly concede his friend some credit for making Caragh, accustomed to being relegated into the background by her sister's dazzling beauty, realize that a man might find her desirable, not just as a conduit to her sister, but in her own right.

Credit he might give, but not to the point that he'd allow Alden the prize of escorting her home. "Kind of you, Russell, but there's no need for you to go out of your way. I'm con¬cerned myself about Lady Catherine, who is a dear friend. As I'd planned to stop in to check on her in any event, I will escort Miss Sudley."

Once again, Alden's sardonic grin told him his friend didn't believe a syllable of his excuse for dispensing with Alden's presence. "Based on your greater acquaintance with the ladies, Branson, I will relinquish my claim—this time. Miss Sudley, I look forward to becoming as great an intimate of...your family as my Lord Branson."

With a flourish, he caught Caragh's hand and brought it to his lips. "You may count on me to call tomorrow, ma'am. Quent—many thanks for your diligent efforts on my behalf." He executed a cocky bow and walked away.

"Ass," Quentin muttered. "Ask," he repeated hastily as Caragh looked over. "Must ask the butler for your cloak. Shall we go?"

Her gaze lingered on him a moment as if she, too, found his behavior odd, but he was thankful that she did not take him to task for it.

"Very well," she murmured. "I must admit, I am rather weary. I shall be very happy to fall into my bed."

Oh, that I might fall there with her. The thought escaped before he could quell it. Perspiration breaking out on his brow, Quentin seized Caragh's elbow and hurried her down the hall to the entrance, where he hailed the butler and requested their wraps.

It was more than past time to see his "good friend" safely home.

CHAPTER 7

But once they'd entered the carriage for the: ride back to Lady Catherine's, the anxiety he saw in her eyres once again held his physical impulses in check.

"You fear Ailis will still be angry?"

Caragh sighed. "Yes. I've never seen her in ssuch a temper. She's grown ever more...independent-minded siince we've ar¬rived in London. I increasingly worry that at some point, she will cease to pay even a modicum of attention to my advice and do something truly rash. And if she shouldl, with the in¬terested gaze of the ton fixed on her, there will be no hiding it or explaining it away, as I might to our friends and neigh¬bors back at Sudley."

"Very likely she shall do nothing more rashi than indulge herself in a good cry," Quentin said, trying to set Caragh's mind at ease and hoping his words proved true. “In any event, should you need me to contain any potential damage, I hope you know you have only to ask."                                           

She gave him a tremulous smile. "Truly, Quent, I don't know what I should do without you!" Gazing up at him with tear-sheened eyes, she squeezed his hand.

An instant of her touch reheated all his simmering desire. Neither did he know how he could do without her—without the soft, trembling lips that, with just a slight downward bend of his head, he might claim. Without caressing the curves he knew lay concealed beneath her cloak, without turning the troubled shudder of her sigh into agitation of quite another sort.

Surely she must be as aware as he of currents flashing between them! As if responding to his thought, her eyelids fluttered shut and she leaned those seductive, barely parted lips closer.

Even as his rational mind screamed at him to tear himself out of the magnetic pull she exerted, he inclined toward her, until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his own lips—

With a jolt, the vehicle stopped, jerking him away from her. The rush of cold air admitted as the carriage door was opened swept him back to sanity.

With more force than he'd intended, he pushed Caragh to¬ward the open door. After a shocked second of immobility, during which he couldn't seem to summon a word of expla¬nation or apology, she scrambled off the seat, leaving him gazing into frigid night air.

Damn and blast! he swore silently, his hands shaking as he  gathered his hat and cane to follow her. If he couldn't manage to maintain better control over himself than this, he was going to ruin everything.

Furious with himself, he remained a few prudent paces be¬hind her as they mounted the entry stairs. Better bid her good night immediately, before midnight and moonlight led him into doing something even more foolish.

When Evers met them at the threshold, he waved away the butler's offer to relieve him of his coat and hat. And for the first time since the...he couldn't come up with a word to adequately describe the madness that had seized him back in the carriage, Caragh looked at him.

Her face seemed as serene as ever, though the light from the hallway sconces was too dim for him to be certain.

"Will you not stay while I see about Ailis and Aunt Kitty?" she asked, her voice calm and unrevealing.

"No. Upon reflection, both ladies are probably already asleep. Don't disturb them on my account."

He should apologize, and he would—later. In his still-muddled state of mind, he couldn't think how to do so without opening the way for a discussion of the whole incident, something he was too fog-brained to handle now.

"Very well," she replied after a slight pause. "I'll bid you good night, then."

“I must go out of town again tomorrow, but expect to be back by nightfall, so if you have need of...anything, send me a note. I will call as soon as I return." He swept her a bow. "Good night, Caragh."

She stared at him another long moment, her expression unreadable, and then dipped a curtsey. "My lord. Thank you for your escort, and may you have a safe journey."

Having turned down the footman's offer to find him a hackney, Quentin paced off into the chilly night. A brisk walk would steady his nerves and help him sort out how to end, once and for all, this irrational behavior.

If he had been able to practice the years of self-discipline necessary to restore his fortunes, surely he could manage the far simpler task of controlling his physical appetites!

Except that thus far, it had not proved all that simple. Since he knew he possessed willpower in abundance, it appeared he must be consistently underestimating the strength of Caragh's allure.

That troubling conclusion stopped him in mid-stride.

If his response to her was proving impossible to prevent and very difficult to control, perhaps remaining platonic friends was not so wise a policy after all.

A flare of excitement flashed up from deep within him at the prospect of allowing his frustrated impulses free rein. Ah—to be able to touch her, taste her, follow this fascination as far as it took them!

But she was not a Cyprian with whom he could amicably part once the initial excitement of an affair faded, he re¬minded himself. Touching Caragh meant springing the trap of wedlock.

Which might be a joyous bond, if passion cooled from its first, fast boil to a permanent simmer while leaving every other facet of their relationship unchanged. But if, after the initial fever of lust chilled, they were confronted with the wreckage of a friendship, wedlock would become a prison of life-long regret.

Was the gamble worth the risk? For a moment Quentin teetered on the edge, enchanted by the prospect of what might be, daunted by the threat of what might be destroyed were he to act on his desires.

In the end, once again he could not quite persuade himself to chance losing the precious and familiar by taking that bold, irreversible leap.

Better instead, he decided, to first give one more go to finding a suitable suitor for Caragh—someone, he thought, recalling with resentment Alden's subtle digs, less insinuating than Russell about Quentin's interest in Caragh and more cog¬nizant of the privilege Quentin was offering in allowing him to court her.

Someone, too, that he could stomach seeing dance with and woo and touch Caragh as he himself could not.

Quentin couldn't at this moment envision such a man.

But enough reflection for one night. Tomorrow, while on the road to and from his property, with his mind and body freed from the witchery Caragh's presence seemed to work on him, he would think further about the matter.

Feeling suddenly weary, he summoned a link boy to find him a hackney. Yes, tomorrow he'd be able to make sensible, responsible decisions that would keep the treasure of their friendship undamaged. But just for tonight, as he drifted to sleep, he would allow himself to remember again the thrill of her lips almost touching his while her sweet honeysuckle scent filled his head.

Her emotions and impulses still in turmoil, Caragh silently watched Quentin walk out. After dismissing Evans and the footmen, she went into the salon, poured herself a glass of port and took it up to her chamber.

Dispensing with her maid as soon as the girl had assisted her into her night rail, Caragh dropped wearily into the wing chair before the fireplace. A few sips of the fortified wine warmed her throat but could not banish the chill in her heart. Telling herself sternly that she would not weep, she rested her head in her hands.

For a while she'd almost let herself hope. There'd been between them the same simmering urgency she always felt, but tonight Quentin seemed acutely aware of it as well. For all that he'd introduced her to Lord Russell, he'd loitered close by, watching them, and she was certain, had whisked her away from the party to avoid letting his friend waltz with her. And then in the hackney—just when she was certain Quentin would kiss her at last, he'd brusquely pushed her away.

As if revolted by her behavior and, most likely, his own.

She might as well face the fact squarely. Quentin Burke would not be drawn against his will into acting on his attrac¬tion to her. And he had a stronger will than any man she knew.

Are you sure? a little voice asked. Could she force the matter, exploit the heat flaring between them to push him beyond control?

Seductive as the idea was, after brief consideration she dismissed it. Given his behavior tonight—and she had no reason to believe his reactions were likely to change—should she succeed in seducing him, he wouldn't thank her for it. No, he'd likely be even more revolted than he'd seemed tonight— and angry with her besides, for breaking her word and tricking him into something he didn't want. Rather than gain a lover, she might very well destroy what remained of their friendship.

Friendship. With what she really wanted just out of reach, the word had a bitter, almost taunting resonance. Did Quen- tin's friendship mean enough that she was willing to endure being with him, longing for so much more than he was willing to offer?

She took another sip of the wine, considering. But the ache of wanting him and the ache of losing him were so inter¬twined, she gave up trying to decide which would be worse. She was too weary and disheartened, and besides, she had other problems to face.

She should tiptoe in and check on Ailis. Aunt Kitty must be asleep already, else she would have left word for Caragh to come up when she returned and relate every detail of the party she'd missed. Although her sister might be sleeping also, Caragh could at least gauge her current mood by seeing if her door was still locked.

She finished the last warming sip of port and fetched her wrapper. Quietly she slipped from her chamber and walked down the hall to her sister's door.

The latch, when she tried it, was still locked fast. She hesitated, but as she could see no light emanating from beneath the heavy oak panel, she decided not to call out her sister's name.

Ailis had evidently gone to sleep still nursing her anger, so there was no point rousing her now. Perhaps, Caragh thought without much conviction as she returned to her own chamber, by tomorrow morning, after a refreshing night's sleep, her sister might be more reasonable.

She herself slept poorly, disturbed alternately by dreams of an angry Ailis pelting her with paint jars and an aloof Quentin avoiding her. Soon after dawn she gave up the attempt and summoned a startled maid to help her dress.

Annie, the girl her aunt had assigned to serve both sisters, confided as she helped Caragh into her morning gown that Miss Ailis had remained in her room all evening, refusing to grant admittance to anyone, even the kitchen maid who brought up her supper tray.

Caragh descended to the breakfast parlor where, owing to the early hour, she was able to dawdle over tea and butteral toast in blessed solitude. Her head still hurt, her heart still ached, and she really would prefer not to have to deal with another of Ailis's tantrums.

But delaying the confrontation would only wind her nerves tighter. After lingering in the library until the hour was sufficiently advanced, contemplating possible ways to reason or bribe or charm Ailis out of her temper, she squared her shoul¬ders and purposefully mounted the stairs to her sister's room.

The latch, when she tried it, was still locked tight.

Irritation stirred. 'Twas more than time for her sister to stop acting like a selfish, spoiled child who considered only her own wishes and needs. Ailis must start recognizing the real¬ities of the society in which they lived and realize that her conduct affected not only her own position, but Caragh's and Aunt Kitty's as well.

She rapped sharply on the door. "Ailis, it's Caragh. Open the door, please! I'll ring for your chocolate and we can talk."

She waited, but neither a reply, nor the soft pad of ap¬proaching footsteps answered her demand.

She knocked again, harder. "Ailis, wake up! If you wish to be ready for your lesson, you must rise now. Be quick about it and we might even be able to arrive early. While you prepare, we can discuss that...other matter like calm and rational beings."

Still no response. Anger rising, she pounded on the oaken panel until she felt certain even a heavily-sleeping Ailis could not possibly ignore the ruckus. "Ailis, open the door now!"

But when the echo of her rapping died away moments later, she was left with nothing more than raw knuckles and a swiftly rising sense of grievance. "Very well, Ailis," she said to the stubbornly closed portal. "I'm going to fetch the house¬keeper's keys. Whether you wish it or no, talk we must, and we will do so now."

Caragh stomped away. By the time she'd tracked down the housekeeper and borrowed her keys—an easy task, as that lady was more than happy to be spared the risky job of disturbing the tempestuous beauty—her anger was tempered with a niggle of worry.

Surely Ailis hadn't become so incensed that she'd done herself a mischief? No, 'twas nonsensical, Caragh reassured herself, damping down a sudden spiral of fear. More likely she'd open the door to find nothing more alarming than a roomful of splintered crockery.

Despite that soothing thought, her fingers trembled as she turned the heavy key in the lock. "Ailis, I regret having to invade your privacy," she called out as she walked across the threshold, "but you've left me no..."

As Caragh glanced around the chamber, her heart leapt in her chest and the rest of her words were washed from her lips, as if by water spilled over newly-inked parchment.

The heavy window curtains were still drawn, leaving the chamber dimly lit. But even in the shadowy half light, Caragh could see the room was neat as a nun's cell, the assortment of painting supplies that normally cluttered the dressers and tabletops vanished. The bed linens were drawn up and tucked in, appearing already made up for the day...or never slept in the previous night.

Propped against the pristine pillows reposed a note in her sister's scrawling hand, addressed to Caragh.

CHAPTER 8

Her heart pounding in cadence with her throbbing head. Caragh tore open the folded piece of vellum and scanned it. The message was predictably brief.

Caragh, I am off to do what I must. I shall be taken care of, so don't worry.

A

Her first shock giving way to a sick numbness, Caragh drew open the drapes and methodically surveyed the room.

Ailis must have left sometime the previous evening. Never concerned about tidying up after herself, Ailis would not have smoothed the bed linens had she rested even briefly.

As Caragh expected, the wooden chest in which her sister transported her art supplies was gone, along with all the brushes, paints, oils, and varnishes that filled it. Were she embarking on a journey of any length, Ailis would sooner leave naked than without her paints.

Next Caragh threw open the clothes press. Missing were the old gowns her sister had brought with her from Sudley, as well as her new day and afternoon gowns and her riding habit. Missing also were her warmest pelisse, an assortment of kid half-boots and her sturdy walking shoes.

Nearly all the dinner and evening garments still hung in isolated splendor to one side of the half-empty wardrobe, the crystal beading on the gown nearest her winking in the dim light like a mocking eye.

Caragh closed the door on it and walked over to the bureau.

A few spangled scarves and some mismatched gloves lay scattered like driftwood at ebb tide on the bleached wood of the empty drawers that had previously been stuffed with her sister’s garments.

Her last hope that her sister's flight might have been an impulsive, short-lived exercise in pique expired. Ailis had taken all the belongings she needed to live a life outside society—permanently.

As that dismaying conclusion shocked through her, on legs gone suddenly rubbery, Caragh sank into the chair beside the untouched bed. Choking down the nauseating panic rising in her throat, she seized her sister's note and read it again.

Going to do what I must... Which would mean painting without restrictions, of course. / will be taken care of...

Smoldering anger revived to displace the panic. Caragh knew of only one person likely to "take care of" her sister while allowing her artistic bent free rein. That notable rake and patron of the arts, Holden Freemont.

Caragh leapt up, her momentary weakness banished in a swell of grim determination. Her most urgent task was to trace her sister and drag her back home quickly, before word of her disappearance leaked out. Whether or not to press Ailis to continue with their original plan of finding the girl a husband was a decision that could wait until her sister was recovered, though Caragh's first inclination was to give up what increas¬ingly seemed to be a nearly impossible, and certainly thank¬less, endeavor and take the girl back to Sudley.

But first, she owed it to Aunt Kitty to find Ailis before her sister's typically heedless and self-absorbed action not only ruined the girl's reputation, but humiliated her innocent aunt as well.

That Ailis had obviously thought nothing of repaying all Caragh's efforts on her behalf with the worst sort of scandal cut deeply, but she damped down the hurt to be dealt with later. Squelched too were the guilty recriminations already whispering at her that somehow she should have foreseen this...that she had obviously been too indulgent and should, over the years Ailis had been in her charge, have worked harder to mold her sister's headstrong nature to conform to their society's standards.

Briskly she exited the room and relocked it. She'd likely have a lifetime to regret the path that had brought her to this moment. She must focus now on finding Ailis before anyone in the household discovered she'd fled.

Setting her mind to work on that problem, she paced back to her chamber, sending a passing footman to summon Annie and carry a message to the stables.

A pity Quentin was out of town, she thought as she pulled her riding habit from the wardrobe. His discretion was un¬questioned and his assistance would certainly have proved useful. But with every moment carrying her sister farther from London and closer to a scandal that could ruin them all, Caragh didn't dare await his return.

By the time the maid knocked at her door, she'd concocted a plausible, and partially truthful, story. "Annie, help me into this habit, please."

"Of course, miss." The maid hurried over to attack a row of tiny buttons. "Beggin' your pardon! If'n I'd a knowed you was to ride, I woulda had the habit ready."

"Tis my fault. I, ah, neglected to mention earlier that Lord Branson requested my assistance at his new estate outside London." Quentin had said he'd appreciate her advice on the choice of a new manager there—sometime.

"Don't worry," Caragh added hastily to quell the look of distress coming over the girl's face, "I know carriage travel makes you queasy, and in any event, 'tis so slow that I prefer to ride there." Also true—though his new estate was not her destination today. "I'll take a groom, so you may remain comfortably here in London."

"Why, that be right kind of ye, miss! Are ye sure ye'll not be needin' me?"

The fewer who observed this little errand, the better, Caragh thought. "No, I shall be perfectly fine. Rob will watch out for me."

'I'he buttons accomplished, Annie went to fetch the riding hat while Caragh pulled on her boots and gloves. "I'm not sure how long I shall be away," she continued. "Please ex¬plain to Lady Catherine when she wakes that since I'll have Rob's escort, and probably Lord Branson's as well for the return journey, she needn't worry if I'm late."

"Yes, miss, I'll tell her when she rises."

"And Annie, I've had...communication with Miss Ailis ihis morning." Which she had, in a manner of speaking. "She's not...recovered from her agitation, so I've relocked her door and ask you to insure that the household leaves the room undisturbed until my return."

"But what of meals, miss? She had no dinner last night."

"When my sister takes a notion in her head, eating loses all importance."

Annie looked dubious, but nodded her compliance. "Very well, miss. I'll have Evers inform the household."

Nodding a dismissal, Caragh gathered up her crop and strode from the chamber. Though she was nearly certain Holden Freemont was a party to her sister's flight, she should first make sure. So, although propriety dictated that a single lady never called upon a gentleman, as she ran lightly down the stairs, she decided to go first to Lord Freemont's townhouse.  If  he had indeed run off with Ailis, she thought acerbically, the small detail of Caragh's paying him a call unchaperoned would be more than lost in the furor over that much larger scandal.

As she exited the house, she found her mare and Rob the groom awaiting her at the foot of the entry stairs. Bidding the man to follow her, she set off immediately.

As she rode that short distance, her mind flitted though a tangled undergrowth of possibilities like a mouse pursued by a hawk. If Freemont had gone off with her sister, were they headed to Gretna Green? Surely even a rake of Lord Free¬mont' s ilk wasn't so lost to decency as to aid a gently-born maiden to flee her home without intending to marry her.

He'd not flinched from such a thing before, she recalled.  But that girl was a member of a rather obscure family. Though the ton accorded its privileged males much more leeway than the females, surely if Freemont were to compromise one of Society's newest Diamonds and then not marry her, he would find himself as ostracized by the ton as her sister.

The scandal would be bad enough even if they wed over the anvil. However, much as she loathed the idea of calling such a scoundrel "brother," the consequences to the whole family if the two did not wed were so dire that for the present, Caragh didn't wish to even contemplate them.

Moments later, they arrived before Lord Freemont's house on Mount Street. Now to bluster her way in. Taking a deep breath, Caragh dismounted and handed the reins to her groom, who went wooden-faced once he realized at whose dwelling they'd stopped—and what his mistress meant to do.

•She turned and walked purposefully up the entry steps, the disapproving stare of her groom burning into her back. No matter how this turned out, she thought with a sigh, he'd have quite a tale tonight with which to regale the residents below stairs.

Having been mistress of a large estate for ten years, Caragh soon overcame the initial reticence of Freemont's butler to part with any information concerning his master. A few mo¬ments later she walked back out on shaking knees, having confirmed that Holden Freemont had indeed left London in his traveling chaise the evening previous. Bound not for Scot¬land, or so he'd told the servant, but for his estate in the country.

Which meant ruination for them all, if Ailis had in fact left Berkshire in Freemont's company. Once remounted, Caragh sat with the reins slack, dread a cold lump in her gut as she fought down a paralyzing sense of helplessness and forced herself to concentrate on determining what she should do next.

Would Ailis have journeyed with the viscount, even after determining he had no intention of marrying her?

For several moments Caragh sat pondering the question, eventually concluding with chagrin that, tempted by the freedom to paint without restrictions and a strong infatuation for the handsome aristocrat, her sister would probably not be overly upset to discover that Freemont's destination was not Gretna. Ailis had ever protested she had no interest in mar¬rying.

Still, the viscount, though wild, was older and more knowledgeable than her heedless sister. Upon further reflection, Caragh simply could not believe that Freemont would throw away his own standing in the ton to run off with her sister without intending marriage.

Perhaps, she tried to rally herself, Ailis had warned Free¬mont that her family was going to forbid her to see him, prompting the viscount to suggest they elope. Wishing to delay any pursuers who might seek to stop them before the couple could reach Gretna and be safely wed, he might have deliberately given his butler erroneous information.

Caragh could only hope 'twas so. Armed with that hope and the detailed description of Lord Freemont's carriage she'd bullied out of a footman, she decided to ride out of London and check for news of the fugitives at the first few posting stops along the Great North Road.

A crested, red-lacquered coach with its wheels picked out in yellow should be notable enough that some tollgate keeper or posting-inn groom would remember it.

"Miss, which direction do ye wish to ride? The horses be gettin' restless."

"North, Rob," she replied, wheeling her mount aroun "We ride north."

Her goal was Islington, first stop on the road toward Gretna. The nature of her quest making it impractical to withhold the information any longer, during the ride there Caragh confided to the groom the barest outline of what she suspected. The shock and censure she'd steeled herself to see did indeed flash through his eyes. But Rob made a quick recovery, generously offering to do anything he could to help her recover her missing sister.

Taking him up on that pledge, as they neared the town, Caragh sent Rob to canvass the establishments on the left while she stopped at those on the right. Between them, they questioned landlords and stable boys at every inn and hostelry along the main road. But even with a small coin as a prod to the memory, no one recalled seeing a coach matching the description they gave.

Thanking heaven that they had set out early, with the stoic groom in her wake, she pressed on toward Barnet, stopping now at each of the villages along the way. By the time they reached this second major junction, Freemont should certainly have needed to change horses.

Whatever hope she still cherished of catching up with a sister bent on a runaway marriage slowly died as, one by one, they interviewed the landlords and stable masters of all the posting inns around Barnet. Not a single one recalled servic¬ing such a vehicle or speaking with its commanding, aristo¬cratic ebony-haired owner.

Freemont might have avoided stopping at a public inn by changing horses at the home of some friend along the route, but such a possibility was slim, and she knew it.

In any event, Garagh did not have sufficient funds, baggage or retinue to continue pursuing the fugitives up the Great North Road. If she wished to check the main road to Berkshire and still return to London before nightfall, she would have to turn back south now.

Hours later, a weary, heartsick Caragh rode back into London.   Her exploration along the road to Berkshire had been as fruitless as her trek north. It seemed that her sister and Freemont, if she indeed had left the city in his company, had taken neither route.

Fear, worry and anger roiled queasily in her empty stomach. Though she'd urged Rob to fortify himself with meat pies and ale at several of their stops, she herself had been able to stom¬ach only some strong, hot tea. Especially since, with afternoon waning, she'd been forced to turn their horses once again back toward the city. Though she knew better than to commit the folly of continuing to search until nightfall caught them alone and unprotected along the London road, it went against every feeling and instinct for Caragh to return to Aunt Kitty's with her sister's whereabouts still unknown.

But as she jolted toward Mayfair on the last of the ill-gaited job horses they'd hired that day, a new inspiration revived her flagging spirits. Calling Rob to follow, with a last, desperate surge of hope she urged the placid beast to a trot and headed east toward the City.

Maximilian Frank's studio was located on the top floor of a building near Covent Garden. Keen as her sister was about her lessons, there was a chance that, even if Ailis had per¬emptorily decided to leave the city, she would have somehow contacted her mentor to let him know her plans. And if she had, Caragh prayed she might have informed the artist where she meant to go—and with whom.

Looking startled and a bit embarrassed, Frank's maid ush¬ered Caragh to the small downstairs parlor. Her master was working and could not at the moment be disturbed, the girl said, resisting Caragh's demand that she be allowed to speak with the artist at once.

Not until Caragh threatened to bypass the girl and go up unannounced did the maid finally concede to allow Caragh to follow her, muttering darkly that Mr. Frank was going to be that put out. Reaching the top-floor studio, she banged on the door, announcing in strident tones that Miss Sudley was without and insisted on speaking with him immediately.

After a long pause, during which the maid threw Caragh a resentful glance, the door finally opened. Pressing her last coin into the maid's hand, which brightened the girl's face considerably, Caragh walked past her into the studio.

Clad in a velvet dressing gown, his hair in disarray, the artist surveyed her with a glance that was half-irritated, half-amused. "Miss Sudley? To what do I owe the honor of this...unexpected visit?''

On a divan half-hidden behind a screen adjacent to the easel at the center of the studio lounged a very beautiful and nearly naked woman. Her cheeks heating, Caragh realized just what sort of work had been in progress.

Refusing to let embarrassment hinder her, she said, "Mr. Frank, I apologize for bursting in upon you in so unmannerly a fashion, but the matter is urgent. May...may I speak with you in private, sir?"

The maestro's thin lips quirked in a smile. "Since I've already been...interrupted, I suppose you may. Florrie, fetch more wine, won't you, love? This shall take but a moment."

In a languid uncurling of limbs, the girl rose, arranging about her a diaphanous wrap that did little to conceal charms the artist was still observing with obvious appreciation. Seem¬ing fully conscious of the effect she was having on half her audience, the girl glided over to them, letting her body brush against Mr. Frank as she passed. She tossed a dismissive sniff in Caragh's direction before she exited, as if to imply she had no worries that this mud-spattered, hollow-eyed aristocrat would distract her paramour for long.

After the beauty's departure, the artist at last focused on Caragh. His bemused smile changed to a look of genuine concern.

“You seem upset, Miss Sudley. Please, take a chair. Can I you some refreshment?"

"No, thank you, I shall stay but a moment. I must question you on a matter of some delicacy, sir. I trust I can rely on your discretion?"

At his nod, she continued, "I...I am looking for my sister, Mr. Frank. She left my aunt's house sometime last evening and we have had no word of her since. I have reason to suspect she may have gone in the company of Lord Freemont.  As you can imagine, it is imperative that I find her and bring her home as soon as possible."

"Did she leave you no indication of her intent?"

"There was a note, saying she was doing what she must and for me not to worry. As you can see, 'twas much too vague to be of any use in discovering her whereabouts. Would you happen to have any idea where she has gone?"

“As a matter of fact, I believe I do. That is, I was aware of your sister's ultimate plans, though I did not realize she intended to put them into effect this soon. Please cease wor¬rying, ma'am! I'm sure your sister is quite well. Indeed, it was very bad of Ailis not to be more forthcoming, but if my suspicions are correct, you will find her not three streets from this very house. Where, you see, she has set up her own stu¬dio."

For a long moment, Caragh stood stunned. During this long day of searching and soul-searching, she had considered many possible explanations for her sister's disappearance—but never this. She could not have been more astounded if the artist had told her Ailis had decided to tread the boards at the nearby Theatre Royal.

"Her own studio?" she echoed, finding her voice at last. "But—why? How? How could she have arranged such a thing?"

Maximilian Frank shrugged. "Your sister is a painter of great talent, Miss Sudley. She told me her chief ambition to make her living as an artist. I, for one, believe she can do so. For particulars of the actual arrangements, you'll have to ask Ailis, but I believe Holden helped her find a flat and negotiated the terms."  .

Worse and worse! "Lord Freemont is k-keeping her?" Caragh asked, barely able to choke out the words.

The artist raised an eyebrow. "As to that, I couldn't say.   Why don't you talk directly with Ailis? Unless I'm much mistaken, I believe you will find her at 21 Mercer Street, top floor."

At that moment, the dark-haired model opened the door. In the sudden silence engendered by her reappearance, she walked back through the room, hands cupping a crystal de¬canter of wine. As she bypassed Caragh, she allowed the belt of her robe to slip, gifting the artist with a full view of her naked torso. "Don't be long," she murmured.

Frank licked his parted lips, his gaze riveted on the girl's hip-swaying progression. After watching her rearrange herself on the divan, he finally recalled Caragh's presence.

"You now know everything I do," he said, motioning Car¬agh to the door. "Mercer Street, top-floor flat. Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Sudley?"

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Frank, and I apologize again for disturbing you."

"No trouble, Miss Sudley. I can understand a sister's con¬cern." His glance sympathetic, he paused to pat her hand. "You mustn't be too angry with Ailis, my dear. When her head is full of a project, she forgets everything else, a common failing among artists, I fear."

After an exchange of goodbyes, Caragh walked out, the door closing behind her practically before she cleared the threshold. Numbly she descended the staircase.

And she'd thought that Ailis running off to the countryside was the worst thing that could happen! With a laugh that bordered on the hysterical, she almost wished her sister had left with Freemont. Better flight to the rural fastness of Berkshire than Ailis ensconced, probably with her lover at her side, right in the middle of London under the soon-to-be fascinated gaze of the ton.

Even worse than ruination in Society's censorious eyes would be Ailis's apparent intention to set herself up as an artist. Falling victim to a fatal passion could be understood, if still condemned. Betraying her birth and class by sinking to the level of a hired workman would be neither understood nor forgiven. If Mr. Frank's supposition were in fact true, Ailis would become an outcast shunned by all.

The social damage to the rest of her family would be almost dire. Caragh uttered a groan. How was she to break the awful news to Aunt Kitty?

Though all she wished was to return to her chamber, lock the door, and pull the pillows over her aching head, she must first discover the truth of Mr. Frank's information. Mustering the last of her strength, she steeled herself to pay a call at Mercer Street.

CHAPTER 9

Ten minutes later, Caragh stood before the door of a top-floor apartment, her stomach churning with a mixture of ea¬gerness and dread. Feeling in her bones the ache of every mile she'd ridden this endless day, she knocked.

The door opened—to reveal a girl in the gray gown and mobcap of a maid. At least it wasn't Freemont, she thought, trying to quell a sudden lightheadedness as she released the breath she'd not realized she'd been holding. "Is...is your mistress Miss Ailis at home?"

"Who should I say is calling?"

So Ailis was here. Relief at finding her sister safe warred with the dread of realizing that the devastating scandal she had ridden all day in hopes of avoiding was now almost cer¬tain to overtake them. "Her s-sister," Caragh replied, her voice breathy as she struggled to get the word out. "But you needn't announce me. I'll show myself in."

Brushing past before the maid could protest, Caragh crossed the room, which contained a sofa and several arm¬chairs buried under a quantity of boxes, to the door at the far side.

Hand on the latch, she paused briefly, squelching an hys¬terical bubble of laughter as she wondered what she could dredge up to say to the girl she'd nurtured and loved for years. The girl she'd discovered today she did not know at all.

Slowly she pushed open the door—to discover her missing sister within, arranging art supplies on shelves that lined one wall.

"Oh, Caragh, it's you,"  Ailis said, giving her a brief glance. "Now isn't a good time to visit. I must get these paints organized so I can resume work tomorrow. Do you recall whether the order I placed for brown ochre was delivered last week? I can't seem to find it."

Her sister's tone was light, conversational—as if they'd parted only a few hours ago after a cozy tea. As if Caragh had been fully cognizant of Ailis's plans and location. As if she had not spent the whole of a very long day galloping around greater London, half out of her mind with worry over her sister's safety, reputation and future.

Fatigue disappeared, incinerated by a blistering rage that flamed up out of every weary pore. For a moment she was too incensed to speak.

"Well, don't just stand there," Ailis said, looking her way again. "Since you're here, do something useful. There's an¬other box of paints on the workbench—be a dear and start unpacking it for me."

"Ailis, I didn't come here to help you unpack!"

"No?" her sister replied, too intent upon her task to spare Caragh another glance. "Then why did you come?"

"Because I've been in the saddle since near dawn this morning, riding over the best part of two counties trying to find you!"

This time when Ailis looked up she met Caragh's gaze, eyebrows raised quizzically. "How could you possibly think I would leave London? My teacher, my work, are here."

"If you'd been a bit more specific in your note, I would have been spared an anxious and exhausting day!"

"Did I truly not mention where I was bound? Well, I was a bit rushed when I wrote. How did you find me, then?"

"I finally thought to pay a call on Mr. Frank, who directed me here...to your—studio?" With a sweeping hand motion, Caragh indicated the open room with its wide, north-facing widows, shelves filled with painting supplies, rolls of canvas stacked against the wall and to one side, a screened-off area containing a bed and dresser.

Ailis drew herself up proudly. "Yes. My studio."

"Ailis, do you really intend on...living here?" 

"Of course. I hadn't thought to move in just yet, but then you enacted me a Cheltenham tragedy over Holden and I just couldn't tolerate any more. Fortunately, I already had the key for the flat, but it took all evening to pack my clothing and most of today to have the furnishings delivered."

"Was taking this studio Lord Freemont's idea?"

"He did suggest it, but I had planned on something of the sort from the very beginning."

It took a moment for the import of that statement to regi¬ster. As comprehension dawned, Caragh said slowly. "You...decided to do this before we ever left Sudley?"

Her sister nodded. "Why else do you think I agreed to come to London?"

So Ailis had allowed Caragh to draw in Aunt Kitty and organize a Season in which her sister had intended all along to participate only until her true goal could be realized As that incredible conclusion struck her, Caragh's saddle-weakened muscles seemed no longer adequate to support her.

She tottered to a chair. "Ailis, how could you deceive us so?"

Her sister shrugged. "Would you have arranged for me to come here had I confided my true intentions?"

That question being rhetorical, Caragh addressed another pressing concern. "But how shall you live? You cannot think Papa will frank you."

Her sister gave an airy wave of the hand. "Oh, I shall be quite all right. Before we left, Papa authorized me to draw on his bank for a considerable sum."

"Papa sanctioned this? I don't believe it!"

"Well, he didn't precisely sanction it," Ailis replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "You know how he is, Caragh.  I simply drew up the draft and presented it, telling him it was a matter of estate business. He signed it without looking up from his dictionary. I've already obtained one lucrative commission, with a promise of others. Holden has been a darling as well, helping me last night after I left the house and using his carriage to transport all my things. I don't know how I would have managed without him."

"Has he offered you carte blanche?" Caragh asked bluntly.

"He offered, but I declined." Ailis smiled—a satisfied, cream-pot, knowing smile. "He is my lover, though, a thoroughly delightful one! Though so indiscreet, the rogue, that I imagine soon everyone will know."

Ignoring Caragh's gasp, Ailis sighed and pronounced in theatrical tones, "I fear I am quite ruined—just as I intended. Now you will have to cease pestering me about a ton marriage and leave me alone to pursue my art."

Stung to the quick, Caragh retorted, "All I ever wanted was to secure your future so you might do as you wished!"

"Then you accomplished your aim, for I am doing so now."

Anger surged once again to the fore. "Ailis, did you even consider what doing—" she waved her hand to encompass the room "—this will mean to Aunt Kitty? To me?"

Ailis sniffed. '"Twill be a seven-day's wonder, no more. I expect Aunt Kitty can visit some friend or other until the gossip dies down. As for you, Caragh, I suggest you stop trying to live vicariously through the triumphant Season you've been pushing me toward since I was in short skirts and do something with your own life. And I don't mean tend¬ing Papa. Haven't you learned by now he will never notice or appreciate anything you do for him?"

Sentence by sentence, her sister's brutal, hurtful words piled like stones on her chest, making breathing difficult and response impossible, even had she been able to think of any¬thing to say.

But Ailis didn't seem to expect a reply, for before Caragh could begin to dredge from her shattered emotions some sort of rebuttal, she continued, "It is rather late. If you aren't going to make yourself useful, you might as well go back to Aunt Kitty's and let me finish. I must begin work at first light."

Beyond words, almost beyond movement, Caragh stumbled to her feet and mutely walked to the door. Behind her, her sister had already resumed unpacking her boxes. "Higgins, put this tin of varnish on the shelf next to the oil. Careful, you clumsy girl! Don't drop it!"

A few moments later Caragh found herself back on the street with no memory of having descended the stairs. Rob met her at the door, his tired face lined with worry. "Did you find Miss Ailis? Is she all right?"

"Yes, Rob, she is here, and quite well. I'm afraid I dragged you about all day on a fool's errand."

Obviously not knowing how to respond to that, without comment Rob assisted her to remount. So drained was Caragh that she could barely support herself in the sidesaddle.

Yes, she'd been a fool, a pathetically blind, complacent fool! She would have laughed, had she not feared if she did, she would end by cackling uncontrollably—or dissolving into tears.

The stark fact was that Ailis was lost to Society—and her family—by her own choice. She'd made it clear she neither expected nor wanted anything further from them.

Somehow Caragh was going to have to break the news to their aunt—and figure out what to do with herself next.

After practically falling out of the saddle before Aunt Kitty's house, sustained by pride alone, Caragh steadied her¬self and walked up the stairs. Sore of heart and body after the day's ordeal, all she wished for was a long soak in a hot tub and the oblivion of sleep.

But she knew she must first speak to Aunt Kitty, slim as her reserves were for dealing with the hysterics her revelations were likely to produce in her excitable aunt. Having no idea where Ailis might have jouneyed today while in the process of moving her belongings, and therefore no idea who might have seen her in Holden's carriage, it was imperative that aragh warn her aunt of the scandal about to descend upon them—before some saccharine-toned acquaintance delivered the news with sweetly false commiserations.

She half expected to find the house already in an uproar when she returned, but apparently her sister's mercurial dis¬position was well-enough respected by the staff that no one had ventured to interrupt her self-imposed isolation.

By now, Rob was certainly being grilled by the other ser¬vants on his day-long absence. Though she'd asked him to return noncommittal replies until she'd had time to acquaint her aunt with the facts, she knew the news couldn't be hidden much longer.

After passing her sister's still-locked door, Caragh found her aunt with her maid, completing her toilette for whatever entertainment she'd chosen to attend that evening.

"Caragh, dear, you're back!" Her opening smile faded as she took in her niece's bedraggled appearance. "My, you look...well-aired. If you hurry, you still can bathe and change in time for Lady Standish's rout."

"I'm rather tired, Aunt Kitty. I should prefer to stay home."

"I thought you might, after riding about all day. So ener¬getic! Well, did you help Lord Branson accomplish his tasks?" Lady Catherine threw her an arch look. "Such a dear boy! I do hope he appreciates all you do for him."

Emotion clogged her throat when she considered Quentin's probable reaction to today's fiasco. She wasn't sure which would hurt more—his outrage at Ailis's actions, or the sym¬pathy he was certain to offer her.

One heartache at a time, she told herself, fighting back the tears. Having reached the limits of her emotional endurance for today, she would not think about Quentin.

"Aunt, I must speak to you on a matter of grave impor¬tance."

A look of apprehension came over Lady Catherine's face. "Grendle, would you fetch my gold-spangled shawl? I left it in the library, I believe." As soon as the maid left the room, she turned to Caragh.

"It's Ailis, isn't it? I did knock at her door this afternoon, thinking certainly by now hunger would have overcome tem¬per, but she refused to answer. She...she hasn't done herself an injury, has she?"

"Not exactly. You might rather say she's done us an in¬jury." Caragh motioned her to a chair. "You'd better sit, Aunt Kitty."

"Dear me!" her aunt cried, sinking into an armchair. "I knew I should have removed that Meissen vase from her room! Your uncle brought that back from India for me, and 'twas one of my favorites!"

"I'm afraid 'tis worse than broken pottery." Caragh sighed deeply. "There is no gentle way to phrase this, so I'll just say it directly. Ailis left your house in secret last night. I discov¬ered her missing this morning. Fearing she might have eloped with Lord Freemont, I concealed her absence and spent all day riding about, trying to trace her."

"Lord have mercy!" Lady Catherine wailed. "Please, tell me you found her and brought her safely back!"

"She is safe," Caragh said, patting her aunt's hand. "But...but I could not convince her to come home. Aunt Kitty, I'm afraid she's rented a flat near Covent Garden and set herself up as an artist. She intends to support herself by painting."

For a long moment Lady Catherine stared at Caragh as if she were speaking in tongues. As the full import of the news slowly penetrated, the look on her aunt's face went from anx- ious to horrified. "Ailis intends to w-work?" she asked, her oice wobbling. "As an...artist? Here in London?"

Fortunately, Caragh had already located her aunt's vinaigrette, for, after uttering those awful words, her aunt's shocked face slackened and she fainted dead away.

Calling for the maid, Caragh caught the lady before she slid from her chair. Some ten minutes later, after a copious application of hartshorn and burnt feathers, with reinforcements from Lady Catherine's maid and two footman, Caragh man¬aged to get her distraught relation to bed.

But the scene that unfolded before her aunt finally ex¬hausted herself into sleep, filled with sobbing, lamentation, and calls upon a merciful Providence to send her to an early grave, was as awful as Caragh had imagined.

When at last Caragh was able to seek the solace of her own chamber, the tisane she'd ordered for her headache steaming at the bedside, she felt wretched enough for the grave herself. The soothing concoction dulled her headache from a ham¬mer's pounding to a sharp ache, but though she was exhausted in body and desolate in spirit, her mind kept circling round and round the same path like a mouse trapped in a feed bin, making sleep impossible.

Ailis was correct about one thing. Regardless of what Car¬agh decided to do in future, there was no point in remaining in London for the present, to be talked about and pointed out by the curious every time she and Lady Catherine left the house. Aunt Kitty would probably suggest they retreat to the home of her good friend in Bath to weather the initial storm of gossip.

For a moment, a ghost of anger stirred. Lady Catherine loved her life among the London ton. For her aunt's sake, Caragh prayed that Ailis's iniquities would not be perma¬nently laid at the door of the kindly relation who had had no hand in her upbringing and had sheltered her only briefly.

Her own situation was more problematic. The sister of Dis- grace, she would never again be invited to the functions of the highest sticklers, lest she bring into some proper home the taint of Ailis's wrongdoing. It was quite probable she'd be shunned by most other hostesses as well, at least until they ascertained whether Society's leading ladies had decided Caragh might still be bid to their less-select assemblies.

If she wished to elbow her way back into Society, her best course would be to return to London before the end of the Season and face down the gossip. Her chances of making a good marriage—perhaps any marriage—had vanished with the departure of her sister from this house. But since the only man she wanted had no wish to marry her, the fact that she would no longer be considered worthy of wedding a member of the ton didn't trouble her overmuch.

And what of Quentin? He'd promised to call when he re¬turned to London. Fortunately for Lady Catherine's peace of mind, he must have been delayed, for his paying her aunt a visit earlier today would have exposed Caragh's excuse for leaving this morning as the lie it was.

Which meant he'd most likely be by sometime tomorrow. Probably, if Lord Freemont were as indiscreet as Ailis indi¬cated, directly after he'd visited his club and heard the ap¬palling news.

Her heart ached at the very thought of his handsome brow creased in anger and concern. Though after the events of to¬day every other soul she knew in London might give her the cut direct, she knew he would stand her friend.

Tears she made no attempt to stem began to slip down her cheeks. How her battered spirit yearned for the words of sol¬ace she knew he'd offer!

Seeing her distress, would he put aside cautious constraint and take her in his arms, let her lean against his strength and draw comfort from his steadfast affection?

But should he allow that, with her reserves of will and strength so low, could she trust herself not to trespass beyond the bounds of friendship? Could she feel his arms about her, and not seek the touch of his lips? What if her body ignored the commands of her weary mind...her fingers pulling him closer, her lips and tongue probing for entry? Would he shove her away in revulsion, as he had the night of the ball?

A wave of remembered pain and humiliation swept through her. No, she could not bear that again! Until she had recovered from the shock and hurt of today's events, sorted out her future and was certain she could once again greet him with the cool friendliness that was all he desired from her, she had better not meet Quentin Burke.

With that bleak realization, a sense of calm descended on her troubled spirit. Yes, she would leave London—but not in Aunt Kitty's company. Her aunt, along with delivering further lamentations Caragh had no wish to hear, would press her to do the socially sensible thing and return to London as soon as possible. Right now, Caragh wasn't sure what she wished to do.

She needed peace and solitude to determine what that might be. First thing in the morning, Caragh decided, she would begin packing, and as soon as Aunt Kitty awoke, inform her that she was returning home to Sudley.

CHAPTER 10

In the late afternoon two days later, the carriage trans¬porting Caragh on the last stage of her journey from London pulled up before Sudley Court. Her sister's harsh words a goad driving her beyond sleep, she'd risen before dawn her last morning in the city to begin preparations for her depar¬ture. By the time a yawning servant tiptoed in to stir the coals on her hearth, she had her trunk already packed. Waiting only long enough to force down a Spartan breakfast and confer with her tearful aunt, before noon she'd collected her maid and departed on the mail coach.

Everything at Sudley Court looked soothingly familiar, she thought as the steps were let down. One of the footmen came to help her alight and immediately called out for Pringle, who was shocked to discover that the Young Person who'd just emerged from the hired carriage was in fact his mistress. Re¬assuring him as he escorted her into the hall that both her aunt and her sister were in perfect health, she promised to apprise him of the reasons behind her unexpected arrival as soon as she'd conferred with her father.

With his daughters no longer in residence, Pringle told her, the baron seldom left the sanctuary of his library. He'd even taken to having his meals there, instructing the staff not to disturb him except to deliver his tray. Which often remained untouched on a side table, the butler said with a disapproving shake of his head, until its successor appeared hours later.

After dismissing Pringle outside the library, Caragh eyed the firmly closed portal with misgiving. She'd had a long jour¬ney in which to ponder what to say to her father, her staff and the neighbors. Knowing there was no easy way to tell the tale, and anxious to get the painful matter over with, she'd decided to confront Lord Sudley immediately. Even if "im¬mediately” were not, she thought with a flash of resentment as she remembered her sister's words, a time her father might deem convenient.

After rapping loudly enough, she hoped, to penetrate his fog of scholarship, she entered the library.

Her father remained oblivious to her arrival, his eyes on the manuscript in front of him, his lips silently mouthing the translation he was doubtless in the process of formulating. Caragh took a moment to observe the thin, intelligent face and perpetually sad eyes of the man who had sired her.

A swell of affection rose out of the turmoil of grief, anxiety, resentment and fear to warm her briefly. She noted that the finger tapping at his manuscript was ink-stained, and as usual, his coat didn't match his waistcoat and the knot of his cravat was slightly askew.

"Papa!" she said in a loud voice. "I must speak to you about Ailis."

His brow knit briefly in annoyance, Lord Sudley glanced up. "Caragh?" he asked, only mild surprise in his voice at discovering in his library a daughter who should have been still in London. "Is it time for dinner already?"

Her absence had apparently been just another of daily life's mundane details, relegated by her father to the back of his consciousness, she realized with a pang. Quelling it, she continued, "Not quite, Papa. But I've just returned from London and I have urgent news. About Ailis."

"Ah, I recall. You took her to Kitty's for the Season. Ur¬gent news, eh? She's received an offer from a worthy young man? Excellent!"

Anxiety over her father's reaction sharpening the dull head¬ache that had plagued her for the last two days, Caragh slipped into the only armchair not stacked with books.

"N-not exactly, Papa. Ailis...decided to settle her future in another way entirely. You recall how passionate she is about her art? She...she has renounced wedlock and Society and intends to become a professional artist. I left her in London at her new studio."

Having decided these facts were upsetting enough without adding any reference to her sister's relationship with Lord Freemont, Caragh sat back to await her father's response. She had no idea, she thought with an odd sense of detachment, whether he would greet the news by weeping, tearing his hair, and accusing her of having been grossly remiss in her duty to her sister—or nodding politely in acknowledgement and returning to his work.

As understanding registered—of both the bare facts she'd recited and the implications she hadn't, Lord Sudley looked stricken, his dark eyes turning more mournful yet. Much as she'd tried to armor herself against it, at this evidence of her father's distress Caragh felt her initial guilt and anguish well up again. Desperately she blinked back tears.

After a long silence, her father swallowed hard. "She's lost to us, then?" he asked softly.

"I'm afraid so. I tried to reason with her, Papa, but she was adamant. Establishing a studio and living for her art are all she wants to do. All she intended to do in London from" the first, apparently." She sighed. "The resulting scandal is going to be rather dreadful."

After that observation, silence stretched between them. Guilt stabbed Caragh again.

Angrily she pushed it away. She would not apologize to Papa for failing to instill in her sister an adequate appreciation for her position in life and the duty she owed her family. A failure that was also, after all, at least partly her father's.

But rather than calling her to account, her father continued to gaze mutely into the distance. "The ancients would say that we must each of us do what the gods within compel us," he said at last. "Regardless of the dictates of Society."

"Ailis is certainly doing so."

Her father nodded. "Is she happy?"

Startled, Caragh realized she'd not thought to ask herself that question. "Yes, Papa," she replied, recognizing the truth of the answer as she pronounced it. "I believe she is."

Her father lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, as if to indicate there was no more to be done. "Will you go back to London?"

"I-I'm not sure, Papa." Even knowing her father's detach¬ment from everyday life, she was surprised to find him re¬signing himself to so irreversible a change in her sister's cir¬cumstances without further exclamation or argument. "I haven't yet had time to decide what I wish to do."

He nodded again and picked up his pen—a signal that their interview was at an end. "I suppose you'll inform me of your decision. Now, if you don't mind, I should like to finish this passage before dinner."

He will never notice or appreciate anything you do... Shaken by the force of the angry resentment seizing her, Car¬agh rose swiftly and fled from the room.

Having ascertained that his darling Ailis was settled and happy, her father had voiced not a single expression of con¬cern over the scandal that a normal papa would have realized had blighted any matrimonial hopes his remaining daughter might have cherished. Nor had he offered a word of sympathy or understanding about how Ailis's unilateral decision had destroyed Caragh's sojourn in London and severely restricted her choices for the future.

Biting her lip to once again quell a drip of tears, Caragh went in search of Pringle.

First she'd brief the butler on the situation, that the staff might be prepared to offer appropriate but vague responses to the uproar of questions—and no doubt, criticisms—sure to erupt once the news of Ailis's disgrace reached the county. Finally, she would write a note explaining events to Lady Arden, the squire's wife and grande dame among county so¬ciety.

She smiled a little bitterly. Would the neighbors among whom she'd grown up shun her or treat her with the same icy disdain she knew she'd be receiving in London?

Once she finished the note, she would at last be free, free from the responsibilities, the questions, the inquisitive eyes. She'd escape to the stables, saddle her favorite mare and ride.

Riding had always calmed her, quelled the headaches that built in her temples when the never-ending chores of running the estate and dealing with Ailis pressed too heavily upon her.

She'd ride now to ease the tension that had coiled tighter and tighter since the brutal interview with her sister. In blessed solitude, she would at last have the leisure to examine the accusations that had fermented like a boil in her heart, lance them with the cold steel of reflection and determine which held truth, which reflected only her sister's self-absorbed view of the world.

And come back prepared to turn the conclusions she reached into a new direction for her life.

The next morning, Quentin rode back into London. The pesky matter of breaking in the new estate manager had taken far longer than the single day he'd predicted to Caragh. Feel¬ing somewhat guilty for leaving her to cope alone with the ticklish task of cajoling her tempestuous sister, he wished to call on her as soon as possible to see how matters were pro¬gressing.

So, instead of heading for St. James Square, he directed his mount to Upper Brook Street. Pulling up his horse before the entry, still mentally rehearsing an amusing anecdote from his trip to cheer a possibly distressed Caragh, he was surprised to find a servant removing the knocker from the door.

Curious, he waited for a servant to take his mount. Al¬though he supposed the butler might have felt that, with the quantity of callers visiting daily, the brass stood in need of polishing, he still felt a tremor of unease. Surely Ailis in her pique hadn't done anything so scandalous the family thought it necessary to make an abrupt departure!

His foreboding turned out to be justified, however, when a more than normally wooden-faced Evers replied to his request to see Caragh with the information that Miss Sudley was not at home. Quentin's concern deepened to alarm when the man added, after a significant pause, that none of the ladies were presently in residence.

"Good heavens, man, what has happened? And don't try to fob me off with whatever innocuous and uninformative reply your mistress directed you to offer! I'm well enough acquainted with the family to know the truth."

Ever's impassive facade creased into a worried look. "Aye, my lord, I expect you're that. Tis not my place to divulge, nor do I know for certain, all that occurred. I suggest you seek out Lady Catherine. Her dear friend in Bath, Miss Quimbly, has taken ill and requested Lady Catherine's assistance."

So the ladies had fled to Bath! Ailis must have done some¬thing truly awful, he thought grimly. After subjecting the but¬ler to intense scrutiny, he concluded the man had indeed told him all he knew, or was permitted to impart.

“Very well., But should any of the ladies contact you, please convey to them my concern, and inform them I shall call on Lady Catherine as soon as possible."

"Very good, my lord. I expect as how my lady would wel¬come a visit."

Having unbent enough to offer that opinion, Evers resumed his impassive butler's demeanor and escorted Quentin out.

He'd lunch at his club, Quentin decided. Any action of Ailis's scandalous enough to require them to leave London just as the Season was reaching its height would likely still be the subject of conversation there.

Pausing in St. James Square only long enough to change into suitable clothes and down a tankard of ale, Quentin took a hackney to White's. The hour being rather early, the rooms were still thin of company. But among the octogenarians read¬ing their newspapers, he hoped to find at least one acquain¬tance who could fill him in on the happenings in the city over the last three days.

He was thus relieved to see in his customary chair over¬looking the bow window an older gentleman who'd been a friend of his father's—a fact Quentin had never held against the easygoing, genial old bachelor. Lord Andover was also an inveterate gossip, a trait Quentin had hitherto deplored, but which on this occasion should prove useful.

"Quentin, my boy, good to see you! Back from rubbishing about on your farms again, are you? Stap me, I cannot see how you abide all that rural rustication. Your papa would have expired from breathing a tenth of that country air."

"I'm sure he would, sir," Quentin replied, motioning a waiter to bring him a glass of wine and taking the seat adja¬cent to his lordship. "I trust you are well." He tapped the newspaper. "Events in town keeping you amused?"

"Indeed! There's just been the most interesting and unusual scandal! Concerns that beautiful Sudley chit that was making her bow this year. I say, don't you own some property in their county? Though from what I hear, you own property in nearly every county of England now. Going to become a regular Golden Ball of the Grasslands, aren't you, lad?" Lord An¬dover chuckled at his own turn of phrase.

"Not quite, my lord," Quentin replied, smiling gamely. "I do know the Sudleys, though. A scandal, you say?"

"Unlike anything I've ever experienced in my forty years in the ton!" Andover confirmed.

"What exactly transpired?" Quentin asked, curbing his im¬patience as he tried to lead the old man to the point.

But Lord Andover was not to be rushed. "I've seen a few faux pas in my day, slips of omission or commission that earned the lass who made them a trip home in disgrace. But ah, this!"

"Was the girl sent home in disgrace?"

Lord Andover grinned. "Indeed not. In fact, you being an intimate of the family and all, if you'd like the full story, I expect you could catch up with the little charmer over by Covent Garden. She's opened a studio there, I understand. Intends to paint portraits—a girl of gentle birth! Have you ever heard the like?"

"Miss Ailis Sudley has opened an artist's studio?" Quentin . echoed, horrified to his bones. If this were true, such a breach of conduct and good breeding was more than serious—it was irreparable.

"So I hear. However, I also hear Freemont spends a lot of time there, so if you pay her a call, you'd better knock loudly, if you take my meaning." The baron wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

"Lord have mercy," Quentin murmured. No wonder poor Lady Catherine had rushed out of London.

The damage to the reputation of a widow well established among the ton was likely to be bad enough. But what of Caragh? His first shock gave way to a second as he pondered the impact Ailis's unforgivable behavior would have on her sister.

It took but an instant to realize that, for an unmarried coun¬try girl with neither great wealth nor the highest of rank to protect her, the results were likely to be catastrophic—and permanent.

Though after his morning ride, Quentin had looked forward to a snug lunch at White's, he found his appetite had vanished.

Caragh would have to be devastated. He must go to her at once.

Delaying for the moment his second-strongest desire—to seek out Ailis Sudley and strangle her on the spot—he fin¬ished his wine, listening with as good an appearance of in¬terest as he could contrive while Andover went on to describe the lesser contretemps currently taking place among the ton. Then, excusing himself from lunch, he sent a footman to sum¬mon a hackney and gathered his things.

With luck and fast horses, he could be at Caragh's side by tomorrow.

The only bright note in this whole sorry situation, he thought with gallows humor as the hackney bore him back to St. James Square, was that for the foreseeable future, there would be no need to come up with a new list of potential suitors for the now-ineligible Caragh Sudley.

Within an hour he was back on the road, headed for Bath. Pushing on despite a steady rain, he managed to arrive, saddle-weary and mud-splattered, only a few hours past his original estimate. While thankfully availing himself of a bath, a hot meal, and the comfort of dry clothes at one of the city's best hostelries, Quentin sent a footman to ascertain Lady Catherine's location.

That task accomplished, he set out once again, sure Caragh  would appreciate his diligence in speeding to her side, his anxiety to see her and ascertain her state of mind sharpened by three days of worry.

The butler who admitted him seemed doubtful of his re¬ception. But after calling upon his most imperious manner to insist the man announce him anyway, then cooling his heels in the parlor for nearly half an hour, he was informed that Lady Catherine would in fact receive Lord Branson. Not until he'd supported that lady through a noisy spate of tears did he at last discover, to his extreme disappointment, that Caragh had not accompanied her aunt to Bath.

Nor, Aunt Kitty confided, still dabbing at her eyes with her saturated handkerchief, had her niece given her any word about when she meant to rejoin her, that they could begin repairing to the extent possible the damage Ailis had caused to the innocent Caragh's reputation. Which, Lady Catherine admitted, the conclusion bringing on another burst of weep¬ing, was probably not going to be very much. Her poor Caragh was ruined almost as effectively as her scandalous sister!

Having ascertained that Caragh had chosen to flee to Sud¬ley, Quentin exhausted the last of his limited reserves of pa¬tience, remaining for nearly another hour at Lady Catherine's side, inserting soothing murmurs during each pause in that lady's long lamentations about the situation. So eager was he to escape and ready himself to set off yet again, he did not even attempt to disabuse Lady Catherine of the erroneous conclusion she obviously drew about the nature of his affection for Caragh, after he let slip his intention to leave immediately for Sudley. At last, with Lady Catherine's arch blessing for being so devoted a supporter of her dear niece, he was finally able to break away.

Thoughtfully he considered the situation during his transit back to his lodgings. Knowing the ton's abhorrence for unconventionality, Ailis's behavior had likely dealt a death blow to any matrimonial hopes Caragh might have entertained. Sooner or later, he needed to take a wife—Society's opinion of whom did not particularly matter to him. Perhaps, he con¬cluded as the chair men set him down at his destination, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to turn Lady Catherine's erro¬neous conclusion into reality.

By offering to marry his best friend, Caragh Sudley.

CHAPTER 11

Two afternoons later, with a rising sense of ire, Caragh sat at the desk in the bookroom re-reading the missive the butler had just delivered to her from the squire's wife, Lady Arden.

My dearest Caragh,

I can only imagine how Distressed you must be at such Shocking Behavior by one of your Own Blood! So unfortunate That Girl's Infamy must needs cast a Shadow over your own hitherto Stainless Honor!

Rest assured, were I not at the moment Wholly Encumbered by my Duties here at the Hall, I should fly to your Side to support you in your Hour of Need.

However, there is still much to be done preparing for my Jenny's Come-Out next Season. Indeed, in view of that Important Event, and given the Tender and Impressionable Sensibilities of a Young Girl of her age, perhaps it would be best if you did not call here for the Present.

I have spoken to Mrs. Hamilton and we both feel that it would also be Advisable if you were to refrain for a Time from participating in the Parish Ladies' Benevo¬lence Association. Naturally, as the Works of that Or¬ganization reflect back upon the Church, its Members must be Exemplars of Unimpeachable Virtue. We will of course notify you when, after a Suitable Interval, we feel it Proper for you to resume your Activities with us.

In the meantime, believe me your Most Sympathetic Neighbor and Friend!

Some friend, Caragh thought in disgust, tossing the letter onto the desk. Perhaps the note wasn't the cut direct she'd likely be receiving from her acquaintance were she still in London, but given that she'd just been politely banned from calling on her neighbors and participating in their association, it constituted her rural society's nearest thing to it.

Closing the ledger she'd been perusing, she stretched her tired shoulders. Lady Arden's reaction, though disappointing from one whom she'd previously believed to be truly a friend, was not unexpected. And if such was the response she was to receive even from people who had known her from the cradle, the tentative conclusions she'd drawn during her long ride two days ago were justified.

She had little desire to "earn" her way back into a Society that would ostracize one individual for the actions of another. Or for that matter, one that would condemn a lady simply for defying its conventions.

She'd also come to terms with her sister's accusations. Ailis had been right in asserting that Caragh had wanted social suc¬cess for her, but not so she could revel in her sibling's re¬flected glory. She had only wished for Ailis to be sought after so that she might have the largest court of suitors from which to select her life's partner. Though Caragh had enjoyed the variety of entertainments London had to offer, with her main purpose for going to the city no longer achievable, she had little interest in remaining a part of the ton.

After much painful soul-searching, she had to concede there was, however, truth to her sister's allegation that for years, Caragh had assisted her father in the vain hope that he might someday notice and appreciate her. Worse, she recognized that she had acted in a similar fashion with Quentin—with similar results. Well, she would be Little Miss Do-Good-for-Everyone no longer.

Her sojourn in London, though short, had demonstrated that both the estate and her father could manage quite well without her. Quentin could hire an assistant for his manager at Thornwhistle, if the current agent proved unable to complete all his duties without her assistance.

Nor would she feel bereft at being excluded from the local benevolent association. Her main function at its meetings had been to keep the peace between Lady Arden, who considered herself the ranking female of the county, and Mrs. Hamilton, who boasted kinship with an earl and, as vicar's wife, thought her opinions should take precedence. Caragh had often re¬turned from their meetings with a headache as severe as if she'd been dealing with one of Ailis's tantrums.

Papa had asked if Ailis's new life made her happy. Caragh had not previously had the luxury of embracing a task simply for the joy of it, but now, set free by circumstances from most of her former responsibilities, for the first time in her life she was considering what she truly wished to do.

Surely an upheaval in her life as dramatic as that caused by Ailis's disgrace meant the Divine Being must be impelling her to some new purpose. And, borrowing from the ancients, she recalled Aristotle's definition of happiness as the full use of one's powers along lines of excellence.

Frightening as it was to think of being cast adrift to make her way alone, still the notion of using her talents to build a new life caused a thrill of anticipation.

Since girlhood, only in one place at Sudley had she been truly relaxed and happy—with her horses. Some of her fond¬est childhood memories were of the long hours she'd spent with her grandfather in the barn he had built to house his broodmares. His good friend and hunting crony from Quorn country, Hugo Meynell, obsessed with producing a new gen¬eration of faster hounds capable of hunting foxes on the run, had urged the late Lord Sudley to experiment with breeding horses with the speed and stamina to pace his dogs. Her grandfather had devoted the last portion of his life to meeting that challenge.

Her parents, who had met on the hunting field, had actively assisted her grandfather's endeavors. Caragh remembered viv¬idly the day when she, as a six-year-old, had proudly pointed out to a visitor the attributes of a Sudley colt. Her parents and grandfather had praised her lavishly afterward for her preco¬cious expertise—one of the few instances when she could remember receiving her father's unqualified approval.

By the time her grandfather had died the following year, the Sudley stables had become known throughout the neigh¬boring counties for producing quality mounts.

After Mama's death, however, her father withdrew from working with the horses his wife had loved so dearly, leaving the day-to-day running of the breeding operation to his agent and increasingly, to Caragh. She found it fascinating to eval¬uate the foals and decide which to retain for the program, which to sell. Exciting to see the young horses put through their paces. Exhilarating to experience the results of the care¬ful mixing of bloodlines in the fleetness and strength of the horse carrying her across the field at a gallop.

So great had grown the demand for Sudley mounts that for the last several years, all the foals expected in the spring were bespoken even before their births. As she had told Lord Rus¬sell, for some time she'd longed to be able to expand their program, but that portion of the estate at Sudley that could be devoted to pastures and horse barns was already filled to ca¬pacity.

And so she would follow her talents and turn calamity into opportunity by purchasing another, larger property to devote solely to the breeding operation. She would establish her residence there—and leave behind the family and Society that neither needed nor valued her.

As she had already been exiled by the ton, taking the radical step of living alone and earning her own bread could do her no further harm. She was confident that the Sudley stock's superior reputation would bring clients flocking to her, regardless of her social standing.

She would seize this chance to make her life over in a fashion she, and she alone, chose.

She ran a fingertip down the ledger. Under her careful stewardship, Sudley was doing well. Having worked hard for ten years to generate it, she felt justified in allotting a portion of Sudley's income to fund her plans. Quentin's friend, Lord Russell, had already indicated he had a suitable property for sale. She would send her estate manager to inspect it, and if he approved the land, she would make an offer on it.

And Ailis had even shown her how to do it. Present Papa with legal documents—such as a bank draft and authorization to move the horses and equipment—and he would sign them without question, just as he had countless times over the years.

She would, of course, need one more thing to complete her happiness. But since making Quentin Burke love her was be¬yond her control, she'd also decided to limit her dealings with Lord Branson.

He was in London to find a wife, a task with which she had no desire whatever to assist him. As his marrying would inevitably put limits on their friendship and possibly lead to awkwardness between them, it was just as well that she in¬tended to relocate away from Thornwhistle, where she would have few opportunities to torture herself with the thrilling, agonizing temptation of his presence.

For her own well-being, when she left her old life behind, she would leave behind also her friendship with Quentin Burke.

Dismissing the little voice that insisted turning her back on him would prove impossible, she focused once more on her accounts, intent on determining the largest sum for which she could responsibly write the draft. She had, she told the little voice firmly, cried all the tears she ever intended to cry over Quentin Burke. It was time to exchange girlish dreams for a woman's reality.

She turned a page, creating enough breeze to stir Lady Arden's letter and sent it drifting to the floor. Automatically Caragh bent to retrieve it, then stopped. Coward, she thought, you hadn 't even the courage to deliver your rebuff in person.

Instead of picking the letter up, she trampled it under her foot.

Her first act of defiance, she thought with a giggle as she returned her attention once more to the ledger. Ah, how good it felt!

Just as Caragh finished adding the totals for the last entries, Pringle interrupted to announce she had a visitor.

Lord Branson awaited her in the parlor.

Quentin looked up to see a coolly self-possessed Caragh walking in. "Quentin, what a surprise!" she said, holding out her hands for him to salute. "How kind of you to stop by."

Relieved to find her much like her normal self, still, he had to applaud her sangfroid. Her greeting was as conventional and her tone as calm as if she had never undergone the ca¬tastrophe of taking Ailis to London.

Despite her brave front, though, she was too intelligent not to know just how dire her circumstances had become. Indeed, tucked beside his admiration for her fortitude lurked a touch of disappointment that she hadn't run, sobbing, into-his arms.

"I didn't expect to see you here at the height of the Sea¬son," she continued as he brought her hands to his lips. "Was there some emergency at Thornwhistle?"

Surprised, he dropped her hands and stared at her. "Caragh, you must know I didn't come all the way here to inspect a farm! I want to help in any way I can. I'm so sorry I was away when...all this occurred. I came as soon as I learned what had transpired. Have you determined yet...what you mean to do?"

"Should you like tea?"

Carrying on in the face of disaster was one thing, but she was taking this business of maintaining appearances a bit far, he thought, exasperation nibbling at the edges of his concern. "If you wish. All I truly want is to tackle the problems Ailis has left you with."

"I do have a plan," she replied as she waved him to a chair and seated herself opposite. "In fact, your visit will save me writing to inform you of it. Since I intend shortly to re¬move from Sudley permanently, I shall no longer be able to watch over Thornwhistle. Its management is something for you to decide, of course, but I would recommend that you keep Manning on."

"Don't trouble yourself about Thornwhistle! Where do you mean to go? Joining Lady Catherine in Bath for a time would probably be best, so that she can assist you in planning your reentry into Lon—"

"Do not even speak of that!" her raised voice cut him off. Her face coloring, she lowered her tone. "I had only ever intended to remain in London long enough to see Ailis estab¬lished. Since, in a manner of speaking, she now is, I have no desire to return."

"Surely you don't mean to live in permanent exile from Society? Come now, Caragh, I've never known you to run from difficulty! I admit, 'twill be rather uncomfortable at first, but once the scandal dies down, persons of breeding and sense will realize that you cannot be held accountable for your sis¬ter's actions. I grant you, vouchers to Almack's are probably out of the question, but I think that..." His voice trailed off as, smiling, she shook her head.

"Quentin, I'm not afraid to go back. I don't want to go back. There is no longer anything for me to accomplish in London."

So she did despair of marrying. She expressed that dismay¬ing conclusion with such serenity that Quentin's chest tightened, tenderness at her bravery laced with anger at her sister's brutal theft of her hopes.

Before he could turn his muddled emotions into speech, she continued, "For a long time I've wanted to expand our breed¬ing operation, but there simply wasn't sufficient space here at Sudley. So I've decided to purchase another property, move the breeding stock there and devote myself to running it. Alone."

"You intend to manage a horse breeding farm—by your¬self?" he echoed, astounded. For a lone female to direct an enterprise whose primary clients were gentleman would be only slightly more respectable than opening an artist's studio. "You cannot be serious!"

She gave him a look of hauteur and raised an eyebrow. "I assure you I am. I thought you would appreciate my expertise enough to approve."

"I'm not questioning your competence—heavens, Caragh, I know better than anyone that it wasn't your Papa who so¬lidified Sudley's reputation for producing superior horseflesh! But operating the farm with your father as ostensible manager, living under his roof, is a very different matter from running it openly while residing alone! You would doom yourself to being permanently ostracized by Society, with no hope of re¬demption should you later come to your senses!"

Her expression turned frostier and her eyes flashed. "I am in full possession of my faculties right now. I love working with horses, and as you yourself admit, I excel at it. What else would you have me do? Stay on at Sudley until Cousin Archibald inherits and wrests control from me? Live with Aunt Kitty on the fringes of Society, expected to be grateful for invitations to the larger parties and less exclusive routs? Dwindle into an old maid waiting for some gentleman, down enough on his luck to ignore scandal for the privilege of spending my dowry, to honor me with an offer of marriage?''

"Of course not," Quentin snapped, exasperated. "You can marry me. It's certainly a better solution than running a horse farm!"

She grew very still, her eyes on his face. "I see," she said slowly. "You would sacrifice yourself to keep me from be¬coming a permanent exile from Society? How very...noble of you."

"Caragh, I didn't mean it like that!" Having shocked her— and himself—by rushing his fences, Quentin ran a hand through his hair, trying to redeem what even he recognized to be an ineptly-worded proposal. "I hadn't meant to blurt it out in so ramshackle a manner, but I have thought seriously about both our situations. I came here with the intention of making you an offer—and that was before I knew anything of your plans."

She studied him for a moment. "Why would you propose to me?"

He shrugged. "There's no point denying we both know your chances of making a match with any other gentleman of comparable birth and fortune are slim. And I, too, must marry sometime."

Watching her face, he could tell that un-lover-like speech was hardly convincing. Time to abandon caution and bring to bear the persuasive power of their attraction. He rose and came to her side.

"We've been friends for years, Caragh, the best of friends," he said, taking her hand. "I'd hate to see your bright mind and passionate spirit wasted in spinsterhood. I believe we could make a comfortable and congenial life together. Do you not think so as well?"

"I...I don't know. What has been between us as of late has not been...comfortable."

"Ah, that," he said, visions of Caragh in his arms—in his bed—sending a thrill through him. "It could be, I promise you, a delight." He bent to trace his lips across the top of her hand.

She jerked away as if scalded—and in truth, his lips sizzled from the heat of that contact as well. Jumping up, she paced to the window and stared out. “And what if you later met a lady who engaged your emotions—as more than a friend?"

"Since I have gone two-and-thirty years without finding such a lady, I have no expectation of doing so in future. Be¬sides, I would never play you false, Caragh. Surely you have more faith in my honor than that."

She turned to smile at him, though her eyes remained pen¬sive. "Yes," she said softly, "I have never doubted your honor.''

Quentin felt an answering smile bloom on his face. He'd surprised her with his unexpected offer at a time when she was still upset and unsettled—and who could fault her, given the upheaval in her life? Once she'd had time to consider it, surely the affection between them would persuade her he was right.

Besides, Caragh was too sensible to refuse. He knew his value on the Marriage Mart, and for Miss Sudley to bring Lord Branson to the altar would have been accounted a tri¬umph even before Ailis created her scandal.

And once she did accept him—ah, then he could sweep her into his arms and kiss her with all the passion he'd been restraining for what seemed an age.

She cleared her throat. He jerked his attention from that pleasing prospect back to her face.

"Honored as I am by your proposal, Lord Branson, I cannot permit you to make so great a sacrifice. I don't mean to be ungracious, but I have accounts to complete this morning." She walked to the door and tugged on the.bell pull. "Pringle will show you out. I hope you have a pleasant journey back to London."

Before Quentin divined what she intended, she curtseyed and slipped out the door.

For a few moments Quentin waited, before his brain sifted through the meaning of her words to arrive at the incredible conclusion that his good friend had just...walked out on him.

He'd been...dismissed! Disrnissed as if he were some ca¬sual acquaintance paying a morning call, rather than a worried friend who'd spent three days tracking her down—and had just made her an offer of marriage. No, he thought, growing more incensed by the moment, dismissed as if he were a lackey interviewing for a position she had decided against offering him.

He had galloped all the way back to Thornwhistle before his first floodtide of anger—amd hurt—receded. Reviewing their interview over a glass of wine and in the cooler light of reason, though, he had to wince. True, he'd never delivered a proposal before and the idea of her running a farm had shocked him into an unrehearsed and premature delivery of it, but he really should have done a better job of explaining his desire to wed her.

He was no expert on females, but he knew even one as sensible as Caragh probably wanted to be courted about so important a decision. Yet he'd included none of the sweet words of affection or tender vows of devotion a lady probably expected to accompany a proposal of marriage.

In fact, he'd botched the whole meeting rather badly. Cox¬comb that he was, had he reallly expected Caragh to jump at his offer simply because he was Lord Branson of Branson Park? Surely he should have known such a consideration would not weigh heavily with her. And, since he had broached his proposal as a means to salvage her reputation, she would, of course, return that gesture of nobility with one of her own, by refusing to accept his sacrifice.

By the time he'd finished off his dinner and a good bottle of claret, he'd decided he must return in the morning with a carefully written and well-rehearsed apology, followed by a much better worded proposal. One he felt confident that this time, she would accept.

He wouldn't mind letting her purchase a property and ex¬pand her breeding operation. No more than Caragh was he inclined to the idle life of the London ton, preferring the sense of accomplishment that came with hard work well done. As good as she was with horses, Caragh was sure to make a success of such an endeavor, and he would be proud to sup¬port her—as long as he was present to supervise when poten¬tial buyers came calling.

Just imagining the ribald jokes and suggestive innuendoes to which she would certainly be subject were she to pursue that absurd notion of running a farm alone made his temper rise and his hands clench into fists with the desire to pummel the yet-to-be-determined offenders.

Yes, he'd return tomorrow and be much more convincing— once he got her to hear him out. He frowned, a niggle of doubt shaking his certainty.

Caragh might be wary of receiving him, fearing an uncomfortable repetition of his arguments. Perhaps he should begin by ignoring the matter entirely, instead urging her to take him to the stables and explain her plans for expanding the Sudley operation. And then, while she was relaxed and in her ele¬ment, once again the warm, witty, welcoming Caragh he knew so well rather than the wooden stranger who had occupied the Sudley parlor today, he would deliver his much-improved pro¬posal.

Which, he devoutly hoped, his Caragh would promptly ac¬cept. For now that he truly considered the matter, to his sur¬prise, he realized he'd grown entirely too fond of his dear friend's company to let her exile herself far from him in some remote rural village.

The following day, just before noon, Quentin set out for Sudley. By this hour, Caragh should have completed her morning duties and be amenable to a stroll to the barns. Then if his mission were successful, he could utilize her father's noon break to ask for Caragh's hand.

That formality completed, he could whisk Caragh back to the parlor to celebrate their new engagement with a glass of champagne and some even more intoxicating kisses.

Concentrating on that happy outcome quelled the unex¬pected nervousness that slowed his step and tightened his neckcloth as he handed over his horse and mounted the entry stairs. His attention distracted by mentally rehearsing his pro¬posal, he only half heard the butler return his greeting.

Until the man startled him out of polishing his pretty phrases by saying that Miss Caragh was no longer at Sudley.

She had, Pringle regretted to inform him, departed this morning—for London.

CHAPTER 12

In the afternoon several days later, Caragh climbed the stairs to her room in Aunt Kitty's London townhouse. She'd sent word by messenger to Lady Catherine, begging leave to stay in the house during her sojourn in town.

To her surprise, rather than informing the servants of her arrival, her aunt journeyed from Bath to greet her personally. Though Lady Catherine did not judge that sufficient time had yet elapsed for them to attempt reentering London Society, still she wished, she tearfully assured Caragh, to lend her sup¬port through whatever trials had forced her poor maligned niece to return so soon to the metropolis.

Deciding there was no point in further upsetting her kind-hearted aunt by divulging her real reason for consulting with Sudley's lawyer, Caragh had allowed Lady Catherine to be¬lieve she had come merely on a matter of estate business for her papa. Before the end of this visit, though, she thought with a sigh as she entered her chamber, she would have to inform Aunt Kitty of her real plans—a confession likely to evoke an attack of hysteria only slightly less severe than the one brought on by the news that Ailis had set up her studio.

Poor Aunt Kitty, Caragh thought, her affection for her gen¬tle aunt tinged by no small amount of guilt. What social mill¬stones her nieces were proving to be!

Aside from that one regret, she judged the rest of her trip an unqualified success. Tossing aside her reticule, she smiled as she set down the folder of documents she'd brought back from the office of their lawyer. Mr. Smithers, having long known that Caragh and not her father directed estate business at Sudley, raised not an eyebrow at her request that he make an offer on a tract of land being offered for sale by Lord Russell. Though even the lawyer, she suspected, would be shocked at the notion of her being so unconventional as to move from beneath her father's roof to openly manage the enterprise.

She'd learned an hour ago that Mr. Smithers was now negotiating for the property and foresaw no difficulties in completing its purchase. As soon as the transaction was finalized, Caragh would return to Sudley to begin moving her livestock and equipment to the new property.

Which she hoped would be soon. She knew her brusque refusal of his suit and immediate departure must have wounded Quentin, but maintaining a cold distance—and es¬caping at the first possible instant—was the only way she survived their meeting. The urge had been far too strong to soothe her troubled spirit by throwing herself into his arms— where, for the first time, he seemed quite willing to receive her.

But only, she reminded herself bitterly, to use the power of their attraction to seduce her into accepting his... sympathy proposal. Oh, to have him change his mind about attempting to combine friendship and passion, not because he'd found her too enticing to resist—but out of pity! She still writhed at the thought. Her pride and self-respect would never forgive him that betrayal of their friendship.

Especially since, despite the lowering terms in which he had phrased it, she had been all too tempted to accept.

Her eyes stung and her heart twisted at the memory. His willingness to "sacrifice" himself for her might be noble, but she'd thought he knew—and appreciated—her capabilities better than to expect she would let Ailis's action reduce her to helpless dependence on Society's—or some well-meaning friend's—goodwill.

She'd thought she knew him well enough to expect his  support and encouragement for her continued independence, rather than a mouthing of conventional proprieties.

If he were her Apollo, she'd better take care not to become Icarus, foolishly flying closer to the object of her fascination until he destroyed her.

Enough! she told herself, putting a hand to her forehead. She would think no more on that painful and humiliating in¬terview.

But one thing she must not forget: Quentin Burke had not brought his fortunes back from the edge of ruin by being easily discouraged. If, after further reflection, he still believed her plans ill-advised, he would be back—with perhaps even more devious and seductive tricks to dissuade her.

She had better leave the City before he returned—or have her defenses primed to resist him.

The other decision she must make was less clear. Sighing, she picked up and reread the note Evers had brought her to¬day—from Ailis.

Heard from Holden that you are in town.

Please come to see me.

For a moment, she stared at her sister's distinctive, boldly-formed letters as if they held the key to the puzzle that was Ailis.

Caragh's first impulse upon receiving the note had been to crumple it up and cast it into the fire. She'd been at the point of feeding it to the flames when a more considered reaction stopped her. Sighing, she returned to the desk and smoothed it out.

Ailis's cold dismissal of Caragh's loving care as mere self-interested manipulation had cut so deep, Caragh still had no words adequate to express the pain. Nor had she any desire to expose her lacerated spirit to more of her sister's barbed commentary.

And yet...they were sisters. The bonds of affection, on her side at least, were strongly forged—stronger, it appeared, than the hurt. Ailis might have wrenched responsibility for her fu¬ture out of Caragh's hands, but despite the casual cruelty of her sister's methods, Caragh could not so easily turn off a lifetime's habit of watching out for her.

She ran a finger over the note once more. Ailis had added an atypical "please," which in her sister's cryptic way was tantamount to an apology. And Caragh did genuinely want to know how Ailis was doing, whether the promised commission had come through and whether she would, in fact, be able to support herself. The sum she had drawn from Papa's account, far less than her dowry, would not pay the rent or keep her in paints for long.

In her current state of social isolation, Caragh would likely receive neither hard news nor gossip about her sister's situa¬tion. Knowing that at this delicate juncture Aunt Kitty would not welcome a visit, even should her sister be moved to make one, if Caragh wished to know how Ailis was doing, she would have to go to Mercer Street.

She smiled ruefully, knowing her decision was already made. And despite what some people seemed to think, she did not shrink from facing difficult, even painful tasks.

The early spring afternoon's light was already fading. Aili§  v1 would be finishing her day's painting, putting up her oils and cleaning her brushes. If she intended to visit, now would be a good time to call.

Still arranging your schedule based on Ailis's needs, Car¬agh thought, her smile turning bitter. How long-ingrained hab¬its persist!

But Aunt Kitty would be resting in preparation for dinner. Caragh might slip out,and back without having to explain where she'd gone.

That fact swaying the balance, she drew on her gloves, caught up her pelisse and strode from the room.

Some half-hour later, Caragh stood with her hand poised to ring her sister's bell, already regretting her impulse to visit and wondering if it were too late to recall the hackney that had conveyed her here.

Deciding that it was, and that she'd come too far to turn craven now, she gathered her courage and rang the bell. Still, nausea churned in her gut as she waited for the maid to an¬swer. The wound was still too fresh, her tears too close to the surface.

Ailis herself pushed the door open with an elbow, her hands occupied in pulling off her painting smock. As she turned to see Caragh, her fingers froze on the ties.

Abandoning an attempt to smile, Caragh opened her lips to offer a greeting, but no sound emerged.

For a moment they stood staring at each other. Then Ailis tossed her apron aside and seized her sister in a rib-bruising hug. "Caragh! Oh, I'm so glad you came!"

In all the years they'd been growing up, her undemonstra¬tive sister had rarely embraced her. As Caragh hugged her back, tears welled up and fell despite her best efforts to re¬strain them, catching in her sister's hair where they glistened like crystals set in a golden frame.

Finally Ailis pushed her away, her own eyes moist. "Here we stand like a pair of doltish watering-pots! Come in!" Tucking Caragh's hand in her arm, she pulled her into the room. "Higgins!" she called in the direction of what must be a small kitchen. "Bring us tea in the studio, you lazy girl!"

While Caragh removed her wrap, Ailis swept aside paint cloths and brushes to clear her a seat on the small divan, then dropped into the overstuffed chair beside it. She fastened her brilliant blue-eyed gaze on Caragh.

"You got my note, then?" At Caragh's nod, she continual "I know I'm often oblivious to an individual's feelings, but I do know I hurt you. I'm sorry, Caragh. I didn't really mean what I said about...well, you know. When I'm angry, my tongue runs faster than my wits. But sooner or later I needed to make the break, and there was no easy way to do it. When the contretemps over Holden erupted, it seemed the perfect opportunity. I knew I must do something so...beyond the pale, that even someone as tenacious as you would have no hope of 'redeeming' me. And at least for a time, you would be too angry to try."

Caragh managed a watery smile. "You certainly suc¬ceeded."

Ailis grinned. "I don't mean to apologize for everything. It is time that you stop trying to smooth everyone else's life and get on with living your own."

"You'll be happy to know that I've come to agree with you. Not, however, without some painful reflection, so don't think to be absolved of all guilt."

“I quite refuse to accept any. Would you have ever ceased playing Wise Older Sister and Dutiful Daughter if I hadn't forced you to?"

"Once you were settled, I believe I should have reached that conclusion on my own."

"Perhaps. But you must concede my actions hastened the event. So, what is it you've decided to do?"

"Purchase more land and expand our breeding operations. You know I've had my eye on a new pair of Irish thorough¬breds for the past year, but lacked the means—and space—to acquire them. With the addition of those bloodlines, within a few years Sudley foals should be the most sought-after hunt¬ing stock in England."

"So you don't intend to remain here and play the fatuous Society game? Famous! I must have Holden obtain some champagne so we may toast our new lives!"

Putting the fact that the viscount was apparently still in¬volved with her sister aside to deal with later, Caragh said, "You've obtained the commission, then? You will be able to manage on your own?"

"Not just manage, but prosper." Her eyes taking on a spar¬kle, Ailis gave her a mischievous look. "Of course, it's not quite the sort of commission you are probably envisioning."

"Is it not portrait work?"

"In a manner of speaking. 'Tis a series of life studies that will be bound in a folio. I excel at figure drawing, you know. Lord Wolverton commissioned one set, but Max tells me that quality work of this sort is so rare, he is certain that once Wolverton's friends see it, I can expect a number of other commissions to follow."

"Ailis, that's wonderful! I'm so proud for you." Caragh had to admit to surprise, tinged with a bit of awe. She hadn't really believed that her sister would actually be able to earn a living at her art.

Ailis's smile widened. "While it isn't what I should like to do as a life's work, Max can sell the folios for so astronomical a sum that I shall have a tidy income to sustain me until I start winning commissions in oils. Besides, the drawings are rendered from life, so they are good practice, and doing them is quite...stimulating. Come, let me show you."

"I should love to see them." Rising, Caragh followed her sister to her work bench.

“This is the sketch that Lord Wolverton saw first—a study I'd done that Max liked well enough to hang in his studio. Originally I called it Longing."

Ailis held out to her a drawing of a young girl, her face tilted up and her misty eyes gazing into the distance with a mingling of sadness and desire. The girl's expression sounded so immediate a chord of recognition deep within her that, for a moment, Caragh ceased to breathe. "She looks as though she just lost her true love!"

"Perhaps. But Lord Wolverton thought she might have just found him." Ailis passed her a second sketch.

In this study the girl's expression had turned shy but fo¬cused, her eyes gazing out at the viewer as if mesmerized by someone beyond the picture's frame. She had loosened the wrapper she'd been wearing in the first sketch, leaving her bare shoulders exposed and telegraphing a seductive promise that caused a familiar tightening in the pit of Caragh's stom¬ach. "Oh, my!" she said faintly.

Ailis passed her the next sketch. Only a trace of shyness remaining, the girl's eyes smoldered over her slightly parted lips while she held the robe together—just beneath her bare, taut-nippled breasts.

Caragh knew she should tell her sister to stop, but sound seemed to have dried in her throat. While she looked on mutely, Ailis presented the next.

Shy waif had disappeared, replaced by knowing Eve. The girl gazed out with confidence, wrapper sleeves at her fore¬arms, the robe hanging open to display the whole front of her nude body, from full breasts down her rounded belly to the length of her slender legs. With her hip arched and one leg slightly bent, she held the fingers of one hand poised at the junction of her thighs, as if about to reveal the treasures within.

A flush of heat flooded Caragh's face, and she lifted a trem¬bling hand to fan herself. "H-how many m-more?" she stut¬tered.

Ailis grinned. ''Several. But perhaps you should sit down."

Caragh sank onto the stool Ailis pushed toward her. Which was fortunate, for her knees would probably have given way had she been standing to view the next sketch Ailis handed over. In this, the girl's unseen lover at last appeared, kneeling naked with his side to the viewer, his tongue reaching within the folds she had parted for him, his large member stiff and proudly erect.

Caragh's chest grew hot, her nipples tingled and a tight pressure coiled at the base of her thighs...at that point which the girl's lover was so assiduously stroking with his tongue.

Shocked, appalled and fascinated, she watched spellbound as Ailis displayed the rest of her sketches...the lover with his erection probing between the girl's thighs while he suckled her breast; the girl kneeling before her lover, filling her mouth with his penis; the two side by side, the lover's tongue buried in the girl's mound while she licked his taut member; and finally, the girl with her legs drawn up, her head lolling back and her hands clenched on her partner's shoulders while he thrust himself between her parted thighs.

"I now call the series The Seduction," Ailis said as she reassembled the sketches.

For a long moment Caragh sat stunned. She had seen sketches of nude classical sculpture in her father's library and as a country girl, knew the rudiments of how animals coupled. But never before had she been made aware, in graphic terms, of the way in which a man and a woman could use their bodies to give each other pleasure.

When her stupefied brain finally resumed functioning, her first thought was to wonder how Ailis knew about it. "Y-you sketched these? But...but how could you?"

Ailis laughed. "Oh, Caragh, you're such an innocent!" Still chuckling, she walked over to pour a steaming cup of tea from a pot the maid must have brought while Caragh was sitting mesmerized. Handing it to her, she said, "Holden wasn't my first lover. Several years ago—''

"S-several years?" Caragh gasped.

"—when I became fascinated with figure study, I noticed a farm boy in the fields north of Sudley who possessed quite a magnificent physique. For a few pennies, I persuaded him to model for me. And, as I'm sure you can now understand, viewing his...attributes elicited a heated curiosity as to just how he might employ them. I now know he wasn't particu¬larly skilled, but on the whole, the experience was both en¬joyable and instructive."

"But the risks you took! What if you'd conceived achild?"

Ailis shrugged.  “I didnt.  At any rate, I know to take the proper precautions now.”

Dizzv from trying to assimilate such a barrage or revela¬tions, Caragh did not pursue that point "But afterward? Were you not embarrassed to encounter the boy?"

"For a few more pennies, I had him promise not to ap¬proach Sudley land again." Ailis smiled. "He seemed rather dazed by the experience.  Were he literate, I expect he would have claimed h was but a poor mortai seduced and aban¬doned by Aphrodite, disguised as an English gentlewoman."

"I can imagine,” Caragh murmured, still astounded.

"One of the benefits of residing in London is the ease of obtaining models.   As you can understand, it’s better for the study of technique to work with a live model—"

"You sketched a model doing...that?" Caragh asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

"The girl was a prostitute, of course, so I expect she's performed acts more inventive than those.  I haven't yet found a male model, os to compose some of the sketches, I posed myself and Holden before a mirror." Ailis chuckled again.  "The darling boy was quite willing to participate."

Rendered once more bereft of speech, Caragh thought for

the first time that it was perhaps beneficial that Ailis had left her family to set up her studio.  If Aunt Kitty had ever discovered such sketches in Ailis's room, the poor lady would have expired in a fit of apoplexy.

Caragh wasn't entirely sure her own heart, still thumping wildly against her ribs, was strong enough.

"I can see you are quite overwhelmed, so I'll say no more

for now. Besides there's something else I wanted to ask. If you've decided to run your farm instead of clawing your way back to a place among the ton, you must have given up the idea of making a Society marriage.  So what do you mean to do about Quentin?''

From lust to Quentin wasnt a far leap in Caragh's mind, but her still-overheated senses were making speech difficult. While she fumbled for words, Ailis waved a hand impatiently. "You needn't try to deny you're smitten by him. I may be absorbed in my work, but I'm neither blind nor dumb. Do you mean to marry him?"

That question effectively doused Caragh's ardor. "After your disgrace, he made me an offer. A noble sacrifice to save me becoming a spinster."

"Am I to understand you've refused this gallant gesture?"

"Yes. I hardly wish to marry a man inspired to wed me out of pity."

Ailis raised her eyebrows. "I would wager 'pity' has little to do with it, but 'tis your own affair. Marriage is a rather dismal business in any event. But love-play—ah, now that is a different matter altogether. If you lust for Quentin as I think you do, then make him your lover."

Remembering her pathetic efforts already in that vein, Caragh laughed out loud. "Let me assure you, Ailis, I have no skill whatsoever in enticing a man! Besides, Quentin will al¬ways see me as his virginal, gently-born maiden neighbor. Should I succeed in seducing him, his honor would demand that he marry me afterwards. Which is almost as revolting a reason to propose to me as pity."

"You must do as you wish. But I still say if you want him, do what is necessary to get him." Ailis winked at her. "I can give some advice, if you like."

Before Caragh could decide whether or not she wanted to avail herself of that offer, from the room beyond sha heard a clock strike the hour. "Heavens!" she gasped, "I completely forgot the time! Thank you for the tea, but if I'm not to be late for dinner, I must get back."

With a shrewd look, Ailis waved her toward the exit. "Yes, better return before Aunt Kitty misses you. Higgins will sum¬mon a hackney. Wait a moment before you walk down, though. I have something I think you must have." Ailis jumped up and strode to her workbench.

Moving by rote, Caragh put on her pelisse and gloves. Her body still tingled and her thoughts stopped and stuttered as she tried to assimilate the incredible information—and images—revealed to her over the last hour.

Ailis caught up with her by the door, surprising her with another quick, fierce hug. "I'm glad we've reached an understanding."

"So am I," Caragh replied, and meant it. After tonight, she would carry with her a radically different image of her sister. No longer the strong-willed, selfish child who needed her sis¬ter to tend her, Ailis had become a self-absorbed but inde¬pendent woman with, Caragh realized with a touch of humil¬ity, a worldly experience far greater than her own.

"For you," Ailis said, handing her a folded piece of draw¬ing paper.

Caragh would have thought she'd received too many jolts already this evening to be moved by anything else, but as she unfolded the gift, a bolt of surprise—and desire—flashed through her.

The pencil drawing, apparently a study for one of her sis¬ter's commissioned works, featured a naked man reclining on his side—displaying an impressive full erection. A man who smiled seductively at her from Quentin's face.

"Ailis, how could you?" she cried, torn between outrage and amusement.

"Oh, it took me but a moment to alter it to Quent's fea¬tures," her irrepressible sister replied. "Keep it—and dream about him."

At that moment, Higgins skipped up the stairs to tell her the hackney had arrived.

Ailis tugged the drawing free and refolded it, then held it out. "Come visit me again."

After a half-second's hesitation, Caragh took the sketch back. "I will."

Bemused and unsettled, Caragh followed the maid to the waiting hackney. After the great blow her sister had dealt her, her affection for Ailis would be forever altered. But the gaping breach between them that had so blighted her spirit was a fair way to being healed.

Caragh felt a warm expansiveness, a new hope flooding her. Anything was possible, she thought jubilantly. Perhaps even—her thumbs caressed the drawing—seducing Quentin Burke.

CHAPTER 13

Listening with half an ear to her aunt's chatter, Caragh sat through dinner, her mind still churning over the events of the late afternoon. But after the footman came to clear the plates, her aunt's cheery voice wavered, recalling Caragh's attention.

Obviously thinking about the variety of entertainments which, several weeks previous, she would have been readying herself to attend at this hour, Lady Catherine put on a brave smile. "Should you like to try a hand of whist in the parlor, dear? If not, I have that chair cover I've been meaning to finish this age."

Guilt jabbed at Caragh. Now that her mission here was nearly accomplished, she really must stop putting off a dis¬cussion of her future and reveal to the kind relative who had supported her so valiantly what a viper she was still nurturing in her bosom.

"Let's just have a comfortable coze, shall we?"

Lady Catherine's face brightened. "I should love it! I understand how...distressing this whole affair must.have been for you! Your hopes for Ailis so cruelly dashed, and as for your own..." Her aunt heaved a sigh. "I hadn't wished to press you into discussing it until you were ready, but I think it an excellent idea for us to begin redesigning your future."

Knowing how her aunt was likely to feel about her plans, Caragh's resolve almost wavered. But her dear aunt deserved better of her than to learn her intentions at the last moment. "Shall I bring us more wine?"

Lady Catherine nodded. Girding herself, Caragh poured two glassfuls and followed her aunt into the parlor.

"I know we've suffered some...reverses, but you needn't be too cast down," Lady Catherine said as she seated herself. "I am still Somebody, after all, and more important, I can count at least two of Almack's patronesses as bosom bows. What we must do first—"

"Aunt Kitty, I know you would willingly trade upon your well-deserved reputation to ease me back into Society, but I really feel I must take a...different path."

"Oh, dear." Her aunt's smile faded and she took a quick sip of wine. "I'm not going to like what I'm about to hear, am I?"

Caragh smiled, her eyes misting. "I'm afraid not—at least, not initially."

Lady Catherine took a larger gulp. "You'd best open the budget and tell me the whole, then."

"You know Papa has given me free rein to manage both the house and estate at Sudley for years. Since a husband would probably wish to take over my finances and my stables and relegate me to household affairs, I believe I prefer to remain unwed. I'm happiest working with my horses. In fact, I'm about to expand the breeding operation. I came back to London to arrange the purchase of additional land."

“But Caragh, you were hardly in town long enough to meet anyone before Ailis...well, my dear, let me assure you, when you make the acquaintance of the right gentleman, all thought of who manages what will go right out of your head! Please, give it more time before you convince yourself that marriage will not suit you."

Caragh offered a rueful smile. "I'm afraid the rub is that I've already met such a man, Aunt Kitty, but...but he does not return my regard. With my feelings already fully engaged, I cannot envision developing a tendre for someone else. So it's best I resign myself to spinsterhood."

"My poor darling! But you mustn't give up! There are ways to...move such a situation along. An intimate tęte-ŕ-tęte unexpectedly interrupted—''

"Oh no, Aunt Kitty!" Caragh cried, torn between amuse¬ment and gratitude. "If he does not wish to wed me willingly, then there is an end to it."

"Few gentleman ever wish to wed willingly," Lady Cath¬erine countered with some exasperation. "Most have to be...assisted to that decision! I promise you, taking a husband will be infinitely more pleasing than residing with your father. And though I was never so blessed, there is always the pos¬sibility of children. Besides, what shall you do after Archibald inherits? You cannot imagine that he will leave you in charge of the Sudley stables."

"No." Fidgeting with her wineglass, Caragh took a deep breath. "I expect I didn't make myself perfectly clear. I do not intend to remain at Sudley with Papa. I shall be moving all my horses to the land now being purchased—of which I shall be sole owner. So Cousin Archibald inheriting Sudley will have no effect on me."

Her aunt's eyes widened as she comprehended the full implications of that speech. “Y-you will live there without your Papa? And operate—a breeding farm? But Caragh, your cli¬ents will be almost solely—gentleman!"

"Yes, I suppose they will."                                            

"Once word of this gets about, your reputation will be ru¬ined almost as effectively as Ailis's!" Lady Catherine wailed.

"It won't be quite that bad," Caragh tried to appease her. "I shall be immured in the country, and you know the ton cares little for anything that occurs outside—"

"Breeding horses! Oh, this must be all your mama's do¬ing!" Aunt Kitty burst in. "But how? I screened the letters you received most particularly, just as I promised your Papa!''

"Mama's doing?" Caragh echoed. Had the distress of envisioning a second social disaster overset her poor aunt's mind? "Now Aunt Kitty, you know that..."

As she watched her aunt's indignant face, the incredible suspicion crystallizing in her head made her lose track of her sentence. "You can't mean Mama is...still alive? But...but I thought she died of influenza when Ailis was in short skirts!"

"Would that she had, the unnatural creature!" Lady Cath¬erine said crossly. "Especially as it appears she has inspired both her daughters to behave almost as badly as ever she did!"

"Mama truly is alive, then? Does Ailis know?"

Her irritation fading, Lady Catherine looked suddenly uncertain. "You mean Aurora...has not contacted you?"

"No! Until this moment, I thought her dead these fifteen years."

"Oh, dear," Lady Catherine said faintly. "Then I'm afraid I have been vastly indiscreet. Your Papa will be so vexed with me!"

Caragh waved an impatient hand. "He will never learn of it. So tell me, where is my mother? Where has she hidden all these years? And what did she do that caused everyone to tell us she had died?"

Lady Catherine took another sip of wine. "I suppose it is too late to insist I know nothing about it?''

"Much too late. Granted, she figures in my memory only as a beautiful lady who occasionally deigned to visit her grubby offspring, but still, I'm curious. And I am her daugh¬ter, little acquainted with her as I was. Do I not have a right to know?"

Lady Catherine sighed. “I suppose you do. But I fear there will be quite a dust-up when Michael discovers what I've let slip."

"Unless the details have somehow become embedded in the original Greek of the Iliad, you have nothing to worry about. Have another sip of wine and tell me everything."

As if in need of more than just a sip, Lady Catherine drained her glass. Setting it down, she began, "Aurora was stunningly beautiful, you know—Ailis is her image."

"Which is why Papa has always favored Ailis," Caragh said drily.

“Michael was just down from Oxford, a hopeless scholar, his head stuffed full of poetical nonsense. What must he do but take one look at Aurora Wendover, riding neck-or-nothing to the hounds at some hunt, and tumble head over heels! The most frivolous chit in the ton, and he's declaring her to be the very embodiment of some heathenish deity."

"Aurora, goddess of the dawn? Or the huntress Diana?"

Lady Catherine waved a hand. "Goodness, how should I know? Since Michael was handsome and his verses celebrat¬ing her perfection quite superior to the drivel generally spouted by her court, she deigned to consider herself in love with him, too—for a time."

"It didn't last?"

Lady Catherine uttered an unladylike sniff. "I tried to tell my brother how unsuitable a match it was! But he wouldn't listen—and Aurora had long since learned to manipulate her papa into allowing her whatever she wanted. They married and Michael bore her off to Sudley, eager to craft a new folio of verses in her honor. I suppose for a time, with their mutual love of horses, they may have been happy. But Aurora Wendover was not created to live quietly in rural obscurity. As soon as she recovered from her confinement with Ailis, she began pestering your papa to take her back to London. The spring before Ailis turned five, he finally did."

"Where she once again conquered the ton."

Lady Catherine nodded. "Yes, despite being a mother and quite old! Between the court of dandies hanging about her drawing room and the crowd trailing her wherever she went, she drove poor Michael to fits of jealousy, especially over some count in the Italian ambassador's retinue. When the Sea¬son ended and Michael insisted they return to Sudley, there was a dreadful row. The next thing I knew, Michael was at my door virtually incoherent, and Aurora had run off to Italy with her count!"

"Did she divorce Papa to marry him?"

"I don't believe so. As a papist, the Italian couldn't have married a divorced woman—and he may have already had a wife, for all I know! In any event, Aurora didn't remain with him long. Ever skilled at manipulating, she managed to coax her heartbroken papa into settling a handsome income on her. I understand she hired a villa in Rome and bought a country estate in Tuscany. She lives there now, spending the season in town, patronizing the arts—and taking lovers half her age."

"She sounds fascinating!"

"She has a most unsteady character and I am heartily sorry that you and Ailis share her blood." Lady Catherine said roundly. "My poor brother never recovered. He found what solace he could in his books, gradually withdrawing from the world until now I believe he scarce notices anything that did not transpire some ten or twenty centuries ago."

Suddenly Caragh was arrested by the memory of her fa¬ther' s melancholy face. No wonder his eyes were always sad, his thoughts turned from a painful reality to an inner world he could order and control. "Poor Papa."

“Well, now you know the whole. If you are set on burying yourself on this horse farm, I suppose I can comfort myself with the knowledge that, though you are bidding fair to be as unconventional as Aurora, at least you'll not create quite so public a scandal."

Impulsively Caragh reached over to hug her aunt. “Thank you, Aunt Kitty! For taking me on to begin with, given my history. And for loving me despite my faults."

Her aunt hugged her back. "I might deserve your thanks, if only I'd managed to get you respectably settled. But if you will not allow me to attempt that, at least promise me you'll be happy, child."

"I shall certainly try to be."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, dear, I believe I shall go up to bed. I'm feeling a bit...overwhelmed."

"I'll take you up."

After leaving her aunt with another hug, Caragh continued on to her bedroom. She let the maid help her into her night rail, but once the girl departed, her mind racing with too many ideas and observations to find sleep, she abandoned her bed and curled up in the wing chair by the fire.

Never in the wildest flights of fancy could she have imag¬ined what she'd learned this day! That Ailis, who had taken a lover at sixteen and seduced Lord Freemont, would be earn¬ing her living—sketching erotic art! That their mother, very much alive, was leading a still-scandalous existence in Rome. Though her sister—as she had bitter reason to know, Caragh thought with a muted pang—seemed to place scant value on familial ties, she still ought to tell Ailis their mother was not, as they'd grown up believing, among the Dearly Departed. But since her sister had little interest in anything that did not directly touch on her art, there was no urgency in conveying the news.

Caragh shook her head and laughed. At least she and Ailis came by their unconventional behavior honestly.

She stilled, listening carefully to confirm all was quiet and the household abed. Then she went to the desk, unlocked the top drawer, and drew out the drawing Ailis had given her. A wave of heat that had nothing to do with the fire in the grate washed over her as she studied it.

What if Quentin were here with her now, lounging nude on her sofa? She grinned at the possibilities. How would his... endowments compare with what Ailis had sketched?

Make him your lover, her sister urged. Being her scandalous mother's unconventional daughter, perhaps she should.

The following day, Quentin set out for London. After Car¬agh's refusal of his suit and her unexpected departure, he'd returned to Thornwhistle to take the one rational action he'd managed to filter from their turgid confusion of an interview. Though he had not yet given up hope of dissuading Caragh from her disastrous notion of running a farm, it was high time he ensured his property was being properly run by his own estate manager, without benefit of advice from his neighbor.

But though that work kept him occupied for several days, it did nothing to soothe the queasy mix of uncertainty, anger and concern that still troubled him. Until Caragh had disap¬peared, some alien spirit taking her place within the outwardly familiar body of his friend, he'd not realized how much he depended upon her level-headed intelligence, how much he enjoyed her wit and warmth.

To put it simply, he missed her.

His immediate reaction, of course, after having been re¬buffed in absentia that second time, was to let her go her own way if she valued his opinions so little. But by the second day after her departure, the pride-driven desire to hold himself aloof began to crumble. By the time he'd assured himself of Manning's competence, he'd decided to set aside his hurt and seek her out.

Perhaps, he told himself as he journeyed back to London, her unprecedented behavior was merely the product of shock and distress after being pitched so unprepared into Ailis's scandal. Quite understandable under the circumstances, and a lapse he'd willingly forgive.

To determine how best to approach her, he needed to as¬certain how serious she was about carrying through this plan to expand the Sudley breeding farm. Then he could figure out how to persuade her that marrying him would be the right choice, whether or not she went through with it.

For he'd found, once he got himself over the hurdle of actually framing a proposal, that he rather liked the idea of contracting a sensible, practical marriage of convenience with his best friend. Or at least he had until that stranger back at Sudley had coolly rebuffed him.

Surely, having had time by now to recover her normal composure, the Caragh he called upon in London would be the same Caragh he knew and valued so highly. They could dis¬cuss the matter of a future together rationally, and with the addition of the right lover-like words, he would induce her to agree it was in both their best interests to combine their re¬sources in marriage.

Combine their bodies as well. But he'd best put that dis¬tracting thought out of mind until he'd obtained her consent to his proposal.

He had another, previously postponed reason for returning to the metropolis. At his first opportunity, he intended to seek out Ailis Sudley and tell just what he thought about her self-centered lack of appreciation for her sister's efforts and her callous disregard of Caragh's feelings and reputation.

He reached London in the late afternoon and, still uncertain whether to seek out Caragh immediately or send a note announcing his return to town, he decided instead to call on Ailis. He felt no uncertainty whatsoever about what he needed to tell her. Besides, Ailis might have some news about Caragh that would give him a hint about how to approach her.

As soon as he refreshed himself from the journey, he set out for Ailis's studio, where a maidservant led him through a small anteroom to an open chamber whose large north-facing windows telegraphed its purpose as eloquently as the clutter of paints, canvas rolls and brushes that dotted every level surface. Clad in an outmoded day gown, her sleeves pushed up, Ailis sat on a sofa to receive him.

"Quentin, how kind of you to come visit."

A note of irony colored her voice. He cast her a sharp glance, but she was smiling pleasantly. Though the words of the diatribe he'd come to deliver pressed heavily upon his tongue, he ought to be civil and exchange a few pleasantries before launching his attack.

"What a handsome studio! I imagine the morning light is splendid.".

She nodded. "It is, and holds well into afternoon. I've been able to make great progress since moving here."

"You've obtained work?"

"Yes, I'm just finishing a very lucrative commission." Her smile deepened. "I shall have to show it to you sometime."

"Caragh approves?"

"She was a bit shocked at first, but I believe she enthusiastically supports it now. She has visited me here, you know, and I'm pleased to say we are once again in perfect charity."

"I don't doubt it—Caragh being ever generous to those she loves." Unable to keep the edge out of his voice, Quentin continued, "I do wonder, though, after Caragh championed your art for years and attempted to arrange your future to accommodate it, how you could have played so low a trick on her. I grant that you are young and blinded by your muse, but surely you've noticed how hard she works at Sudley, al¬ways putting everyone else's needs before her own. Was it really too much to ask to let her have a whole Season to enjoy herself before you did this—" he gestured around the room "—and destroyed it all for her?"

While he spoke, his voice rising in volume as he proceeded, Ailis's smile faded and her eyes turned hard. She listened to his jobation in silence, making no attempt to reply until he stopped for breath.

"Have you finished yet?"

Her coolness, her total lack of remorse, incensed him. “No, I have not! How could you hurt her so? You do at least un¬derstand that you hurt her, I trust! She's been looking after you with a mother's devotion since she was barely more than a child herself, and how did you repay her for that loving concern? With deceit, scandal and disgrace!"

Ailis arched an eyebrow. "My, my, and who appointed Quentin Burke judge and jury? Before you become too assid¬uous about examining the log in my eye, perhaps you'd better look in the mirror and examine your own."

“And just what do you mean by that?"

She rose from the sofa and walked over to glare at him. "Just that it isn't only at Sudley that Caragh worked hard all these years. I seem to recall her traveling quite often to Thornwhistle, too. Rearranging her schedule to accommodate your calls when you deigned to visit, toiling late to finish her own tasks after you'd left. If I selfishly received the care she freely gave without offering a return, have you done any better? Did you ever look beyond the obliging friend to determine what the woman beneath might wish? Perhaps, my lord, you should answer that question before you accuse me of taking advan¬tage. Now I must change. Higgins will show you out."

Without giving him a chance to reply, she turned away and, as Quentin stared after her in disbelief, for the second time this week, a Sudley female walked out on him.

Rising to his feet with such vehemence that his chair rocked on its legs, he stalked to the door.

How dare Ailis accuse him of selfishness and insensitivity! he fumed as he pounded down the stairs. Caragh had assisted him on many occasions, it was true, but he helped her as well. They were devoted friends who always sought the best for each other!

At the echo of Ailis's strident question, Quentin's pace faltered. Out of memory bubbled up Caragh's soft voice asking if it might not be possible to add passion to their relation¬ship—a possibility he had firmly rejected.

An uneasy feeling settling in his chest, he continued down the stairs. Could there be at least a germ of truth to Ailis's accusation? Had he ever truly asked himself what Caragh wanted from their relationship?

Or had he only considered how to maintain their friendship in the fashion most acceptable to him, arbitrarily accepting as a given that Caragh wanted the same thing he did?

By the time he reached the street he'd slowed to a walk, his anger muted to a slow burn. Perhaps he had been a lit¬tle... forceful... in insisting on the terms of their relationship. For the best of reasons, of course—to keep that precious bond intact. But he had decided on that course rather...unilaterally.

And he could have seized more opportunities to express his appreciation for the care she expended on Thornwhistle, as well as his admiration for her intelligence and wit.

Frowning, he paced down the street. Surely he could dis¬count most of Ailis's speech as merely a way of parrying his verbal onslaught by mounting a counterattack of her own.

Caragh couldn't think of him selfish and dictatorial...could she?

Still, the possibility that Caragh might entertain even a muted version of the opinion of him expressed by Ailis was deeply troubling. An even more unpalatable thought followed hard upon that.

Had she refused his suit not out of the confusion and dis¬tress engendered by the scandal, but because she found him in his own way as selfish and unappreciative as her sister'?

He simply couldn't believe it. But little as he credited it, the notion was too disturbing to dismiss out of hand.

He must call upon Caragh first thing tomorrow and lay thai anxiety permanently to rest.'

CHAPTER 14

After a restless night, awakening at intervals from vivid dreams in which she and Quentin replaced the models in Ailis's sketches, Caragh awoke, her body still tingling, a dull throb pulsing between her thighs.

She pushed herself to a sitting position, the friction of the night rail's linen against her taut nipples sparking a thrill of sensation. Ah, if that glancing caress had come from Quen¬tin's fingers!

She fanned her heated face. Could she overcome modesty and upbringing and find the boldness that would put his hands there? Equally important, could she trespass upon their friend¬ship to trick Quentin to it? For if she were sure of nothing else, she knew beyond doubt that Quentin Burke would expire from lust before he would bed a gently-born virgin.

Her mother had destroyed a family to pursue what she wanted. Caragh would never go that far, but with her repu¬tation already lost and the man she desired unmarried, she could follow her desires without hurting anyone.

Except perhaps herself. But could the anguish of Quentin leaving her after lying in her arms be any worse than the anguish of living without him, forever bereft of his touch?

If she succeeded in seducing him, she would have the mem¬ory of that closeness to cherish. She would have relief from the fire smoldering within her and a personal knowledge of the powerful, inexplicable force that bonds men and women together.

And she would have been very clever in disguising her identity, for if Quentin ever succeeded in uncovering her ruse, his anger and his honor would force him to coerce her into marriage. The only outcome she could envision that would be worse than her current misery would be to trip herself into wedlock with a man who didn't truly love her.

Was a night of Quentin's love worth taking that risk?

Caragh leaned back against the pillows and drew Ailis's sketch from beneath her pillow. Her body flamed anew as she traced a fingertip down the outline of the bare shoulder and torso, across the length of the taut erection.

To have her hands touch not cool parchment but warm flesh, her fingers—and lips—explore not an artist's sketch but the man out of her dreams, would, she decided, be worth every risk.

She would have to be very careful. But before she left Lon¬don to begin her new life, she would seduce Quentin Burke.

Laudable audacity, she thought with a sigh as she carefully refolded the sketch and rang for her morning chocolate. She still hadn't the faintest idea how she could bring it about.

But Ailis might. So this evening, Caragh would pay her sister another visit.

Shivering against the morning chill, she threw on a wrapper and drew a chair close to the hearth. After the maid delivered a tray, she warmed her hands over the steaming brew and glanced at the morning paper.

Sipping chocolate, she read in a desultory fashion, ber thoughts frequently distracted by flashbacks to last night’s tor¬rid dreams, speculation about how she could engineer a se¬duction, and curiosity over how her sister had produced those amazing... figure studies.

She'd skimmed the political news and several pages of so¬ciety gossip when a small advertisement caught her atten¬tion—the announcement of a Grand Masquerade Ball to be held at Vauxhall Gardens on Friday next, with Refreshments and a Superior Orchestra to Delight the Discerning Guest.

A masquerade ball! As her mind focused on the possibili¬ties, a knock sounded at the door.

"Beggin' your pardon, miss, but Lord Branson is waiting below to see you. Will you receive him?"

Though she could have wished for more time, the outlines of a plan were already forming. "Tell Lord Branson I will be down directly."

Heartened when the maid returned to inform him that Car¬agh would receive him—for he'd half feared, if Ailis's ac¬cusations had any merit, that she might refuse to see him— Quentin rehearsed once again what he intended to say.

Avoiding any mention of his previous offer, inquiring about her plans and expressing once again his appreciation for her efforts on his behalf would do for a start, he decided. He would then take his cue from Caragh on where to proceed next.

Hearing voices approach, he straightened and wiped his suddenly damp palms on his pant leg. Oh, that the lady who walked through that door would be his Caragh, rather than the chilly stranger he'd encountered at Sudley!

A welcoming smile on her face, Caragh came toward him, hands extended. "Quentin, what a delightful surprise! I thought you still at Thornwhistle."

Joy and a relief so intense he felt momentarily light-headed washed through him. His Caragh was back.

He seized her hands in a punishing grip and kissed them fervently. The immediate punch of contact as their gloved hands met, as his lips grazed her knuckles, rocketed through him. For a moment, all he could think was how much he'd missed her—and how much more he craved of her touch.

Finally pulling his mind back to the moment, he said, "I've only just arrived. I regret that our...visit at Sudley was so short. You must tell me how your plans are progressing."

If she wished to make some explanation—or apology—for the manner in which she had received his proposal, he'd just given her a perfect opening.

He braced himself, but with no discernable constraint or embarrassment, she answered, "Quite well, thank you. And I am doing much better, too, so you'll have no need to amuse me with absurdities, as you did that day at Sudley."

"Amuse you?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes—with that spurious offer of marriage! I must admit, you fooled me at first into thinking it a legitimate offer, which made me quite angry, until upon reflection I realized your intent. After all, you couldn't have truly called yourself my friend and made a serious offer."

"I...I couldn't?"

She laughed. "Of course not! To suggest, after all the years I've managed Sudley, that I was not capable of suitably han¬dling the masculine attention inherent in expanding the farm—most of which would come from clients who are al¬ready well acquainted with my family—would have been in¬sulting, to me and to them. And to offer marriage because you felt sorry for my situation would have been unsupportable...had you been in earnest, of course."

"Of...of course."

"If I've learned anything about you over the years of our friendship, Quentin, it is that you judge by what you know to be true, not by the artificial dictates of Society. You've as¬sured me on several occasions that you admire my skill at estate management and respect my independence. How silly of me, even for a moment, to think you would suddenly begin to question either! I can only attribute it to the...distress I was experiencing at that moment."

"Yes, I could see you were...distressed."

"After all, had we not, just a bare week previous, decided that—" she turned her head away, her cheeks coloring "—that passion and friendship would not mix? To have taken it upon yourself to alter those terms unilaterally, without consulting my preferences., would have been arrogant, presumptuous and insensitive."

"Arrogant, presumptuous and insensitive?" he echoed, inwardly appalled. "I suppose you could say that."

"And I know you are none of those," she affirmed, press¬ing his hand warmly.

Once again, as her fingers lingered on his, that immediate connection between them fired his senses. He fought the ef¬fect, knowing he dare not risk another blunder.

"I hope you also know," he said, struggling to find the proper words, "that however...unfortunately I may have ex¬pressed myself, all I ever sought was your happiness."

Her breezy smile faded and her face grew almost...sad. "I know," she whispered. For a moment she let her fingers rest in his. Then, withdrawing her hand with a slow, lingering caress that he felt down to his toes, she said in a bright tone, “Now, let me tell you where things stand on the expansion of my enterprise."

Arrogant? Insensitive? Presumptuous? Shocked to discover how Caragh had viewed his offer, Quentin only half heard the details she rattled off about her land purchase. Though he had certainly not intended to be any of those things, after examining that ill-fated proposal from her perspective, he had to reluctantly admit there might be some justification for her, viewing it that way.

He had rather blindly proceeded according to the social convention that proclaimed an unmarried maiden must always be gratified by a proposal of marriage, regardless of its reason or wording. Nor had he accompanied his offer by avowing any tender feelings. And were Ailis to once again pose her pointed question, he would have to admit that in this instance, as the first time he'd discussed the nature of their relationship with Caragh, he had failed to consult her opinion, presuming to decide for them both that marriage was the best course.

"I did wish to ask for one favor, Quentin."

He jerked his attention back to the present. "A...a favor? Ask what you will, and if 'tis within my power to give, it is yours."

For an instant her glance caught his. "Would that it were," he thought he heard her murmur. But before he could ask her to repeat the comment, she seized his arm, once again rattling his concentration.

"Nothing too arduous, I assure you," she continued. "It's just...well, as you know, my social schedule is rather...restricted at present, and soon I shall be back in the country, where entertainments are even more limited. I should very much like to attend the masquerade ball at Vauxhall Fri¬day, but of course, I could not go to such an affair without an escort."

A deep wave of sympathy welled up to war with the sensual pull. Of course, banned from balls and parties as she was, she would pine for some amusement. "I should be happy to escort you. Will Lady Catherine go also?''

"I don't think so. She, ah, does not care for masquerades. I'm to meet with the lawyers that afternoon to finish details of the land purchase, so I may need to meet you directly at Vauxhall—I'll send a note. Speaking of which, I have an ap¬pointment with them shortly, so I must bid you good-day."

She rose, once again giving him her hands to kiss. He cov¬ered them with his own, relishing the contact and loath to break it. "Until Friday, then."

She curtseyed. Reluctantly he released her and bowed. As he reached the door, she called his name. He turned back with an inquiring look.

"Thank you for being my friend."

He smiled, his blood still humming at her nearness. "You can count on me," he assured her, and walked out.

That had not gone too badly, he told himself as he climbed into the hackney Evers summoned for him. He'd avoided a repetition of the disaster at Sudley and, he hoped, moved them further down the path of restoring to their friendship its previous comfortable intimacy.

He looked down at his still-tingling fingers. Well, almost comfortable.

Though he was nearly certain she'd known his proposal to be genuine, she'd pretended otherwise, allowing them to pro¬ceed beyond her refusal with a minimum of awkwardness and recrimination. She'd even given him a way to retreat from the shoal-filled waters of renewing his suit.

All he need do was continue to acquiesce in the charade that his proposal had been merely an attempt to amuse her out of her distress, and he had every reason to believe they would eventually recapture the same warm and easy relation¬ship they'd shared before the upheavals that occurred after Caragh brought Ailis to London.

There remained the thorny problem of dissuading her from abandoning her father and moving to her new farm alone, but since he'd evidently offended her so deeply by suggesting a marriage of convenience, perhaps that too could be finessed under the guise of friendship.

Which should have relieved and pleased him—except that by now, he was almost sure a platonic friendship with Caragh Sudleywas no longer what he truly wanted.

Just after dusk, after sending Aunt Kitty into palpitations by informing her she meant to visit Ailis, Caragh arrived at her sister's studio. To her relief, her sister had already finished her day's work and reclined on her sofa, a glass of wine in hand.

"Sorry to burst in on you unannounced," Caragh said as she walked in, "but I must tell you—I mean to do it! And I shall need your advice on how to make my plan succeed."

Ailis's eyes lit with comprehension. "You propose to se¬duce Quentin? Bravo! Let's drink to that resolve, and you shall tell me how I can help."

While Ailis called for another glass, Caragh paced, too nervous to sit. "There's to be a masquerade ball at Vauxhall Friday, and I've obtained Quentin's promise to meet me there. Now I must determine where to meet him, in what disguise I should appear, and how I shall convince him to...to ravish me."

"Must you be disguised?" Ailis asked, handing her the wine.

"Certainly! Should I succeed in making us lovers, and he somehow recognized me, you know what that would mean."

"Ah, yes, the gentleman's sense of honor. He'd have you riveted as soon as a special license could be bought. We cannot have that! One of my models is an actress at Drury Lane—she can help with the disguise. And we must think where you are to take him. Though trysting in the open can be delightful—" Ailis winked at her "—Vauxhall is much too public for you to be comfortable seducing him there."

"Indeed not!" Caragh cried, her cheeks pinking at the very idea of performing the acts shown in Ailis's sketches in a location, however dimly lit and secluded, into which other people might at any moment wander. "What do you sug¬gest?"

"Let me think about it. Surely Max or one of his friends will know of some suitable place."

Her embarrassment deepening, Caragh took a sip of wine. "What I most need you to advise me about, though, is how I...get him to that point. I have no experience with men, you know. If I can't entice him, arranging the disguise and the rendezvous will be wasted effort."

“True, although I doubt you will have much difficulty per¬suading him—he's a man, isn't he? But you must know more than just how to entice." Ailis looked at her thoughtfully. "Whatever persona you choose, for your deception to suc¬ceed, you shall have to appear experienced in the giving of pleasure. In fact, it would be best if you were to inflame his senses and then satisfy him so exquisitely, he will cease to think at all, much less have the wit to connect the siren who seduced him with the proper, virginal maiden she vaguely resembles."

The notion of bringing Quentin Burke completely in thrall to her sensual control made her dizzy with delight—and de¬sire. "That sounds wonderful. But how can I learn to do that? Do you," she could feel her blush deepening, "have more... more...sketches I could study?"

Ailis grinned. "Though I consider myself fairly skilled, I think for this, you need the advice of a master! I've just con¬tracted to do a portrait of Lady Belle Marchand. Do you know of her?"

"Lady Belle? Isn't she the courtesan Lord Bellingham has had in keeping for years? The one the Duke of York offered him ten thousand pounds to relinquish—and he refused?"

“The same. If her reputation is any indication, I wager she knows more about bewitching a man than any female living. And she really is a delightful lady." .

"You've met her?" Caragh gasped, scandalized to think of her little sister actually consorting with this most infamous of the Fashionable Impures.

“How else could I decide whether or not I wished to paint her likeness? I shall send her a note asking her to come by early tomorrow evening. Rachel can stop by before her per¬formance as well. So let us toast to tomorrow, sister dear. With our expert assistance, you shall soon give Quentin Burke the most erotic night of his life!"

CHAPTER 15

Ailis answered the door the next evening upon Caragh's first knock, glass of wine in hand. "Let the transformation begin!" she cried, passing the glass to Caragh and sweeping her into the room.

Already nervous about the undertaking, Caragh downed a large gulp. "Have my...tutors arrived?"

"Rachel is here. Lady Belle shall not stop by until later,, once we've perfected the disguise. You shall need to be wear¬ing it when she gives her instructions, to insure you can follow them while garbed in different dress." Ailis laughed and whirled Caragh around. "This shall be so entertaining!"

"Let's hope it's not a farce," Caragh muttered, downing another gulp of wine.

“Nonsense, you shall be perfect. That is, you are still sure you want to do this, aren't you?"

Caragh smiled wryly. "Do I want to? Yes. Am I sure I can manage it? No. Am I frightened out of my wits about failing? Absolutely!"

As they walked into the studio, a curvaceous brunette rose from the sofa. "Fail to seduce a man? My dear, 'tis almost impossible! Seeing that most of 'em think of little else, a smile and a wink is usually enough."

"Caragh, meet Rachel DuVollet, currently of Drury Lane. Rachel, my sister Caragh."

"You are performing with Edmund Kean, are you not? I thought your Lady Macbeth particularly fine."

The actress looked at her with heightened interest. "I'm flattered that you noticed. With Edmund on the stage, the rest of us have a tendency to be ignored."

“Is he very difficult to work with?''

Rachel laughed. "We thespians are a rather selfish breed at best. If Edmund weren't so remarkable an actor, I doubt he could induce anyone to take the stage with him. Speaking of acting, what role shall you play to bedazzle your gentleman?"

"It will be dark, you will be masked and Rachel will help us alter your appearance, but you shall still need some con¬vincing persona if you wish to avoid his recognizing you," Ailis said.

Caragh crossed her arms and struck a woeful pose. "Ah, chérie, I am but a poor widow, forced to flee la France with my darling Phillippe, who later gave his life en combattant Boneparte, that monster Corsican."

"Magnifique!" Ailis cried, while the actress clapped her hands. "Since you can hardly accomplish this mute, I worried he might know your voice. But your French is excellent and that accent delightful. He shall be charmed—and completely taken in."

"I sincerely hope so," Caragh said with a sigh.

"Widow's black is a good choice for gown and veil," Ra¬chel said. "Especially at night, 'twill mask your features bet¬ter than any other color. Muffle your voice, too. Add a wig, and your own sister won't know you." She waved Caragh toward the sofa. "I brought several wigs and an assortment of gowns from the theatre. Let's see which become you the best."

Before Caragh could utter another word, Ailis and Rachel began stripping her out of her afternoon gown. For the next hour, the two women dressed and undressed her like a man¬ikin, finally deciding on a black velvet gown with matching cloak, a soft velvet toque with a figured black veil to mask her face and a wig of short black ringlets. Having chosen the ensemble, they made Caragh walk, kneel and lie down on the sofa to make sure the wig would stay in place.

"The wig feels secure, but I cannot say the same for the gown," Caragh said. "Are you sure the bodice isn't too low?"

"Dearie, you want the gent to be thinking of bedding, right?" the actress asked. "Give him an eyeful of you in that ensemble and trust me, the only thing he'll be wondering is how fast he can peel off that last inch of cloth." She looked over at Ailis and giggled. "Worked for me with the Earl of Gresham, anyways."

Ailis grinned at Caragh. "You can't dispute proven suc¬cess." Taking Caragh's arm, she marched her over to the cheval glass. "Behold, I give you...Madame LaNoire! The Black Lady," she added for Rachel's benefit.

Through the obstructing veil, Caragh peered at herself in the glass. "Oh, my!" she said weakly.

Gazing back at her stood a slender woman, dusky curls escaping beneath her jaunty toque, her face tantalizingly ob¬scured by a mist of black veil. With the cape pulled behind her shoulders, even she had to catch her breath at the dramatic contrast between the midnight velvet of the gown and the ghostly paleness of her skin. The high, tight waistline pushed up and accentuated the voluptuous roundness of her nearly-bare breasts, which did indeed appear as though they might at any moment burst free from the extremely brief bodice.

"He won't be able to take his eyes off you," Ailis prom¬ised.

"Nor will any other man that gets a peep, so you'd best keep the cloak fastened until your gent arrives," the actress advised. "Now, I must go. Don't want to be late getting into makeup and give Edmund the Ego a reason to shout at me."

While Ailis walked her guest to the door, Caragh stared at herself in the glass, then held up her arms and made a slow pirouette. Though the material was heavier than the silks and muslins to which she was accustomed, it draped beautifully and the nap was as soft as a caress against her skin. Seeing herself peeping naughtily through her veil, dressed like an enchantress, made her feel like one.

/ shall actually be able to do this! Giddy at her boldness, she threw back her head and laughed. As she doffed the bon¬net and cloak, Ailis walked back.

"First, the disguise. Next—" Ailis went over to scoop something off her work bench "—the key to your pied-a-terre." With a flourish, she presented it to Caragh.

"Where? And whose is it?"

“Darling Max suggested it—I knew if love-play were the purpose, he would know how to arrange it! An artist friend of his, now traveling in Italy, has a flat nearby. Before Friday, I'll take you there so you can familiarize yourself with it— and rearrange things if you like."

"Italy!" Caragh exclaimed. "I nearly forgot! Ailis, did you know that Mama is still living?''

"Our mother? I thought she died of a fever ages ago."

"So we were told, but Aunt Kitty let slip last night that the story was a ruse to cover up the fact that she ran off with an Italian gentleman when you were still a babe. Did you truly not know?"

Ailis shook her head. "No, why would I?"

"Aunt Kitty said she's become quite a patroness of the arts. I thought perhaps Mr. Frank might have met her on his trav¬els."

Ailis burst out laughing. “If she supports galleries in Rome or Florence, he's probably seduced her!"

"From what Aunt Kitty says, she probably seduced him," Caragh said drily. "I expect she goes by some other name now, so he wouldn't have made the connection."

Ailis clapped her hands. "Famous! While you're enticing a gentleman into the artist's rooms here, our long-absent mater may be enticing its owner into her suite in Rome. You see?"  She flung an arm out at Caragh, as if closing ilv "With such blood in your veins, how can yon fail

Ailis laughed again. "No wonder Aunt Kitty nevei to let me of her sight!" 

"I think Papa understood. When I told him about your studio, he said something about the inevitability of doing whal the gods within compel you."

Ailis shrugged. "Well, I think we would all have been much better off if, instead of burying himself with his books in the countryside grieving, he'd have found another wench to replace her."

Could she find another buck to replace Quentin when their stolen night was over? Caragh wasn't so sure. "I think, in spite of everything, he still loves her."

"Tis his life to waste," Ailis said with a sniff. "I would have chosen to move on."

She would have no choice but to move on, Caragh thought with a flash of sadness. But before then—she would have the magic of her night with Quentin.

Provided she could, in fact, entice him to the rooms—and escape undetected. "How shall I manage it if...if I can per¬suade him to escort me there? I don't suppose we could...you know, still fully clothed."

"It can be done," Ailis said with a grin, "but I don't rec¬ommend it. Skin to skin is so much more...satisfying."

Her words softened to a sigh and she closed her eyes, obviously remembering. Caragh felt a tremor of desire, just imagining the feel of Quentin's skin—hands, lips, body— against hers.

"I shall have to leave the lamps low—or dispense with them—to keep him from recognizing me."

“Light just one lamp when you arrive and insist on blowing it out before you remove your veil. We'll make sure the room is arranged so you'll not be caught in the moonlight. And require him to leave you in darkness. You are Madame LaNoire, n 'est-ce pas?''

Caragh looked down at the low bodice of the wicked gown that emphasized the proud thrust of her breasts. ''Oui, c'est vrai. Now—what do I do to ensure this is an evening he will never forget?"

"Let us defer to the expert. I believe I hear Lady Belle at the door."

They walked to the entry as the maid ushered in their vis¬itor. Growing up with her sister, Caragh had become inured to physical loveliness, but the woman who glided with sensual elegance into the room was beyond doubt the most beautiful creature Caragh had ever beheld.

Her face, a profile of Grecian perfection framed by ringlets of purest gold, her skin the smoothness of white marble, she turned toward them a bow-shaped mouth that smiled in greet¬ing, while eyes of an intense gentian blue inspected them.

No wonder, Caragh thought, her mouth agape, rumor re¬ported that gentleman had offered enormous sums to lure this woman from her long-term protector.

"Lady Belle, thank you for visiting on such short notice," Ailis said.

"One must humor the whims of so talented an artist," Lady Belle replied. "And this is your sister, I presume?"

Surprised to hear in the woman's husky voice the cultured tones of a gently-bred lady, Caragh found herself sinking into a curtsey deep enough to do honor to a royal. And truly, this woman held herself with the noble bearing of a queen.

"Lady Belle, I only wish I had half Ailis's beauty! But thank you for agreeing to come."

Lady Belle nodded, handing her pelisse over to the maid, along with a coin the startled girl pocketed with alacrity be¬fore hurrying off. The evening gown revealed once her wrap had been removed—of a deep blue silk almost the color of her eyes—was cut in the latest fashion and obviously expen- sive. Yet the bodice, unadorned by jewels, lace or furbelows, was only moderately snug and almost modestly cut, higher than those sported by most of Society's ladies and much higher than that of the gown Caragh currently wore.

Of course, as the lady's bust and shoulders were as perfect as her face, she had no need to display them nearly naked to rivet the attention.

"Won't you join us in here, Lady Belle?"

The courtesan took a step, then halted. "Oh, dear!" she said in vexation. "I wished to ask you about the preliminary sketch you made, but I've left it in my reticule. Could you fetch it, please?"

Ailis nodded. "I'll be right back. Please," she said with a wink to Caragh, "make yourselves comfortable." She waved them toward the sofa in the studio.

Which was obviously a jab at how uncomfortable she was likely to find this interview, Caragh thought, tempted to stick her tongue out at her sister as she took a chair opposite Lady Belle.

Caragh's composure wasn't helped by the penetrating gaze the courtesan focused on her. "So, you wish to seduce a par¬ticular man?''

Caragh found herself blushing. "Y-yes, ma'am. But I fear I am woefully ignorant of how to go about it."

"You are a virgin, then?"

Caragh's blush deepened. "Y-yes."

"You are sure you wish to do this? You will likely ruin your chances of wedding, should you succeed. It would be...infamous for you to be coerced into it."

The almost bitter intensity of her tone distracted Caragh from her embarrassment. Was that how this woman, who looked every inch a lady, had ended up a byword for carnal¬ity?

Intriguing as the answer might be, she couldn't possibly make so personal an inquiry of a stranger. "I am sure," she said, returning to the original question. "The man I would bed is also the man I love. But as he feels for me only a tepid affection, marrying him would end in misery. I should, though, like just one chance to lie in his arms."

With a graceful gesture, Lady Belle indicated the wig. "Hence the disguise?"

"Yes. Should he recognize me, he would insist that we wed, and I couldn't bear that."

"You have some means of support if you do not marry?"

"I manage a horse-breeding operation—in my own name."

Lady Belle nodded. "That should provide you a good in¬come. Very well, I shall help. First, you must take precautions against conception. A vinegar-saturated sponge is best. I ex¬pect Ailis can get you a supply. Now, what do you wish to know?"

"I'm told this gown will focus his interest. What else can I do to... attract him?''

"You will be veiled?"

Caragh redonned her toque and wrapped the figured veil over her face. ' T shall meet him at a masquerade ball in Vauxhall Gardens, dressed like this."

"Good. Night, shadow, a bit of aloofness will add to the allure, challenge him to master your mystery. You'll wear that cape?"

Caragh plucked the cloak off the sofa arm and tossed it on, tucking it behind her shoulders as Ailis had instructed. “Like this."

Lady Belle studied her for a moment. "The whiteness of your skin under the torchlight will capture his attention, entice his eyes to linger. You can further inflame him by leading his gaze on the journey his hands and mouth will already be thirsting to follow. Come here, please."

After Caragh obediently approached her, the courtesan picked up one of the tasseled cords that tied the cloak beneath her chin. "With him watching you, retie the cloak and then release one of the cords like so."

Beginning at the hollow of Caragh's throat, she slowly traced the silken tassel down the naked skin of Caragh's chest, over the swell of her bosom, then whisked the soft bristled tip over Caragh's breast before releasing it.

Caragh caught her breath, feeling her nipple stiffen in re¬sponse to that subtle caress. Heat sparked in her stomach, pooled between her thighs. "Oh, my!" she gasped.

Lady Belle smiled. "A squeeze of his arm when he offers it to escort you down the path, a brush of your torso against his in a waltz—and he will be more than ready, my dear."

"I shall contrive an excuse to have him escort me to the apartment. But...how do I—persuade him to come in?" She felt her face heating again.

"You are presenting yourself as a married lady?"

"A widow."

"A French widow," Ailis said, returning with the sketch.

"Ah, then he will be prepared for some boldness. Simply tell him you want him."

“That's... all? It's that simple?''

At Caragh's incredulous tone, Lady Belle laughed. "Generally—yes."

"But...but I'm not a beauty like you or Ailis."

"My dear, sheer physical attractiveness often has little to do with sensual allure. If you have done all I have described, you can be sure he will want you. That is, you have no reason to suspect he finds you...unappealing?"

"No. Quite...quite the contrary."

"Then he is yours for the taking."

"Well...I shall need some assistance there as well. I want this to be a night he will never forget."

"Do you know how intimacy progresses?"

"In general terms."

"She has seen my 'Seduction' series," Ailis inserted.

Lady Belle nodded. "That would be a good sequence to follow. You remember each phase?''

Caragh smiled. “I assure you, each pose is etched into my brain!"

Ailis grinned. "I don't doubt it. I'm quite a superior artist."

"Nonetheless, it would be well to review the process, if you could fetch the sketches, please?" While Ailis went to the work bench, Lady Belle turned to Caragh. “If you have never been with a man, you must prepare your body as well. Since some women bleed the first time, to maintain your pose as an experienced woman, you will want to avoid that. And depending on his size, the stretching necessary for your body to accommodate his may be painful."

"I have the solution!" Ailis said. Handing Lady Belle the portfolio, she walked over to rummage in a side table, return¬ing with a large, smooth piece of solid whalebone—in the shape of a male member. “Many women use a dildo to obtain satisfaction in the absence of their partner, but using it—as a lover would use his—will accustom you to the size and feel of a man."

Her cheeks on fire, Caragh took the object gingerly. "So I prepare myself in advance. But Friday night, how do I... begin?"

"Disrobe for him...or let him disrobe you, as he prefers," Lady Belle advised.

"He will find watching your pleasure stimulating," Ailis said. "While you experiment with the dildo, touch yourself to see which areas of your body are most sensitive, how much pressure is most pleasurable." Taking the portfolio, she flipped to the sketch of the girl standing naked before her lover, her fingers at the junction of her thighs. "With the lamp still lit and your veil in place, let him watch you touch your¬self like this. It will fire his blood, do you not think, Lady Belle?"

“Assuredly. Most men find it titillating for the lady to take charge. Forbid him to touch you until you give him i Explore his body first, using your hands and lips to find M most sensitive places."

"Then take him in your mouth," Ailis said, "like this." She displayed the sketch to Caragh.

'"Tis very effective," Lady Belle agreed. "Do you think you can do that?"

The idea of baring her body to Quentin, touching him intimately, tasting him, made Caragh's mouth dry and her pulse race with eagerness. "Oh, yes."

"Sliding your tongue along the length of his member, then suckling it gently, especially here—" she pointed at the sketch ''—where the tip joins the shaft, will create the most exquisite sensations for him. Massaging him here at the same time—" she indicated the plump sacks suspended below the rigid shaft "—will intensify the sensations even further."

“He will probably wish to do the same for you,'' Ailis said, indicating the sketch in which the couple pleasured each other.

Imagining Quentin doing that to her, while she did the same for him, effectively deprived Caragh of speech, even had she been able to think of something to reply.

"When you are ready, let him recline against the pillows and mount him from above," Lady Belle advised. "Watching you taking him within you, being able to fondle your breasts and touch the point of your joining while you move with him, will also heighten the experience for him."

"And when the act is completed," Ailis added, "let him linger beside you, reliving and savoring each moment."

"I shall certainly do that," Caragh said. Indeed, if intimacy with Quentin proved to be as exquisite a sensual and emo¬tional experience as she anticipated, it was going to be very difficult to send him away at all. But she would worry about that later.

"Anything else I should do?" she asked.

"That should be sufficient for the first time. After all," she added with a touch of self-mockery, "you are a widow—not a courtesan."

“Lady Belle, I know you have an engagement, so we will not keep you longer. Caragh," Ailis said with a wicked grin, "you should review the sketches again while I discuss Lady Belle's portrait with her."

As the two women moved to Ailis's work bench, Caragh flipped through the drawings, recalling with each pose the advice she'd been given. Imagining herself and Quentin in those positions soon had her skin sheened with dampness, her pulse throbbing and her body quivering in a low buzz of an¬ticipation.

She wished their rendezvous were tomorrow rather than Friday—and yet, at the same time she wished the time might never arrive, that she might savor this delicious sense of an¬ticipation forever. For after the searing crucible of union would come the devastation of parting.

But first, she promised herself, she would experience the full height and depth of love's ecstasy—and transport Quentin Burke to that heaven with her.

CHAPTER 16

After checking his pocket watch, Quentin once again scanned the throng of merrymakers strolling through the col¬onnade before the Vauxhall Gardens orchestra. Queens, knaves, jesters and medieval knights mingled with patrons dressed in more normal fashion, their only concession to the masquerade the dominoes worn over their faces.

Although it was not yet late, there were already a number of tipsy gentleman swaggering about, loudly accosting an as¬sortment of “ladies'' in scandalously brief gowns, who, after much giggling and tapping of fans, accompanied them into the shadows down one of the infamous Dark Walks.

Viewing the increasingly rowdy behavior of the crowd, Quentin could well believe Lady Catherine had no taste for attending the masquerade here. He was somewhat surprised that she was allowing Caragh to come, even with his escort.

Probably that kind lady had allowed compassion for her niece, so unfairly barred from more conventional amusements, to overrule her caution, a lapse Quentin could readily under¬stand. Nonetheless, he'd already decided that once he found Caragh, after a few dances and a taste of the Arrack punch and wafer-thin ham, he would hustle her back to the safety of her aunt's house.

It was now almost half an hour later than the time she'd indicated for their rendezvous, he noted uneasily. The note she'd sent him indicated that, with the session at the lawyers expected to run late, she intended to bring her costume with her and meet him directly at the Gardens. She'd assured him

Smithers would dispatch one of his clerks to watch out for her until she found Quentin.

He was wishing he had insisted on meeting her at the law¬yer's offices when he caught sight of a lady of Caragh's size and height, standing by the orchestra with her back to him. A second look confirmed she was gowned in the black Caragh had written she'd be wearing.

He sprinted toward her, his immediate relief succeeded by vexation. Neither the promised clerk—nor any sort of escort that he could see—appeared to be hovering in the vicinity to protect her. He would certainly send a few sharp words to her lawyer!

Coming up from behind, he placed his hands on her shoul¬ders to turn her toward him. "Caragh, I'm so relieved—" he began, only to release her and spring back when the lady uttered a little shriek.

"Monsieur! Qu'est-ce que vous faites, alors?"

"Excuse me, ma'am!" he cried. "I thought you were..."

As his gaze swept down the figure of the woman he'd inadvertently accosted, the rest of his apology went straight out of mind. From the back, this slender lady might have resem¬bled Caragh, but from a hand's breath away, he could see that the curls tumbling from beneath a jaunty toque were not a soft golden brown, but deepest ebony. And though the lady was garbed in black, never would Caragh have worn so scan¬dalously—and enticingly—revealing a gown.

In fact, his body, unconcerned about the true identity of the lady possessing such delicious curves, was already rising in enthusiastic appreciation. Even his more responsible brain was having difficulty ordering his eyes to cease devouring the vi¬sual delight spread beneath them and lift instead to the veiled lady's face.

“Je m 'excuse, madame!'' he said, recapturing the power of speech. "Pardon me, please! I...I thought you were someone else."

She appeared to regard him through the veil for a moment, then nodded. "Since you were gentleman enough to release me immediatement, I accept the apology, monsieur."

At that moment, a boy approached Quentin. “You be Lord Branson, sir? A lady from Mr. Smithers's office done sent me with this message fer ye."

Quentin took the note and slipped the lad a coin. Squinting in the flickering light of the flambeaux, Quentin scanned Caragh's message. By the time they'd completed their transac¬tions, she wrote, she'd developed one of her headaches and felt compelled to return straight home. She ended with profuse apologies for having inconvenienced him.

A bit annoyed at having wasted his time, Quentin refolded the note. Still, with this gathering already bordering on the disreputable, he was really rather relieved he'd not have to shepherd Caragh through it.

When he looked up, the veiled lady was still facing him. He thought again that, except for that display of bosom, some¬how she reminded him strongly of Caragh.

"It was not distressing news, monsieur?"

“Not at all, madame. Just that the friend I was to meet will not be coming after all."

He was about offer a final apology and bid the veiled lady good night when one of the revelers staggered over and seized her by the shoulder. "How's about a kiss, sweeting?"

With an inarticulate cry, the woman tried to twist out of the drunkard's grasp. Incensed, Quentin seized the man's arm, jerked his hand off the lady's shoulder and forcibly returned it to the ruffian's side. "The lady isn't interested. Be on your way, man."

For a moment, it seemed the drunkard would protest his intervention. But after owlishly noting Quentin's height from head to boot tips, he apparently decided against it. "Meant no harm," he muttered, backing away.

The lady put a hand to her bare throat. "Mille fois merci, sir!" With a little shudder, she readjusted the silken cords that held her cloak in place. In spite of himself, he could not help watching as she tightened the knot, then smoothed the tasseled ends down the front of her bodice, across the peaked tips of her breasts... He stifled a groan as heat flushed through him.

"It isn't my place to say so, madame, but you shouldn't be in Vauxhall alone." Certainly not in that gown, he added silently.

"Vraiment, I did not wish it, monsieur! I was walking with my friends, there—" she pointed a slender hand "—when a large party pushed past us. Almost they knocked me down! When I found my balance, my friends had disappeared. So I wait here for them. This place, il me fait énervée—how you say? It makes me nervous."

For a gentleman, there was but one reply. "Since I no longer need to wait here, let me help you find your party."

"Comme c'est gentil, monsieur! But I cannot ask it."

"Nonsense. I could not have it on my conscience that I left so pretty a lady unescorted in the midst of so unruly a crowd."

Once again, the lady studied him from behind her veil. "I should not, sir, for I do not know you. But you have twice been the gentleman, and truly, I cannot like to stay here alone."

"My word as a gentleman, madame, I will not take advantage. Though 'tis not exactly proper, allow me to introduce myself. Lord Branson, at your service." Quentin bowed, try¬ing not to notice as he bent down how close that action brought his lips to her enticing bosom.

She bent her head and curtseyed in return. "Madame LaNoire, milord. Many thanks for your noble rescue." Ten¬tatively, she offered her hand.

More conscious than he wanted to be of those warm fingers resting in the curve of his arm, Quentin led the lady along a circuit through the Gardens. But although they checked in every gathering spot, they did not find her friends.

At length they returned to the area by the orchestra. "So dark it is, I fear we missed them. But I cannot keep you longer. Surely, they will come back for me."

“No more than before could I abandon you now, madame. Should you like a glass of punch? Perhaps by the time we have some refreshment, your friends will return. No, truly it is no bother!" he said, forestalling her protest.

"You are sure? Eh bien, then I accept with gladness, mi¬lord."

Keeping an eye on her to make sure she was not accosted again—and really, 'twas no hardship to keep an eye on that luscious display—Quentin obtained punch and some sand¬wiches of slivered ham. A few more coins given to the atten¬dant, and he was able to lead the veiled lady into a box with a clear view of the passing crowd.

"You are French, Madame?" he asked after they had sipped some punch.

"Oui, monsieur."

"But your English is quite good."

"Merci, monsieur. I have had years here to learn it. Mon cher Phillippe was a royalist, so we were forced to flee our home. His dearest wish was to see that monster Corsican driven from La France. And for that—" her voice softened "—he gave his life."

"My condolences, ma'am. Have you no family here?"

She shook her head and gave a soulful sigh "Some friends only. I do not go out often, moi, but tonight, they beg me. They say the music here is lovely and ah, I do so adore la danse. But it was mistake to come."

The melancholy of her tone touched him. Despite the riv¬eting display of bosom, she seemed a proper matron. Bereft of support from the men of her family, cut off from her world...in truth, her circumstances were very like Caragh's.

He wouldn't be able to offer his neighbor some diversion tonight. But perhaps he could give this sweet lady a brief respite from her grief.

Quentin put down his mug. "You must dance with me."

"Milord, I could not!"

"Why? You just said you came here for the dancing. You must know by now I shall not harm you, and in any event, this is the most crowded, well-lit place in all of Vauxhall. You can still watch the revelers, and I promise to release you the instant your friends return."

"Vraiment, milord, I should not."

Sensing her resolve weakening, he made her a deep bow. “Would you honor me, madame?''

Though she shook her head at him, she held out her hand. "You are very bad, monsieur."

"On the contrary," he said, smiling as he lead her onto the dance floor, "I am very good." Oh, that I might show you how good, the thought flashed through his head before he could suppress it.

She seemed to enjoy the first dance so much, he immedi¬ately asked her for a second. Which, since it turned out to be a waltz, was probably a mistake.

She fit a bit too nicely in his arms. He couldn't stop think¬ing of her nearly bare breasts brushing his chest, separated from his flesh only by the linen of his shirt and a flimsy bit of velvet. His fingers itched to see if the ivory skin glowing in the dimness would be as soft as the plush of her gown.  And the subtle pull of that fabric as the nap dragged against his coat and trousers as they danced, heightened his unwanted arousal.

By the time it was over, his breathing was labored and sweat beaded his forehead. He had, he told himself grimly, been much too long without a woman.

His partner, mercifully in ignorance of his heated thoughts, clasped his hand fervently. "Ah, monsieur, that was magni- fique! Not since the last ball with my dearest Philippe have I danced so! Merci, merci encore!'"

Quentin bowed. "My pleasure, madame." Both more and less than I would have liked to give you. "I take it you have not yet seen your friends. Shall we make another circuit of the grounds?"

“No. Perhaps they are still here, but moi, I am fatiguée. I would go home. But ah, milord, I cannot say enough how gentil you have been! I...I had forgotten what it is like to be with a true gentleman." She made him a deep curtsey, then turned to go.

"Wait!" he cried, catching her arm. "You cannot mean to travel at night alone! I don't wish to be presumptuous, but you must allow me to escort you."

She shook her head. "No, I already trouble you too much."

"No trouble, I assure you. After all, I too must cross the river and find a hackney to convey me to my lodgings. It would be no trouble to drop you on the way."

She hesitated, looking toward the river, then back at him. "I would feel safer, I cannot deny. You are sure it is no bother?"

"Not a bit." He offered his arm. After another moment's hesitation, she took it.

Quentin walked her to the quay and engaged a boatman to oar them across. But once they were seated side by side on the narrow seat, the sway of the boat rocking them together, he grew all too conscious of her slim figure tucked beside him.

It was even worse in the hackney. In that closed space, the scent of her perfume teased his nostrils, her dusky curls tick¬led his cheek...and he simply couldn't stop thinking of those outrageously tempting breasts beneath her cloak, a mere brush of his hand away.

Being French, she probably did not realize what havoc that lavish display of skin played with English sensibilities, he thought, surreptitiously tugging at his over-tight neckcloth. He was both relieved and sorry when the jarvey pulled up before the address she had given him.

When the carriage stopped, she looked over at him. "I...I should not ask, but...my hallway is very dark. Could you walk up with me?"

"Of course." Giving the driver a coin to wait for him, Quentin followed her up.

Inside the entry, she located a candle and matchbox, then lit a taper. Carrying it to illumine the gloom of the stairs, she led him up to an apartment on the top floor.

Moonlight from a tall window on the landing outlined her figure in silver, cast in relief the figured pattern of the veil covering her face as she drew a key from her pocket and unlocked a door.

Quentin watched her, wondering with a touch of whimsy how the rest of her life would treat her, this gentle widow cast adrift so far from her homeland. Suddenly he wished he might pull aside the veil and kiss her goodbye.

She pushed the door open, then turned back to him. Hesi¬tantly she put a hand on his arm. "I...I wonder if—but no, I must not. You will believe me...wanton."

A frisson of excitement zipped through him at the word. "N-not at all," he stumbled. "What is it?"

"It is just...I am widow, vous savez. I miss, ah so much, the loving with my Philippe. C'est curieux, but you...very much resemble the man I love. So much, I ache to leave you."

His heartbeat leapt as she took a ragged breath, her voice quieting so he had to lean closer to hear her words. “Just for tonight, I wish not to be alone. Just for tonight, I wish to know again what love is. Ah, mais, c'est impossible!" She dropped his arm and stepped away. "You have a wife, oui?"

"No!"

"A lady you are promised to?"

He shook his head. “There is a lady I wished to marry, but she...she refused me."

She remained silent, as if pondering that revelation. “Fool¬ish lady!" she murmured at last. "Just for tonight, we console each other, eh? You will...stay with me?"

Desire swelled in him, restrained by a touch of guilt. But as he'd told her, Caragh had refused him. There were no promises between them, no bonds but friendship.

So how could he refuse this sad, sweet lady?

When she once again took his hand, he let her lead him within.

She set the candle down inside and lit a single lamp, then beckoned him to follow her through several shadowy rooms. His pulses leapt again when beyond the threshold of the next, she halted—beside a large canopied bed.

Setting the lamp down on the bedside table, she turned to take him eagerly into her arms. But when he raised his hand to grasp her veil, she caught it.

"No, my love. Now I show you all of me but my face. Later, when the light is dim, I remove the veil."

"Why?" he whispered. "You know I will not harm you."

"I know. But with my Philippe gone, I must work to sur¬vive. I teach French and music to the children of your ton. One who influences innocents must be, as you say, 'above reproach.' If you know my face and see me later, on the street—"

"I would never betray you!"

She put a finger to his lips. "Ah, non. But seeing you, knowing what you know, I might betray myself. Now if I see you, it will be for me a secret joy."

"A joy I may not share?"

"You have another life. For us, there can be only tonight. You... understand?''

He nodded reluctantly. "If I must."

"Then, let us begin."

She shrugged out of her cape and tossed it on the bed, then turned her back and indicated the tapes to her gown. "S'il vous plait, monsieur?"

CHAPTER 17

Oh, did it please him! "Certainement," he murmured. Fin¬gers clumsy with eagerness, he loosened the tapes, then strug¬gled to free the long line of tiny buttons securing the back of the gown. As the fabric released, he lifted it away, drawing the sleeves down her arms, letting the heavy full skirts fall to her ankles.

Beneath the gown she wore stays and ruffled petticoats over a thin linen chemise, through which peaked nipples now, at last, showed clearly. He wanted to rip the linen aside, view with no further impediment those full plump rounds that had titillated him all evening, but she gently pushed his hands away.

While he watched each movement, she slowly dropped one strap, then the other. He heard himself groan as bit by bit she peeled down the remaining inch of cloth. Cupping her hands beneath her breasts, she lifted them, massaged them, rubbed the stiffened nipples with her thumbs. "Do you like what you see, milord?"

"Yes." His voice sounded hoarse, guttural.

"You would see...more?"

"Yes. More. Everything."

She laughed softly as she unlaced the stays and tossed them aside, then stepped out of the petticoats. Straightening, she stood before him, breasts bare, the fine linen now barely veil¬ing her body from stomach to calves. She ran her hands down her sides, over her belly, letting them come to rest on her thighs, her thumbs grazing the dark triangle at her center. "More?"

He was nearly frantic with the need to touch her, taste the pale skin and dark puckered nipples, but this slow unveiling was too enrapturing to resist. "M-more."

She wrapped her fingers in the linen beneath her breasts and drew it down her ribs, tugged it an inch at a time over her belly and hips, little by little revealing the tight dark curls beneath. "More?"

"Ah, yes!"

She turned her back to him and teased the fabric lower, let it whisper down her legs. Bending over, she gave him the arousing vista of her naked back and buttocks as she dropped the chemise to her feet and kicked it away.

Languorously she straightened and turned back to face him. "More, milord?"

Beyond speech now, he nodded.

She eased her bottom up onto the bed and sat back, then drew a leg up, gripped garter and stocking and pushed them down, arching and withdrawing her foot. While he stood, breathless at the glimpses she allowed him, she removed the other stocking. Leaning back, she parted her thighs to give him a fuller view and ran a fingertip over the nub at her very center.

Over the roaring in his ears, he heard her say, "Come to me."

But when he rushed to the bedside, his eager fingers reach¬ing for her, she sat back up and once again caught his wrists. "Pas encore," she murmured. "Not yet."

Placing his hands back at his sides, she wrapped her legs around him and drew him close, until his straining breeches were pressed to the spot her fingertip had caressed. "Now, let me see you.''

He wanted to indicate his approval, but his voice seemed to have stopped functioning. Apparently taking his silence for approval, she loosened the knot of his cravat, unwound the cloth and tossed it aside, then plucked open the buttons of his shirt until she had bared him from throat to chest.

"Comme c'est beau," she murmured, running her fingers from his breastbone up to the hollow of his throat and back while he stood motionless, in thrall to her touch. She clutched him tighter with her legs, bringing him even closer into her heat while she struggled to free him from his tight jacket. After stripping him of his shirt with the same teasing slowness with which she had removed her chemise, she set to work on his bare torso. Using fingertips and the pads of her thumbs, sometimes barely touching him, so that the tiny hairs of his skin bristled in electric response, sometimes massaging with deep and powerful strokes, she caressed every inch of skin.

By now he was ablaze with need, desperate for her to re¬move the rest of his garments and subject his lower body to the same thorough exploration she had given his arms and chest. And once again, she drove him nearly to madness with her slow deliberate pace. Yet so exquisite was the torment, he could not bring himself to disobey her command that he remain motionless, submissive to her control.   .

One by one she unhooked the buttons of his trousers, until his throbbing erection sprang free. Nestling him against her moist warmth, she leaned forward until her breasts just grazed his chest, then inched his breeches down his backside, ca¬ressing his buttocks with her fingers as she went.

By now restraint was almost pain. Every instinct urged him to seize her and plunge himself deep within the slick canal so excruciatingly close. When she bent to tug his breeches lower, her face near enough to his rigid shaft that he could feel the warm breath through the veil, he nearly lost control altogether.

Fortunately she seemed to sense how close to climax—and collapse—he was hovering. She untangled her legs and slipped off the bed. Urging him up on it, she tugged his boots and then his breeches off, treating him to a wonderful view of bare backside and bouncing breasts.

After she'd stripped him completely, she ordered him to recline against the pillows. Once more stilling his hands, she climbed back up on the bed and straddled him, positioning herself so his rigid erection almost touched the cleft between her parted thighs. "Would you see more, milord?" she whis¬pered.

"Y-yes," he gasped, beyond anticipating what she might do next, carried away by wonderment. And so he watched as this time, she traced her hands from his forehead down his nose, teasing apart his lips and pausing to allow him to suckle her fingertips, then trailing her moistened fingers down his chest, circling his nipples, slowing her pace as her hands de¬scended.

His breathing erratic and his heartbeat thundering in his ears, he watched her fingers trace down the now acutely sen¬sitive skin of his abdomen, pausing just above the point he most wished her to stroke, then flaring her hands out to his hips, fluttering them over his buttocks.

Nearly growling with equal parts of gratification and frustration, he struggled to keep still. A few moments later his patience was rewarded when, while still caressing his back¬side, she moved her other hand up and slowly, so slowly anticipation squeezed his chest until he could no longer breathe, with the barely perceptible pressure of one fingertip, stroked him from base to tip.

He shuddered violently, his penis leaping beneath her fin¬ger. She encircled him with her hand, steadying him, then drew her hand down his length and back once, twice.

“Parfait,'' she murmured. “Absolument parfait.''

He wanted to tell her she was perfect, absolutely the most divinely perfect lover he'd ever known, but his words seemed like wild creatures fled before the coming of the earthquake, unable to be recalled into speech. He could not articulate, he could only feel. And watch.

"You observe still, mon cher?" she asked. Despite the veil that obscured her face, she must be able to see that though his tongue was mute, his eyes remained riveted on her hands...which gently caressed him. And, at last, guided him to that place he most longed to be.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, groaning with the effort to hold back as her wetness dewed the tip of his erection until, unable to stop himself, he thrust into her.

She gasped, her arms going rigid on his shoulders. Alarm restoring his control, he withdrew. "Did I hurt you, ma belle?" he whispered.

"N-no, mon cher," she whispered. "Only...it has been so long, vous savez.  Almost it is like the first time again."

"Then we will take it slowly," he promised.

And so he did, though the slowness was almost torture to him. She moved her hips to take him in a fraction at a time, until at last she'd drawn his length completely within her moist warmth.

"It is good now for you, my sweet?" he asked.

"Vraiment, it is h-heaven," she said, her fingernails biting into his shoulders as she rocked herself forward.

That bold movement unraveled the last of his control. With a hoarse cry, he seized her buttocks and drove deep. She cried out as well, matching his rhythm and meeting him thrust for thrust until, with an inarticulate wail, she shattered around him.

Satisfaction at her pleasure swelled in his chest before his own climax erupted within her, robbing him for a few heart-stopping minutes of breath and sight.

He awoke to find her slumped against him, their bodies slick with sweat, her heartbeat rapid against his chest. For a long time he was too full of delicious satiation to be able to move or speak. Finally, with a supreme effort, he found her hand and managed to bring it to his lips.

"You, ma belle dame, are perfect."

She murmured and with a languid movement, pushed to a sitting position astride him, setting off a series of exquisite aftershocks. Raising her hands above her head, she arched her back and stretched, angling her full, high breasts close to his face.

Catching her shoulders, he eased her forward until he could capture one pink nipple. She moaned as the captive hardened under his tongue and her inner muscles contracted, sending another burst of sensation through him. With one hand he circled and massaged her other breast, brushing his thumb over the tip, as she had shown him earlier.

By the time he had thoroughly sampled each breast, her breathing had gone ragged again and he could feel himself hardening within her. She began to rock, small, gentle thrusts that soon brought him back to full erection.

He observed only her this time, listened as her breathing turned from pants to gasps, noticed as her arms went rigid and her hands clutched on his shoulders, suckled in rhythm with her increasingly rapid thrusts. Just as he felt his own control unraveling once again, she arched into him and cried out. Her body spasmed around him, demolishing the last of his resistance, and once again, his world exploded into a soar¬ing starburst of sensation.

Afterward they both dozed. He awoke languid, conscious of the pleasant burden of her soft body cradled against his chest. Awe and amazement welled up in him, and unable to resist the temptation to peek at the face of the lady who had brought him twice to paradise, he tugged at her veil.

She jerked awake at once and caught his fingers. "Pas permis, my naughty one," she reproved. Disengaging from him, she slid off the bed and stood beside it, beautifully naked but for her veil, her breasts dappled pink with the marks of his possession.

He sat up on his elbow, and for a few moments she allowed him to feast on the sight of her. Then she blew out the lamp, leaving the bedchamber in inky darkness, silent but for a soft rustling he realized must be madame at last removing her veil.

Excitement swept through him. He leaned forward in the darkness to meet her, pulled her onto the bed beside him and back against the pillows. "At last I shall see you," he whis¬pered, and felt her lips curve into a smile as she allowed him to trace first his fingers, then his lips over her naked face.

But when he moved his mouth lower to nip at her tender neck, she pulled away. "Pas encore, milord," she said, urging him once again back against the pillows. "You have seen. Now, you shall feel."

And before he could imagine what she intended, she began her slow journey of exploration again,, this time using her tongue.

Another blissful interlude later, he awoke again. Smiling into the darkness, he stroked the shoulder of his dozing lover, wondering which had been more intense—his pleasure when he'd watched as well as felt her guide him to completion, or the pleasure produced when he was focused only on her touch?

While he pondered that sweet dilemma, she stirred beside him. He bent down to capture her lips—lips whose contours he wished to memorize, that should his lady not permit him to see her unveiled, he might still be able to recognize her should they pass by chance on the street.

As if suspicious of his intent, she drew away. “C'est tard, mon amant,” she whispered. "Much too late. You must go before the sky lightens. I cannot risk that anyone see you here."

He wanted to protest, but she had already slipped from the bed. By the sibilant sounds in the dark chamber, he knew she must be gathering up their clothing. A moment later he dimly perceived the pale outline of his shirt as she guided it over one hand.

Soon, too soon, he thought. Though, given the circum¬stances she'd described, he understood her caution, still he sought to put off the moment of parting. Interrupting her with a long slow kiss, he ran his hands over her peach-soft skin, interfering with her determined efforts to get him into his shirt, then distracted her by bending to suckle those firm, sweet breasts.

"Méchant!" she groaned, pushing him away. "No more delay." But though, whether from the chill or to escape temp¬tation, she threw on a thick satin dressing gown, she showed herself not quite as committed to hurrying as her words might indicate.

After fastening him into his shirt, she paused to once again caress his buttocks before tugging up his breeches. Then she kissed his spent member so enticingly he nearly insisted they linger longer before, with a sigh, she drew away and firmly rebuttoned his trouser flap.

When she brought him boots and jacket, he stayed her with a hand to her shoulder. "Will you let me see you?"

She caught his hand and kissed it. "Nay, love, I dare not."

Disappointed, but not surprised, he asked, "Will you let me see you again?"

She "hesitated, making his heart leap. "That, too, would not be wise."

Sensing her waver, he pressed harder. “But you will allow it? I beg you, ma belle dame, please say yes."

Without answering him, she moved away into the darkness. A few moments later he blinked against the sudden brightness and jerked his gaze to her face.

She stood beside the candle she'd just lit holding his jacket and boots—her face once again obscured by the veil. Swal¬lowing his disappointment, he walked to her and ran his finger over the soft patterned fabric that masked her features. "You still do not trust me?''

"Please, you must go now."

She seemed already a bit distant. Sensing that pressing her to reveal her face would only make her withdraw further, he did not persist. Instead, he let her assist him into his jacket and boots and lead him to the door, where she dropped him a curtsey.

"Thank you, milord."

She rose, clearly expecting him to walk away. Yet he could not seem to make himself take the first step. What sorcery she had worked on him, he marveled as he dawdled on her door¬step? Never before had he been so reluctant to end a romantic interlude.

"Can I return here tomorrow?" he found himself asking.

He tensed as he awaited her answer, suddenly realizing he desperately needed her to agree, not sure what he would do if she refused.

Finally, with a shuddering sigh that rippled through her slender frame, she whispered, "Oui. Vraiment, 'tis madness, but yes. Come at midnight."

His drooping spirits revived on a surge of delight and wild anticipation. "I promise to make it a madness you will never regret. Until tomorrow at midnight, then."

She opened the door and after peeping into the hallway, motioned him through it, allowing one last kiss to her hand before shutting it behind him.

For a long moment after that portal closed, he stared at it, listening as the soft pad of her footsteps retreated, lost in awe, curiosity and wonder.

Finally he forced himself into motion. After tonight, he must concede the French deserved their reputation as masters of seduction. If only he could see her! How he thirsted to look upon the face of this lady with the tragic past and the magic touch!

But even should she never permit that, the spleflttor of the night they'd shared far surpassed his craving to view her features. And he had tonight still to anticipate. How many hours until midnight?

Smiling in the dimness, he fingered his pocket watch and with an eager step, trod down the stairs.

Hours later, Caragh sat on the divan in her sister's studio, sipping hot chocolate. After dismissing the maid with an im¬patient wave of her hand, Ailis turned to Caragh. "So, did I not tell you 'twould be delightful?"

Caragh smiled. "Aye, you did."

"And viewing him in the flesh after having studied the drawing did not...disappoint?"

Caragh chuckled. "Oh my, no!"

Raising her eyebrows, Ailis laughed too. "I think I shall have to have him model for me—if only so I may make you a more accurate sketch to remember him by!"

"I'm not ready to be reduced to memories just yet. The reason I called—beyond thanking you again for all your help—is to beg more...supplies. I've asked Quentin to return to the flat tonight."

Ailis's amusement faded. Regarding her sister thoughtfully, she sipped her tea. “Are you sure you are not committing more of yourself to this than you ought?"

Caragh gave her a wistful smile. "I'm not sure of any¬thing," she replied, mastering the wobble in her voice before it told Ailis far more than she wished to explain.

Her midnight excursion, so much more magnificent than anything she could possibly have dreamed, seemed to have dissolved the careful hold Caragh had been maintaining over her emotions. During those stolen hours in a borrowed room, the lust, curiosity and wistful need to hold Quentin close that had driven her to that outrageous masquerade had both strengthened and evolved into something almost beyond her ability tcfcontrol. Physical rapture had deepened her love for him, while love in turn, she suspected, had intensified her physical pleasure. Sending him away had been nearly impos¬sible.

Her resolve not to see him again, one of the fundamental tenets upon which she'd permitted herself this rash undertak¬ing in the first place, had faltered upon the mere repetition of his request that they meet again.

Other emotions she'd not anticipated assailed her as well. Guilt at deceiving Quentin, using his body under false pre¬tenses and eliciting his ready sympathy for a creature who did not exist. Shame at probing the depth of his allegiance to her, though—mercifully or not, she wasn't sure—she'd been too cowardly to pursue the matter to its end and baldly ask if he loved the girl who'd refused him.

If he loved her.

"Foolish lady" indeed!

"Are you going to tell him the truth?"

Ailis's inquiry startled her back to the present. "No!"

“If your activities last evening were as vigorous as I imag¬ine, you are probably lucky that the wig—and your anonymity—survived the night intact. How much longer do you ex¬pect such luck to hold? If you would keep Quentin as your lover, 'twould be much simpler to abandon pretense."

"You know I cannot. If Quentin discovered I am Madame LaNoire, he would insist that we marry." She took a deep breath, voicing aloud the truth that had become more painful minute.by rapturous minute of their time together. "Delightful though it be, the...arrangement cannot become longstand¬ing."

Ailis shrugged. "If you enjoy him that much, I don't see why not. Simply refuse to marry him. 'Tis what I do every time Holden pesters me about wedlock. He cannot force you, after all."

For a moment, Caragh was diverted from her own predicament. "Holden is pressing you to marry? The confirmed rake, brought to his knees at last? Famous!"

Ailis waved a nonchalant hand. "I daresay he only asks because he's so certain I'll refuse. I like him well enough and he's a charming lover, but no man is charming enough to persuade me to trade independence for the iron trap of mat¬rimony."

Matrimony with Quentin could be heaven, not trap, Caragh thought wistfully. But only if he truly loved the lady who'd refused his suit—and he'd given Madame LaNoire no hint that he would have affirmatively answered the question she'd not been brave enough to ask.

Caragh wanted only what he willingly offered her—or rather, Madame LaNoire. One more glorious night.

"Well, sister, is advice all I can pry from you? Or may I take more of those clever little sponges as well?"

"Both, of course." Ailis set down her wineglass and went behind the screen that concealed her bed, returning a moment later with a small pouch. "Remember to use them properly," she said as she handed it over. "I still think it best for you to reveal the truth—I know, you won't," she said before Car¬agh could protest. "Should your disguise somehow slip, how¬ever, don't say I didn't warn you."

Caragh took the pouch and tucked it in her reticule. After one more stolen evening, she would let Quentin go, then get on with her life and refuse to look back. "Nonsense, 'tis'but for one more night. In so short a time, how could anything go wrong?"

CHAPTER 18

Two days later, Quentin sat at the desk in his London study, staring sightlessly at estate documents he'd ostensibly been reviewing for the past hour. Instead of the prosaic details of materials purchased and funds expended, though, in his mind shimmered indelible images of the two nights he'd spent with Madame LaNoire.

She'd not allowed him to remove her veil during their sec¬ond evening either. But, after extracting his promise not to touch that forbidden item, she had agreed to his request that, reversing roles, they repeat the love-play of their first night. He had thoroughly enjoyed inspecting every inch of her body in the lamplight, driving her to the brink of ecstasy with the same extreme slowness with which she had tortured him, be¬fore plunging them both over the edge to fulfillment. And knowing this time, she watched him as he explored her, from the curve of her toes to the velvet folds beneath the dark curls at her center to her pink-nippled breasts, made the journey even more erotic.

Or had his senses been more stimulated the second time, after he extinguished the lamp, removed her veil, and retraced that journey with his tongue, both of them enveloped in a cloak of darkness that intensified every touch, every scent? Certainly he'd been able to tantalize her to climax several times before finally heeding her ragged pleas that he sheath himself within her.

A knock on the door interrupted that arousing speculation, plummeting him back to the uninspiring vista of the estate ledgers stacked atop his desk. Even after he dealt with this tedious array of paperwork, the evening stretched bleakly before him. Though he'd pleaded with all the persuasion he could muster, the bewitching Madame LaNoire had sadly but firmly refused to let him return.

With a catch in her voice, she'd asserted that despite the certainty of delight they might share, his visiting again would be too risky—for them both.

Knowing thoughts of her had already monopolized far too much of his time and attention, he had reluctantly bowed to her decree. It appeared likely he would never see her again— without ever having really seen her.

Should they chance to pass on some Mayfair street, would he recognize her? Or, as she had predicted, might she pause to gaze covertly at him, recalling the rapture of those nights, while he walked on oblivious?

A mingling of protest, regret and something disturbingly like dismay stabbed in his gut.

The knock sounded again. "Enter," he barked.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," his butler bowed himself in, "are you intending to dine at home? Cook was not given instructions."

Was it as late as that? He glanced at the mantel clock, startled to find it late afternoon. Yesterday, in sated splendor he'd slept through most of the daylight hours. Inspecting the nearly untouched stack of papers on his desk, he realized he had daydreamed away the better part of them today.

"No," he said, suddenly restless and weary of his own company. "I shall dine at the club as usual. Summon me a carriage in half an hour."

The end of so unexpected and magical an interlude was bound to leave him feeling somewhat melancholy. A few con¬vivial hours of wine, political commentary and companionship at White's would be just the thing to restore his spirits—and distract him from recalling that tonight, no veiled lady waited to enrapture him. He entered the club an hour later to find it as bustling as he'd anticipated. Lord Andover, seated in his usual spot by the bow window, spotted him as he entered and waved him over.

"Been rusticating again, old fellow? Haven't seen you at dinner of late."

"No, sir. Busy, I expect," he replied noncommittally, the knowledge of the sort of rusticating in which he had been indulging burning like a bright flame within him.

"Come, sit down! You'll broach a bottle and share a few moments with an old man, eh?"

Regretting the quest for information that had led him to ingratiate himself with his father's friend the previous week, Quentin took the seat indicated. Though a recitation of the latest society gossip no longer appealed, he couldn't see a way to refuse without slighting the old gentleman, who had, in truth, proved helpful.

Andover looked him up and down, eyes shrewd in his wrinkled face. "Now you have the appearance of a man who's been well-satisfied." The old gentleman cackled. "Been call¬ing on your old neighbor, that Sudley artist chit?"

Irritated, Quentin ignored the first remark to concentrate on the second. "Yes, I did call on Miss Ailis. Despite what rumor claims about artists, I interrupted no orgiastic revels-in-progress. Nor did I find a lover hiding in her armoire—just a quantity of canvases and paints, and a rather unconventional lady set upon using them to make a living."

"Make a living—bah!" Lord Andover dismissed that pronouncement with a disparaging wave of his hand. "A real Diamond, they say, and living alone now?"

"She is a beauty, yes. But not quite alone—there's a maidservant in residence.''

"I'd wager the cost of Prinny's next extravagance that she'll never earn enough to fill a teapot. Since she's betrayed her birthright and given up any claim to gentility, stands to reason she'll soon be taking a protector. I hear Freemont's already dangling after her, so what are you waiting for?"

The old man poked Quentin in the side. "Being a close friend of the family, you have a decided advantage in winning her favors, if you make your move quickly!"

"Being a close family friend," Quentin said stiffly, "I couldn't consider such a thing. Damme, Andover, I've known the chit since she was in short skirts."

"Think how much better she will look in—or out of them—now," Andover said, chuckling at his own witticism.

Quentin wasn't amused. "I hardly think her aunt, Lady Mansfield, or her sister, Miss Sudley, would appreciate such conduct toward their near relation by someone they trust to be both a friend and a gentleman."

"Lady Mansfield's above reproach—courted the gel m'self, years back—but the elder Miss Sudley had better look to her own reputation," Lord Andover said. "I hear she's been vis¬iting the artist chit and mixing with her low-bred friends. Sib¬lings and all, I understand, but if she does that overmuch, Miss Sudley will find herself featured alongside her sister in the latest print shop broadsides. Both fillies bred from the same mare, eh?"

Before Quentin could make a sharp rejoinder about the wir fairness of slandering the Sudley daughters because of their mother's ancient scandal, a voice from behind him said, "What is this about Miss Sudley?"

Quentin turned to see Alden Russell approaching.

"Russell, pray join us," Andover invited. "Know the Sud¬ley chits, do you?"

"Never been introduced to the Diamond-turned-artist," he replied, taking the chair offered, "but Branson presented me to the elder—a lovely, intelligent lady. Quite a knowledgeable estate manager too, as he can also attest. In fact," Russell said, turning to Quentin, "my solicitor has just completed the sale of some land to her family—that parcel I mentioned to her."

"Caragh—Miss Sudley is buying the old Reynolds farm?" Quentin echoed.

“Wants to expand their horse-breeding operation, my law¬yer said. I'm delighted to see the land go to a purpose for which it is so well-suited—especially when I hope it will fre¬quently bring the lady herself there to oversee it!" He grinned at Quentin. "Of course, I shall have to call frequently to offer my assistance whenever she visits the neighborhood."

The hot light in Russell's eye as he announced that inten¬tion, added to Quentin's knowledge of just how often—and just how well-chaperoned—Caragh would be at the new prop¬erty, nearly made him choke. Bad enough that, should she proceed with this mad intention of running the farm alone, she would leave herself open to just the sort of speculation and innuendo Andover was already bandying about, as well as potential insult from the clients who patronized the oper¬ation. But to know his erstwhile friend, who'd already of¬fended Quentin by making randy remarks about the lady, would be able to lie in wait for her not five miles outside her gate was outside of enough!

He must, Quentin swore with a murderous glance at Rus¬sell, immediately begin redoubling his efforts to persuade Car¬agh not to relocate there alone.

Before he could master his irritation to make a reply light enough not to engender Russell's suspicions, several newcom¬ers joined them and the conversation became general. Al¬though Quentin normally would have enjoyed the heated dis¬cussion that ensued about the several bills just introduced into Parliament, he soon found his attention wandering. Restless¬ness claiming him again, as soon after dinner as possible with¬out arousing comment, he took his leave of the club.

Eschewing a carriage, he elected to walk. His mind needed clearing, and with the whirlwind of events the last few days, he had neglected Caragh. Indeed, so caught up had he been in his interludes with Madame LaNoire, after scanning the note of apology Caragh had sent for failing to meet him at Vauxhall, he'd not thought about her since.

The unwelcome information that the property she had bought for her new enterprise adjoined Russell's land had swiftly cleared what remained of that sensual distraction. In its wake remained the troubled uncertainty that had plagued him ever since a coolly distant Caragh had refused him at Sudley Court.

He had missed her acutely after that episode, missed the easy camaraderie of their friendship. Not until it was suddenly withdrawn did he fully realize how much his emotional well-being had become anchored to the deep abiding warmth of their relationship. Indeed, he was fast coming to believe that persuading Caragh to marry him was imperative not just to protect her future, but to secure his happiness.

Especially when he considered the unappealing possibilities inherent in her having Alden Russell as her nearest neighbor.

As for his most recent source of pleasure... A pang of guilt touched him. At the time he'd succumbed to Madame La¬Noire's blandishments, there had been no commitment be¬tween Caragh and himself—at Caragh's own insistence. He had not broken her trust. Had matters already been settled between them, he would have resisted the veiled lady's en¬treaties, however tempting.

What was he to do about that lady, whose sad plight still whispered at the edges of his consciousness? If he were not contemplating a future with Caragh, he might be tempted to woo for his mistress the lady who had, silhouetted by moon¬light that first night, seemed so hauntingly like his good friend.

Who was she, this lady so fiercely driven to hide her face? A governess as she claimed—or the actress from the Green Room her masquerade costume seemed to indicate? Whatever her true identity, it seemed clear she lived in precariously straitened circumstances.

Despite the subtle physical something about her that re¬minded him of Caragh, in character there could hardly be two women more dissimilar.

While Madame LaNoire eked out a bare subsistence in a private household, Caragh directed a lucrative breeding op¬eration in the public arena. A refugee from her own world, the French lady seemed fragile, in need of protection, whereas Caragh, after being rejected by her class, had with courage and spirit decided to forge a new future of her own design. One lady was reticent and submissive, the other independent and self-assured.

Though they did share one characteristic. As he'd lately come to appreciate, Caragh possessed a sensuality as deep as I Madame's own. In fact, at the hands of a sensitive and knowledgeable tutor, Caragh might well become a lover as creative and responsive as the veiled lady.

That conclusion burst into his brain with the attention-riveting power of an exploding fireworks, halting him in mid-step. Faith, what an amazing amalgam that would be—to have in one woman the courage, strength and competence that was Caragh wedded to the passionate sensuality of Madame LaNoire!

Add sensual power to the hold Caragh already had on his affections and he'd be in imminent danger of falling com¬pletely under her spell. One lazy trace of her finger along any part of his anatomy could reduce his rational mind to mush. And her lips—a spiral of desire coiled through him at the mere thought of what Caragh's lips, trained in Madame LaNoire's sweet witchery, might do.

Caragh had already shown that she would prove a willing pupil. Indeed, had she not once tried to urge them down this very path? An overture he—fool that he was!—had firmly rejected. Since he'd never known her to fail in mastering any skill she attempted, could he but convince her to marry him and perfect her in this new art, she might make them both deliriously happy for a very long time.

Wooing her to such a course entailed risk, for once they changed the terms of their friendship, there could be no going back. But as he was fast becoming convinced that they must marry, which would alter the parameters of their friendship in any event, the prospect of gaining a best friend who was also his warmest erotic dream of a lover seemed to far outweigh any possible loss.

Especially after having just experienced the glimpses of heaven given him by Madame LaNoire. The idea of experi¬encing such delights with Caragh filled him with both joyful anticipation and a sense of awe.

Mille fois merci, madame, he said silently, for opening my eyes to the possibilities within my grasp.

As he entertained visions of that exalted future, the uneas¬iness that had plagued him dissolved, along with the last of his lingering reservations about marrying Caragh. Once he persuaded her to it—and he intended to persevere until he did—he could proceed to turning those enchanting visions into reality.

Grinning, he picked up his pace. Although another tiresome visit to that pesky new estate outside London would prevent his calling on her tomorrow, he would reply to her previous note this very night, begging leave to visit her the day after. And then begin his new campaign to swamp her objections and sweep her into his arms.

But as he paced along, a lingering concern nagged at the edges of his euphoria. Though he'd known her but a few hours—and still did not know the truth of her story—Madame LaNoire had touched him deeply. Was she truly the widowed governess she claimed, her employment uncertain and her fi¬nancial reserves almost nonexistent?

If so, it didn't seem proper, somehow, that while he confidently proceeded toward a bright future with Caragh, the woman who had inadvertently led him to conquer his doubts remained so unprotected and at risk.

If she were who she claimed, he ought to repay the gracious gift she'd offered him by rectifying her precarious situation— and insure, should her capricious employer dismiss her, that she was not forced to choose between compromising the vir¬tue she seemed to prize so highly by taking a protector, or starvation.

Outright financial assistance she would most certainly re¬fuse. But surely she would not reject an offer of a legitimate, but more secure, position. Among his network of relations and business associates there should certainly be someone who could employ as a companion or governess a foreign widow of gentility and refinement.

After a few moment's reflection, he recalled hearing from his solicitor that his mother's Aunt Jane, an elderly spinster, had requested that he find a replacement for her recently-deceased companion. A sweet-tempered, gentle woman es¬teemed by both friends and servants, Aunt Jane suffered from poor eyesight and particularly missed, she told the solicitor, having a companion to read to her.

With her governess's background and quiet melodic voice, Madame LaNoire might be the ideal candidate for Aunt Jane's new companion. Such a position, at his relation's house just outside London, would offer permanent security without re¬quiring the lady to move far from the few friends she had in England. And its salary, discreetly augmented by Quentin, would permit her to accumulate a modest sum for her retire¬ment—or as dowry for another marriage, should she cease grieving her lost husband and wish to wed again.

Of course, before promoting her for such a position, he would have to discover the truth of her circumstances. Re¬gardless of the debt he might feel he owed her, he could hardly in good conscience seek to introduce into his great aunt's household a woman of whom he knew for certain only that she was apparently French, seemingly genteel, and supposedly widowed.

The easiest way to discover it would be to call upon Ma¬dame LaNoire herself. So it appeared he would have to go against that lady's wishes and visit her again—though not this time, he acknowledged with a pang of regret impossible to squelch, with midnight interludes in mind.

A few minute's conversation with them both concentrated on the matter of legitimate employment should establish whether she was in fact a virtuous widow—or an actress who'd toyed with playing an amusing new role.

It would also obviate the need for secrecy. He would finally be able to view her in full light—without the veil.

His curiosity fully piqued by that prospect, he halted again and pulled out his pocket watch. Was it too late to stop by tonight?

A glance at the timepiece confirmed that the evening was not yet far advanced. Visiting now might well offer his best chance of catching her at home, for he must be out of the city tomorrow, and in any event, she most certainly spent the day¬light hours at her employer's residence.

He would try it, he decided.

As he hailed a hackney, hie had to admit that however platonic his intentions, a fever of anticipation was licking through his veins. Committed as he now was to claiming a future with Caragh, some indefinable something still bound him to the veiled lady, drew his thoughts back to her plight and person like a lodestone seeking north.

Probably, he assured himself, 'twas merely the same rigid sense of responsibility that had led him to toil for eight years to redeem his heritage. Naturally, until he knew Madame LaNoire to be safely situated, he'd be unable to dismiss her from his thoughts. Once that task was accomplished, he could focus solely on Caragh.

By the time he'd reached the landing outside her door, his heart was pounding, not just from the exertion of half running up three flights of stairs. Holding his breath, he rang her bell.

When she opened the door and spied him, would she gasp, her eyes wide with shock? Would she shut the door in his face, seeing his intrusion as a breach of her trust and an un¬warranted invasion of her privacy? Or hold out her hands and welcome him warmly?

Though he sought to squelch it, another enticing possibility kept squirming back into his consciousness. If Madame LaNoire was as moved at seeing him as he expected to be at seeing her, might she suggest they share one final night of intimacy before forever severing their connection?

His mind alternately rejecting and entertaining that pros¬pect, he waited. After several minutes, during which no sound of approaching footsteps emanated from behind the door, he rang again.

His excitement dimmed as the minutes passed and the door remained stubbornly barred. Might she be already abed and asleep? She'd told him she rarely attended evening entertain¬ments. Surely by this hour she should be home.

Knocking again, he called out her name until, not wishing to rouse the neighbors, he felt compelled to cease. Still there was no response from within.

A sharp disappointment scalded him. Short of breaking the lock, which he would rather not do, there was no way for him to enter and ascertain whether she was in fact within.

Loath to give up on his purpose, he lingered, administering several more sharp raps. Eventually, though, he had to acknowledge that Madame LaNoire was either not at home, or sleeping too soundly to rouse.

As he descended the stairs, he cheered himself with the reflection that he could still accomplish one bit of business tonight. As soon as he arrived back to his rooms, he would pen Caragh that note.

CHAPTER 19

My dear Caragh,

I regret the business that takes me from town, robbing me of the delight of your company.

I hope you suffered no recurrence of the headache that plagued you the night of the masquerade, and look forward to calling on you as soon as I return.

Until then, I remain

Your very devoted Quentin.

Fingers trembling, Caragh set the note, which retained a faint lingering scent of his shaving soap, back on the breakfast tray beside her hot chocolate. Seizing the cup, she took a gulp, but the savory brew seemed to have turned to chalk.

Quentin was coming to see her. Soon. Panic rose in her chest. Thrusting the tray aside, she hopped to her feet and began pacing the room.

He would lounge on the sofa in Aunt Kitty's drawing room, expecting her to pour him tea and sit beside him while they conversed about the continuing problems at his new estate or plans for moving her stock or her sister's shocking career.

Sit. Beside. Him. Heaven have mercy! she thought, putting hands to her hot cheeks.

She now knew how Pandora must have felt, trying to stuff back into that box all the unexpected devils her rashness had allowed to escape.

How could she look at Quentin and not remember seeing every inch of his skin as she slowly undressed him—as he had seen hers? Or hand him a teacup without their fingers touching—fingertips that had caressed his body colliding with fingertips that had explored hers?

Not that she regretted a second of the two glorious nights they'd spent together. Indeed, so splendid were those inter¬ludes, it had been terrifyingly difficult to resist his pleas for yet another night. Her palms still showed the crescent marks of the nails she'd dug into them to keep herself from turning that "no" into a "yes."

Though this note did put an end to her secretly entertained and impossible hope that the bond between them was so strong he had somehow recognized the veiled lady to be her— and now realized beyond doubt that they belonged together. Having deliberately played upon both his chivalrous instincts and his masculine desire, she. couldn't fault him for succumb¬ing to the seduction of this supposed stranger. 'Twas ridicu¬lous to feel disappointed—had she not deliberately created a persona so unlike her own that it would be nearly impossible for him to connect the two?

For the best of reasons. Should Quentin Burke discover his midnight lover was not the experienced widow he'd been led to believe, but his previously virginal neighbor, she'd find herself quick-stepped to the altar by a man whose keen sense of honor would not allow him to do otherwise, no matter how furious he'd doubtless be when he discovered her deception.

Given the depth of her love and the beauty of the intimacy they'll shared, she could not bear to contemplate living with the enmity such a forced marriage must create.

How stupidly innocent and blindly arrogant she'd been when she chose to proceed down this path, thinking to assuage her curiosity and indulge her senses with a few stolen nights of pleasure.

By that second night, their minds and bodies had become so well attuned that she and Quentin were able to anticipate, savor, prolong each other's enjoyment. The power of their mutual attraction seemed to create an almost audible hum be¬tween them.

How could she sit beside him in a drawing room and deny that pull? How could they be close enough to exchange tea¬cups, and he fail to perceive it?

For nearly half an hour she paced, trying to think of some arrangement by which they might meet and maintain sufficient physical distance. She could not. When he called, he would surely take her hands as she entered the room, would expect to sit beside or directly across from her as they conversed.

And when he did, she simply could not carry off the pose of congenial friend. Not with the memory of his hands, his mouth on her, the feel of him sheathed within her still so vivid. The very hairs on her skin prickled at the thought of being near him.

Perhaps later, given time for the intensity of these feelings to fade—and surely, if God were merciful, they would!—she could manage to cobble back together the pieces of the serene demeanor she'd been able to present to him the previous six years. Teach herself to accept his arm or his hand and not yearn for more.

But not by tomorrow or the day after.

What reason could she invent to delay his visit?

She paced to her desk, thinking rapidly. She'd signed the deeds this morning, completing the final step in the purchase of her new property. She could write Quentin a reply and claim that, as she'd already sent instructions for Sudley's manager to begin the moving process, a complicated business that would likely require all her time and attention for the foreseeable future, she was on the point of leaving London. She could ask him to call on her at her new farm, delaying the visit until she'd finished setting up the operation so she might be able to show it off to him proudly.

He would honor such a request—wouldn't he?

Walking to the window, she stared out at the gray dawn and examined the plan, searching for potential flaws. After several minutes, she concluded it offered both a reasonable excuse for quickly departing the metropolis and her best chance to delay Quentin's inevitable visit until she was better prepared to deal with it.

Though the idea of fleeing shamed her, that humiliation paled beside the dire consequences of having her deception uncovered.

Feeling a bit calmer, she strode to the armoire to withdraw her portmanteau. She'd pack the essential items, let Aunt Kitty's maid finish the rest and be on the road to Sudley by this afternoon.

Moving stock, equipment and personnel would indeed keep her too busy to fret over the dilemma she'd created. Then, while she set all to rights at her new property, she could begin once again armoring her heart against Quentin.

Against his kindness and caring. The engaging sense of humor that always lifted her spirits, the exhilaration of racing their mounts across a meadow, or vying over billiards, or de¬bating the best way to resolve some problem on one of their estates.

Against the touch that had awakened her body to desires and responses she'd never dreamed she possessed, a pleasure that had liquefied her bones and swept her away on a floodtide of delight, to subside in ecstasy later within the safe harbor of his embrace.

Against the devilishly seductive thought that her great love for him, combined with his genuine liking for her, would be enough to make a marriage work.

She took a ragged breath, the irony of it forcing her to a rueful smile. It appeared Quentin had been right to resist at¬tempting to add passion to their friendship.

With her loss of innocence had come a vastly magnified physical awareness of Quentin, a knowledge of how addicting was the pleasure he could produce in her. Denying that hold was shattering her heart and reducing to splinters the stout defenses behind which she'd previously managed to resist him.

Tears stung her eyes. Angrily she swiped them away.

She would not, she vowed, become like her father and play Orpheus, who, when his bride was stolen from him by a vi¬perous seducer, shut himself away from the world, forever mourning his loss.

Every man had flaws—even Quentin. Perhaps while she toiled to assemble her new enterprise, she could create a list of his faults, use it to school herself into considering it for¬tunate they would never marry. Let dispassionate reason pry loose the hold Quentin had established over her heart and soul, a hold she'd stupidly allowed passion to strengthen.

Once she had the farm running well and could demonstrate how successful and content she was as a single lady in control of her life, he would see there was no need for him to "sal¬vage her future" by making her his wife.

And perhaps by then she would be able to meet him and feel only the tepid platonic friendship that was all Quentin Burke wanted from Caragh Sudley.

Quentin returned to London in the early evening to the news, conveyed to him in a note from Caragh, that she once again had left the city. In fact, she requested that he not visit her until after she'd finished the move to her new property and had the farm functioning properly.

In addition to disappointment, a vague sense of...hurt pierced him as he read the note. Urgent as her business was, could she not have lingered just one more day and delivered her message in person? That emotion was swiftly succeeded by a niggling sense that perhaps Caragh was avoiding him.

But the facts didn't truly support such a suspicion. She'd been completely open and cordial at their last meeting: Ex¬cited as she was about her plans for the new venture, it was hardly surprising she was impatient to begin carrying them out.

Much as he burned to follow her immediately, as an estate manager himself, he understood both the complexity of the task facing her and the pride that had her urge him to postpone visiting. No more than she would he relish a friend calling at one of his new properties until he'd had time to staff, organize and begin running it efficiently.

Since the farm was located in a rural corner of Hampshire, it was unlikely anyone in the ton would discover her new venture for some time. With her reputation safe for the mo¬ment, he had little excuse not to honor her request.

It appeared he must contain his impatience for a few weeks at least.

The only sweet note in that otherwise sour conclusion, Quentin was confident after last night's discussion, was that Russell did not realize how soon his new neighbor intended to take up residence. Even so, in his current state of frustra¬tion, Quentin wasn't sure he could maintain a suitably friendly demeanor toward the man if he happened to encounter him over dinner at the club. He decided to stay home and order a cold collation.

Rather than brooding over what could not be changed, he told himself as he made short work of a beefsteak and ale, he should instead concentrate on settling a matter that could. Di¬rectly after dining, he would pay another call on Madame LaNoire.

A hot flash of anticipation washed through him, followed by another wave of guilt. He had to admit, this linger¬ing... fascination with the veiled lady was a bit disturbing.

'Twas merely an attraction based on sympathy magnified by a healthy dose of lust, he reasoned. Once he married Caragh, with whom he shared a much deeper bond, and had her in his arms to beguile his senses, memories of Madame's al- lure would fade to the insignificance of a candle's glow beside a raging bonfire.

The sooner he secured Madame LaNoire's future, the sooner he might focus all his efforts on settling his with Caragh. After instructing a footman to summon a hackney, he allowed his valet to help him into his greatcoat.

A short drive later, he found himself once again mounting the stairs to Madame LaNoire's apartment, his nerves sim¬mering with anticipation and grimly suppressed desire. Once again he knocked repeatedly, to no avail.

This time, however, he had come prepared. Squelching the protests of conscience, he produced from his pocket a long iron key. He had noted on his previous visit that the heavy oak door sported an old-fashioned lock. Before leaving his rooms tonight he'd rooted through his belongings to unearth a key the blacksmith at Branson had fashioned to open some long-neglected storage rooms for which, they'd discovered during Branson Park's renovation, the original keys had some¬how become lost.

It was still early enough that he was certain Madame was away from home rather than asleep. Since finding her in res¬idence was proving more difficult than anticipated, if the key chanced to work, he could leave her a note explaining his purpose and begging the favor of a reply.

He'd not yet decided what he would do, should he leave such a message and she fail to contact him.

Dismissing that thought, after peering down the staircase to insure he was not being observed, he inserted his key into the lock. After some jiggling, he managed to turn it and heard the latch click open.

Heartbeat speeding, Quentin pushed open the door and en¬tered the apartment.

Calling her name as he walked, he proceeded from the small antechamber through the sitting room into the bedroom.  Given the lack of response to his knock, he was not surprised to find no one at home.

What did surprise him, as he retraced his steps more slowly through the deserted rooms, was the palpable sense of emp¬tiness that struck him, sharp as the click of his boots on the bare floor. Not only was Madame LaNoire not at home, it. appeared she had not been home for some time.

The parlor hearth was cold, containing neither ashes from a previous fire nor the kindling necessary to start a new one, while the table beside the wing chair before it was barren of newspapers or needlework. No dishes cluttered the dry sink in the small kitchen; no cooking pot sat ready on the stove. Even in the bedchamber of which he had such warm memo¬ries, the bed linens were cold and creaseless, as if no one had lain upon them in a long time.

He wandered across that dim chamber, to halt beside a dressing table in the opposite corner. Recalling the clutter of bottles that had always adorned his mama's, he noted with surprise that not a single vial of perfume or box of powder sat upon the table's surface—not so much as a brush or a hairpin.

In growing dismay, he hurried to the armoire and jerked open the door. The space within was as bare as the dressing table.

Impossible though it seemed, the conclusion was inescap¬able. Madame LaNoire was not just out—she was no longer in residence.

Dismay intensified, laced with an edge of panic. Had their tryst been discovered and she dismissed, compelling her to abandon her lodgings? Given her lack of resources, where could she have gone?

Surely nothing so dire could have occurred in the space of just a few days! But whatever the reason that had led her to leave home, Quentin felt compelled to find her, make sure she was safe—and verify that it was not their stolen interludes that had brought her to harm.

Unable to explain even to himself the urgency that drove him, he hurriedly relocked the door and trotted down the steps. As expected, what appeared to be landlord's apartment occupied the ground floor.

His knock was answered by an unkempt older woman, straggly gray hair escaping from beneath a stained mobcap. The surly look with which she opened the door faded as she took in his fashionable dress, and she belatedly dropped a curtsey.

"What kin I do for ye, m'lord?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I'm looking for one of your tenants, a Madame LaNoire?" Improvising rapidly, he continued, "My sister, who has engaged her services as a governess, sent me to fetch the lady, but she doesn't appear to be in. Might you know of her whereabouts?"

The matron peered at him, frowning. "Don't have no tenant by that name, m'lord."

So the name she'd given him was false, Quentin thought without surprise. That fact, added to her insistence on retain¬ing the veil, only reinforced the likelihood that she was ex¬actly what she claimed—a virtuous widow intent on keeping her reputation free from any taint of scandal. Which would make it all the more likely that his hopes of placing her in Aunt Jane's care would be realized.

After, of course, he found her.

"Perhaps I did not get the name aright—my sister's handwriting is sometimes difficult to decipher. Surely you've seen her, a slender, dark-haired lady with a pronounced French accent? My sister assured me she lived in this building."

The matron shook her head, setting the tattered lace of her cap bobbing. "B'ain't never had no furriners living here. Be ye sure ye've got the right house?"

His clandestine inspection of Madame LaNoire's flat left him certain of that, though he hardly wished to confess that excursion to the landlady. Since he knew beyond doubt this was the correct building, why did the landlady disavow all knowledge of her? Could it be Madame LaNoire's accent had been false as well?

"I believe I am correct," he said slowly, his mind still scrutinizing possibilities. "I am quite certain my sister indi¬cated she resided on the top floor."

The lace fluttered again with another denial. "Got no lady on the top floor. In fact, 'tis nobbit up there now. Flat is let to an artist gent, but he's off traveling in some rubbishing place—Rome, I hear."

Quentin shook his head, trying to make the disparate pieces fit. One explanation occurred, so awful he felt compelled to ascertain forthwith whether it might be true.

"Does that gentleman have a w-wife," he stumbled over the word, suddenly realizing the bitter implications should it turn out his veiled lady was not a widow, "who might have returned before him?"

The lady shrugged. "I wouldn't know, m'lord. Long as a tenant pays the rent on time so's I can turn it over to the owner and keep me own flat, I don't put my noggin in nobody else's business."

He took a ragged breath, relieved to at least not have that possibility confirmed. “Do you know when the artist plans to return?" he persisted.

Once more the mobcap bobbed as the lady shook her head. "He didn't say, but the rent's paid up until autumn."

Which left Quentin exactly—nowhere. Unable to think of any further questions that would not arouse still further the curiosity of the matron, who already showed signs of suspi¬cion about his interest in the artist, he judged it prudent to retreat. Regardless of what she might know—and unless she were a better actress than he could credit, it appeared she knew little—he would learn nothing further about Madame LaNoire's whereabouts from her.

"I must have misread my sister's note after all. Pray excuse me, ma'am," dropping into her hand a coin that elicited a gap-toothed smile and a flurry of assurances that Mrs. Jeffries be ever at his service.

Trying to stomach his second major disappointment of the day, Quentin wandered to the street to summon a hackney, his mind awhirl with speculation. Could Madame LaNoire be the artist's errant wife? She must have some association with the man, or she would not have had a key to his flat.

A more palatable possibility presented itself as he jour¬neyed back home—that she was a friend asked by the artist to watch over the property during his absence. Who, when she determined upon seducing Quentin, decided to further protect her identity by borrowing the premises for their tryst.

How much of what she had told him was real, how much invention? With her face masked and the dwelling she'd taken him to belonging to someone else, he had to acknowledge that her name, her story and even her voice might have been equally false.

The only thing he knew to be true was the intensity of the passion they'd shared.

Given his determination to wed Caragh, that was hardly a memory on which he needed to dwell. He would do better to wash his hands of the mystery that was Madame LaNoire and get on with his own plans. The care with which she'd ob¬scured the truth of her circumstances argued that she felt in no need of his assistance.

And yet...if her story were true, she might well be in dif¬ficulty, possibly because of their brief liaison. Unable to rid himself of that persistent worry, he decided to allow himself one more evening to ponder how he might discover her cur¬rent whereabouts before abandoning his efforts to assist her.

The idea came to him just as the hackney reached his lodging.

The artistic world was a small one. Possibly Ailis or her mentor Mr. Frank knew the painter who'd rented the rooms Madame LaNoire had borrowed. At the least, he should be able to determine that man's identity, perhaps discover whether a friend—or wife—was watching the property.

He might even learn the identity of his veiled lady.

Once again, excitement and an irrepressible desire stirred at the prospect.

Would he find her to be a virtuous governess in real need of his assistance? Or an artist's model, an actress or courtesan who had amused herself by weaving a tall tale to hoodwink a gullible gentleman?

It hurt to consider that his lovely veiled lady might have been laughing up her sleeve at him the whole time they'd spent together. And yet, as he forced himself to face the pos¬sibility, when he recalled her air of gentility, her voice, her carriage, he simply couldn't believe her to be less than a lady born.

In any event, learning the truth about her was fast becoming such an obsession, he suspected he would never rid himself of this fascination unless he followed the trail to its end, what¬ever that turned out to be.

The hour was now too late for social calls, he decided, regretfully refraining from banging on the roof to redirect the jarvey. But first thing tomorrow, before she became enmeshed in her work, Quentin would drop by the studio of Ailis Sudley.

CHAPTER 20

Quentin woke early, driven by a sense of expectation. To¬day he might finally unveil his mystery lady!

He jumped from bed and strode to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains. The dawn appeared clear, with just a glaze of high clouds—the sort of day that would provide the steady north light in which an artist preferred to work. Doubtless Ailis Sudley would be up and at her easel early to take advantage of it. If he wished to speak with her, he'd best snare her before she began painting, for he knew she wouldn't hesitate to have her maidservant send him away if she were deep in the throes of artistic creation when he called.

As soon as he felt she must be awake and about, he pre¬sented himself at her studio.

Fortunately, he caught her still at breakfast. Accepting her offer of coffee, he took a chair in the sitting area she'd screened off from the open workroom. Ailis lounged on the sofa, clad in a thin wrapper that accented her ample curves.  

Odd, he thought, noting dispassionately the voluptuous out¬line of her bosom as she raised her arm to drink her coffee, that her striking blond beauty left him unmoved, while her less conventionally pretty sister inspired in him a deep phys¬ical attraction.

Would Madame LaNoire turn out to be a beauty, once he was finally able to gaze upon her face?

"To what do I owe the honor of this early visit?" Ailis asked, pulling him from his reflections. "Whatever it is, be quick about it, for I mean to be at work within the hour."

So much for a gracious hostess's manners, Quentin thought, grinning. "Perhaps I just wanted a few moments of scintillating conversation."

"Then you would certainly not have sought me out," Ailis returned, not at all offended. "Come, Quent, cut line. What is it you want?"

"Some information. I'm trying to trace an artist and thought you, or Mr. Frank, might know him." Now that he was so close to possibly solving the mystery, Quentin had to work to keep his tone light and mask the urgency that stretched every nerve trigger-tight.

Ailis raised an eyebrow. "And what need would you have of an artist?"

Having anticipated the question, he replied smoothly, "Now that Branson Hall is restored, I'm looking for still life paintings to adorn some of the rooms."

"Fortunately, neither I nor Max do still life, else I should be much insulted that you did not consult us first. This artist specializes in them, then?"

"So I've been told."

"Ah. Who recommended him? One of your aristocratic acquaintances?"

"Really, Ailis, does it matter?" Quentin replied, exasper¬ation cracking his calm facade.

"A bit impatient, are we?"

Controlling himself with an effort, he replied, '"Tis you who wished to conclude the interview quickly."

She nodded, though her eyes sparkled with an amusement he had learned over the years to mistrust. "So I did. What is this esteemed individual's name?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. When I admired the work and asked the owner, he could not recall."

As he'd hoped, this lack of appreciation for the artist succeeded in diverting her from speculating about his interest in the matter.

"How typical of the rich!" she exclaimed, her eyes firing up. "Completely oblivious to the importance of the genius who creates the masterwork!"

"Lamentable, I know," he soothed. "He did, however, re¬call the location of the man's studio—a top-floor flat on Maiden Lane, not far from here."

"Maiden Lane?" Her indignation subsiding, Ailis grew thoughtful. "You're quite certain it was Maiden Lane? I don't know of any artist of repute living there, but I'm newly come to London. If you wish, I can ask Max."

So he must leave no more knowledgeable about the veiled lady than when he'd arrived. Once he'd controlled his disappointment—which was far keener than it should be—Quentin replied, "Yes, I should appreciate that."

"He's away at the country home of a client now, finishing up a portrait, but I shall ask him directly when he returns."

He clenched his teeth to prevent an oath of frustration from escaping. "When do you expect Mr. Frank back?" he said instead.

Ailis gave a graceful wave of her hand. "I'm not certain. Completing the final details should occupy several weeks, I should guess. It's fortunate I have a commission of my own to finish up, for which he's already approved the preliminary sketches, else I should sorely resent his absence."

Several weeks! After spending the last few hours in ardent expectation of perhaps learning the identity of his veiled lady today, several weeks seemed an eternity. Fuming inwardly, Quentin rose to his feet.

"I've taken up enough of your time for today, then. Thank you for the coffee."

"Should you like to see some of the sketches before you leave?" Ailis asked, rising as well.

Despite the choking sense of frustration that made him want to pound a fist into the studio wall, it would only be polite to agree. Besides, he was curious to see what commission Ailis, as both a fledgling artist and a female, had managed to wangle.

"I should be honored."

She led him around the screen to the workbench. "The initial sketch was a figure study I'd done for Max, which he thought handsome enough to hang in his studio. One of his clients liked it so much he commissioned a series."

"Does the patron know you are the artist?"

"Max told him it was the work of his most promising stu¬dent," she told him as she opened a leather portfolio and leafed through its contents. "The client was thrilled, appar¬ently thinking to purchase the series for much less than he would have expected to pay Max. But being the exceptional mentor he is, Max secured a very fine price for it. I shall have no need to draw upon my reserve funds for quite some time," she finished, a note of pride in her voice.

"My congratulation, Ailis! It sounds as though you've made a fine beginning." Having long considered her to pos¬sess a superior talent, Quentin was genuinely happy for her. And it dampened somewhat his still-smoldering anger toward Ailis to learn that the career she had wounded her sister and ruined Caragh's future to secure at least showed promise of being successful.

"I decided not to include this sketch in the series, so you may have it. In fact, thinking I might one day offer it to you, I recently made a few changes." She held out the parchment, a little smile playing at her lips.

"Thank you, that's very kind. I shall treasure it."

Ailis chuckled. "I'm sure you shall."

As Quentin glanced down at the sketch Ailis handed him, shock sucked the air from his lungs and the conventional compliment he'd been about to utter evaporated off his lips.

His eyes riveted to the drawing of a slender woman reclin¬ing on her side, one arm masking her face, a tumble of dusky curls cascading over her shoulders and down to frame her breasts. Her naked breasts.

The utter relaxation of her limbs and the sheen of perspi¬ration glistening on her nude body conveyed the impression of blissful satiation. Indeed, her lover reclined behind her, his face in shadow as he kissed her shoulder, his arm over her hip, his hand on her belly, his fingers resting possessively over the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Shocking as it was to realize the creator of this erotic tab¬leau was the little girl who'd grown up his neighbor at Thornwhistle, what stole his breath was the woman's startling re¬semblance to his veiled lady.

Memories came flooding back—of lying tangled in the bed¬clothes after lovemaking, his lady reclining just so, satisfied and pliant in his embrace. The sketch's suggestion of the sub¬tle stroking by which he could rouse her responsive body and begin the magic spiral again sent a blast of desire and longing through him.

He must have been staring for some minutes before he man¬aged to pry his gaze from the image and his mind from the memories, for when he at last looked up, Ailis was smiling broadly.

"You like it, I can see."

"I...it...confound it, Ailis, how could you—'' he broke off, heat flooding his face, nothing in his previous experience equipping him to discuss so intimate a matter with a female, much less a gently-reared, unmarried one.

She laughed, her voice rich with amusement. "Honestly, ton gentlemen are such hypocrites! They think nothing of rev¬eling in the embrace of courtesans or mistresses, but are ren¬dered speechless by viewing the image of such pleasure when in company with a female." She shook her head. "Even Holden, as wicked as his reputation is, was shocked when he first saw the sketches."

He wanted to argue something about a gentleman's discretion and the need to protect a lady's tender sensibilities, but couldn't quite get his tongue around the words. Besides, such a speech was probably wasted on the creator of this startling drawing.

"Are...all the sketches in the commission like this?" he managed at last.

"Oh, no! Most are much more explicit...but I didn't wish to shock you overmuch."

Quentin could only be glad she'd decided to refrain. The very suggestion of what else she might have drawn propelled his thoughts back to Madame LaNoire's bedchamber, tight¬ening his body with another flush of need, leaving him once more speechless.

She laughed again at his obvious befuddlement. "Come now, Quent, don't be such a rustic. Tis considered quite nor¬mal for a man of my age to have experience. Indeed, had I been wife these last five years to some complacent husband and had already produced the requisite heirs, you must admit that your compatriots would now be vying to put me in just such a position as the girl in the sketch."

Quentin opened his lips to object, then closed them. Re¬calling the bawdy comments already being tossed around con¬cerning her at the gentlemen's clubs, he could not with ve¬racity protest that assessment.

“Thank you for not insulting my intelligence by attempting to deny it," she said, patting his hand before taking his arm to lead him to the door.

She halted with him before the entry. "You will take good care of it," she said, a naughty gleam in her eye.

"Of course," he replied a bit stiffly, still striving to regain his shattered composure.

"I'll be in touch with you when Max returns," she said as she plucked his greatcoat from the clothes tree. As she pulled the heavy garment off, though, it snagged on the adjacent pegs, knocking several items to the floor.

Ailis exclaimed in annoyance. Before she could reveal any more of her charms by bending over in her flimsy wrapper, he thrust the-sketch into her hands. "Allow me," he said, kneeling down to retrieve the fallen garments.

"Thank you, Quent," she said as he straightened to offer her a pair of gloves and a long trailing scarf.

Something about the touch of the latter item caught his attention. Grabbing the end, he drew it back and stared. For the second time that morning his breath suspended.

The long, filmy rectangle fashioned of black velvet had a pattern of fleur-de-lis burned into its surface—the same design he'd traced with his fingertips, trying to map the features of the face hidden behind it.

"Wh-what is this?" he gasped, his heartbeat now loud in his ears.

Ailis raised an eyebrow. "Quite evidently, 'tis a lady's scarf."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "but where did you get it?"

'"Tis Caragh's. I thought the pattern so pretty, I asked her to lend it to me to use as a drape in my figure studies."

Caragh's? Incredulity, delight and consternation pulsed through him. But 'twas preposterous! Patterned scarf or no, Caragh could not possibly be his veiled lady. Still...

"How long have you had it?" he demanded.

Ailis's eyebrow lifted higher. "Two days. I kept it when she came by to tell me she was leaving town to begin the move to her new property. Oh, she did tell you she's bought land to expand her farm—''

Quentin scarcely heard her after the first riveting words. Two days... As he ran the veil through his fingers, the soft fabric whispered under his thumbs in patterns he'd memorized in the lamplight and traced lovingly under the erotic spell of darkness. He took a deep, gasping breath. "Y-you are sure it is Caragh's?"

Ailis gave him an odd little smile. "Positive. Why do you ask?"

He shook his head. In character, experience and conduct the two women could not be more dissimilar. Surely there was some other explanation. "I...I've seen something similar. Lovely, isn't it? It must be quite a popular style in the shops."

Ailis shook her head. "As it happens, I was with Caragh when she bought it and can attest we saw nothing remotely like it. The pattern is burned into the velvet by hand, so even should others have been produced, I don't expect any two could be identical. Does it matter?"

"N-no, not especially." Numbly he handed it back.

While he shrugged into his coat, Ailis folded the scarf neatly—and inserted the sketch in it. "Since you seem to like it so much," she said, holding the items out to him, "keep the scarf, too. Or return it to Caragh when next you see her. When will that be, by the way?"

"I'm...not sure. She asked that I wait to visit, ah, until— later." Like a river at flood tide, his thoughts were boiling over each other in a mad chaotic rush of speculation, making it extremely difficult for him to concentrate on conversing with Ailis.

He needed to get away, examine the scarf more closely, consider the implications of this startling development.

Mercifully, the traditional courtesies of leave-taking fell automatically from his tongue. And then he was alone, walking back down the stairs, clutching against his chest the velvet scarf—and Ailis's scandalous drawing.

In the brighter daylight of the street, he gave the scarf a minute inspection. After studying the graceful swirl of pattern, closing his eyes and tracing his thumb across the plush crests and silken valleys of its surface, his conviction intensified that this was indeed the covering that had veiled his lady's face those two nights.

The conclusion made him dizzy, as if he were standing at the end of a long tunnel, watching his life spiral away from him, out of control. He took a steadying breath.

He'd return to his rooms, pour a strong brandy and ponder this again, slowly.

But the facts as he examined them in the unhurried privacy of his chamber led him back to the same conclusion, absurd and impossible as it first seemed.

He must take a trip to Bond Street and make a survey of the ladies' scarves. If that visit confirmed Ailis's contention that the scarf was indeed one of a kind, it must inevitably follow that...Caragh was Madame LaNoire?

As he tried to get his mind around the enormity of that conclusion, other details floated up out of memory.

When he'd first approached the veiled lady at Vauxhall, he recalled suddenly, he had mistaken her for Caragh. Even after two nights with her, something about the soft, fluid sound of her French syllables, her carriage, the angle of her body as she moved continued to whisper to him of Caragh.

And it was Caragh who'd begged him to attend the masquerade, Caragh whose failure to appear had left him alone and unoccupied—at the precise moment he encountered Ma¬dame LaNoire.

Coincidence? Or calculation?

Yet, convincing himself that Caragh was his veiled lady  appeared absurd on the face of it. How could a gently-born virgin—for he would stake his life on the fact that Caragh was an innocent—have played the knowing widow?

The answer occurred, so simple he wondered why it had taken him so long to make the connection. Caragh might be innocent, but, he thought grimly, gazing at the sketch Ailis had given him—her scandalous sister was definitely not.

If Caragh were indeed Madame LaNoire, it was certainly Ailis who had helped her plan and execute the deception.

Anger welled up. How dare Caragh abuse his trust by perpetrating such an outrage? The heedless, unconventional Ailis he could well believe capable of it, though his mind boggled at imagining her actually instructing her sister in the arts of seduction.

He recalled the veiled lady's curious mix of carnality and hesitance, especially on their first night together. At the time, bewitched by her, he'd accepted without question her expla¬nation that, having been celibate so many years, she was ex¬periencing again the ways of a man with a woman as if for the first time.

Experiencing again—or for the very first time?

Into his mind flashed the image of the coy little smile Ailis had given him as she handed him the sketch—the recently altered sketch—of the sleeping woman who so closely re¬sembled Madame LaNoire. His suspicion of her duplicity strengthened.

Who else might so easily access the key to another artist's studio? Or have at her disposition, given what she'd inferred to be in the rest of her series of sketches, a veritable pictorial guide to seduction with which to tutor an innocent?

If his suppositions were correct, Ailis had known all during their meeting this morning what he really sought. No wonder she'd drawn out the questioning, delighting in his discomfi¬ture. She knew of no artist of repute in that studio, indeed!

He gritted his teeth against a choking swell of fury. If the infuriating wench had been to hand at this moment, he'd have been seriously tempted to strangle her.

And yet, as he gazed back at the sketch, some of his emo¬tion shifted into burgeoning desire as, against his will, the deft lines of her drawing elicited vivid memories of those two evenings in Madame LaNoire's bed.

How could he murder someone who'd helped to produce two of the most glorious nights of his life?

Another thought occurred, and he slammed his glass down in agitation. No wonder Caragh had fled London before his return! Confronted face-to-face, she'd never been good at dissembling. If she were truly Madame LaNoire, she might have managed to fool him with an opaque veil and an untraceable accent, but after what she had done to him in candlelight and darkness, she would never be able to meet his gaze squarely in the unrelenting light of day without blushing. Nor, had she been his midnight lover, would she be able so much as to enter the room without them both becoming immediately con¬scious of the powerful physical bond created by two nights of thorough and passionate lovemaking.

Though he still could not truly believe it, if Caragh were Madame LaNoire, what was he to do about it?

Fury and desire to repudiate her friendship forever for deceiving him warred with exhilaration at the notion that the inventive, passionate lady who'd so captured his mind might be the lady who already held his affections.

He'd have to marry her, of course, but as he'd already decided on that course some time ago, that would hardly be a sacrifice. At the notion of having a lifetime of Caragh to titillate his mind and Madame LaNoire to inflame his senses, a delighted anticipation filled him.

Except...a strong stirring of caution quelled his delight. Would it not be folly to wed a woman who had behaved like a veritable hussy? Having shown herself capable of planning an elaborate seduction, how could he be sure after they were wed that Caragh might not take the notion into her head to entice some new lover?

Still, even if events proved she was indeed Madame La¬Noire, Quentin simply couldn't believe Caragh a wanton. Every instinct told him she would never have permitted such intimacies, much less sought them out, were her emotions not completely engaged.

Which brought him to the perplexing corollary. If Caragh were Madame LaNoire, why had she done it?

Despite his anger, he had to feel flattered at the great lengths to which she'd apparently gone to make him her lover.  Still, the whole charade had been unnecessary. He'd already asked her to marry him. She had only to say yes, and his body would be hers. Permanently. Why concoct this elaborate de¬ception?

He took another fiery sip of the brandy, struggling to understand the impenetrable labyrinth of female reasoning. She'd professed herself insulted that he would offer marriage merely to salvage her reputation, although that was an emi¬nently sensible reason to marry. Also practical and logical was the desire to wed someone for whom one already entertained a warm affection.

Unless... The only reason he could imagine to explain why a virtuous lady would sacrifice her honor and perpetrate such a ruse was that Caragh didn't just like, but loved him. Loved him too much to agree to marry for merely practical or logical reasons. She wanted his love in return—or nothing at all.

Convinced mild affection was all he had to offer her, had she decided to sample how glorious passion could be before devoting herself to her horses and turning her back on mar¬riage forever?

Glorious it had certainly been!

He jerked his mind back from the temptation to focus once again on recalling those arousing interludes. He needed to decide what he meant to do now.

First and foremost, before he wasted any more time in uninformed speculation, he must determine whether or not Car¬agh was in fact his veiled lady.

He might return and baldly ask Ailis—but she'd had ample time this morning to reveal what she knew. Since she'd not chosen to avail herself of the opportunity, even if it were true, she was likely to deny the connection, after extracting the maximum entertainment value from mocking his delusion.

Better instead to follow the trail of the veil. Once he was able at last to confirm or refute the incredible notion that Car¬agh might actually be Madame LaNoire, only then would he confront the puzzle of what to do next.

CHAPTER 21

Three weeks later, Caragh leaned back in her chair in the small library she'd taken for her office and flexed her tired shoulders. The east-facing window before her desk looked out over a pleasing vista of scythed lawn, behind which stretched the newly erected fences of the paddocks for her stallions. The west and north sides of the small manor house were also surrounded with verdant pastureland partitioned off by fenc¬ing to contain the herd of mares.

She'd found the stone buildings of the original farm in excellent condition. Not having to expend funds on repairs, she noted with a pleased glance at the ledger, would leave her the necessary capital to construct all the additional barns she'd planned this very first year. There was even sufficient cash remaining to update the manor house and put in a new cook stove, which was certain to delight the few servants she'd brought with her from Sudley.

The move itself had required a full week, and she'd spent the next two with carpenters, stonemasons and grooms super¬vising the beginning of the additions and inspecting the new stock she'd had sent over from Ireland.

So serene were the vast meadows now dotted with grazing horses that she'd decided to call her new venture Hunter's Haven. The horses here would breed strong; her clients would find the stock so superior that the Haven would indeed be¬come the refuge of choice for those seeking the finest in horse¬flesh.

She hoped it would prove a haven for her as well.

Her days were long, intense and exhausting. But as satisfying as it was to guide her longtime dream into reality, the best part of the move thus far was that the hectic pace kept her too busy to think about Quentin.

Most of the time, she amended with a sigh. In odd moments between tasks, as now, his image persisted in muscling its way out of the background of her mind to seize center stage, however much she resisted thinking of him and the halcyon hours she'd tricked him into spending with her.

She still vacillated between cherishing those evenings and regretting she'd ever conceived the bacon-brained idea of making him her lover. But she now knew with absolute cer¬tainty that fleeing London had been wise.

Beyond the difficulty of meeting him with the knowledge of their intimacy burning like the illicit secret in her breast, the ache of missing him was so acute that, were he still near enough, she knew she would break down and seek him out, however great the danger that he might uncover her deception.

Stronger still was the hunger for his touch, for the incred¬ible sensations he could summon with his cunning hands and knowing tongue. Her will would certainly not be strong enough to resist the temptation to redon her veil and, in the guise of Madame LaNoire, summon her lover back for yet another night of bliss.

Passion, she was discovering, was a Pandora's box indeed. The powerful need he'd unlocked in her refused to be con¬tained, clamoring instead for additional fulfillment.

As she had each previous occasion when thoughts of Quen¬tin refused to be subdued, Caragh drew from beneath her led¬ger a now-worn sheet of vellum. Upon arriving at Hunter's Haven, she'd followed through on her London resolve and begun a list of Quentin's faults. A list she was supposed to review until she overcame her useless unrequited love for Quentin Burke.

"Managing" had been the first entry. He was certainly that. But like her, his intentions when he took on a project—or a person—were always pure. He wished not to control or subdue, but to improve, and he usually succeeded. His bringing his estate back from the verge of ruin was proof enough of that.

She ended by crossing it off the list.

“Arrogant'' was the second item. But after pondering the matter, trying to recall when he had imposed his will or opin¬ions on her, she concluded he had never tried to dictate her agreement or disregard her feelings. Certainly he was an ar¬dent advocate for what he believed, but he had always sought, and listened patiently to, her opinions. Occasionally he even changed his views in favor of hers.

She'd drawn a long dark line through "Arrogant."

And so it had gone with "Insensitive," "Conceited" and "Humorless." The only item she'd penned on her list that she had not eventually crossed off was "Does not love me."

She touched her fingertip to the words again, her eyelids stinging. Even that was hardly a failing. As she knew only too well after living for more than two decades with her fa¬ther, even with the deepest desire and after the sincerest of efforts, you could not make someone love you.

Perhaps she should just concede defeat and tear up the list. It seemed that rather than convincing her how lucky she was to escape Quentin's spell, reviewing it only made her ponder him and his qualities at greater length, leaving her missing him all the more keenly.

Enough self-pitying nonsense, she told herself crossly, thrusting the paper back under the ledger. List or no list, as her memory of the seductive pleasures of his body faded, the hold he had over her mind and heart would dissipate, too. Then she would finally master this unacceptable weakness for him, extinguish once and for all the pathetic longing for his touch.

She had better, she thought grimly, make progress in that direction quickly. She'd already penned him two notes, chatting of her progress and referring vaguely to when she expected to have Hunter's Haven presentable. She couldn't hope to stave off his visit much longer.

And how she wanted him here, despite how dangerous his nearness would certainly prove!

A knock at the door set her heart racing.

Idiot! she told herself as she bid the supplicant enter. It would surely not be Quentin, too impatient to wait any longer in London for her summons. Silently chastising herself for her fixation on the man in terms crude enough to have impressed her stable boys, she turned toward the door, struggling to mas¬ter her hopeless hope.

Standing behind the butler on the threshold was not, of course, Quentin. Instead she saw his London friend and the former owner of her new property, Lord Alden Russell.

"Your nearest neighbor, Lord Russell, Mistress," the butler intoned.

Smiling, Lord Russell walked past the servant and swept her a bow. "The very warmest of welcomes to our county, Miss Sudley! Had I known you intended to take possession of the property so quickly, I'd have been much more gracious about bowing to Mama's wishes that we return to Hillcrest Manor for a short respite from town."

It was quite impossible not to smile back at his open friend¬liness. "Thank you, Lord Russell," she replied, curtseying. "Please, do come in."

"I'm not interrupting?" He gestured to her desk with its stack of account books.

“Not at all. I needed a break—'' from more than just ac¬count books, she thought ''—and was on the point of ringing for some tea. Won't you join me?"

"Alas, I cannot stay. I was on my way to do an errand for Mama when I saw your sign and felt compelled to discover if the new owners had yet arrived."

"Another time, then," Caragh replied, nodding a dismissal

to the butler, who left them with a bow. "You will stay a few moments, I hope?"

“Finding you at home, I cannot deny myself that pleasure," he murmured.

Surprise and a warm gratification flowed through Caragh as she walked to the wing chair before the fireplace. Since Ailis's debacle, she had spent so much time armoring herself for criticism and rejection that Lord Russell's warm friendli¬ness fell like soft rain on parched ground. “So your mama is a lover of country living, but you are not?" she asked, ges¬turing him to the sofa.

Before seating himself, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "I am now," he murmured.

A subtle current flashed between them. Before her mas¬querade as Madame LaNoire, she might not have noticed— or identified—what the pressure of his fingers, the tenor of his voice, were telegraphing. He's attracted to me, she real¬ized in surprise.

That novel thought was followed immediately by a new and rather gratifying sense'of feminine power. Not sure what she meant to do about it, she ignored the innuendo under his words.

"I should think you would be, given the beauty of the land hereabouts. By the way, I'm very grateful to you! I found the property in just as excellent a condition as you and your law¬yer described it. It shall do wonderfully for my enterprise."

"'Hunter's Haven,' the new sign said," Lord Russell re¬plied, accepting her tacit rebuff of his flirtatious overture. "You specialize in that breed?"

"Yes, as I believe I told you when we first met. Sudley produced some excellent horses, but with insufficient pastur¬age to maintain them, I was forced to sell all but a few. An impediment to expansion of the breeding operation that shall no longer hinder me, given the vast amount of prime pasturage here. With the addition of the superior Irish stock I've just purchased, I'm quite excited about our future."

"It sounds promising indeed. I always thought this would be a perfect property for horse-breeding. Once you have the operation organized and running to your satisfaction, I should love to tour it."

"I shall be happy to show you around. But if such an en¬terprise interests you, why did you sell the farm?''

Lord Russell shrugged. "I haven't the talent for horses I understand you possess, and I've enough other acreage to manage. Now, I've interrupted you long enough," he said, rising. "I just wanted to extend a welcome and assure you that, should you need anything while you're settling in, please don't hesitate to call at Hillcrest."                                    

"That's very kind," Caragh replied, rising as well.

"When do you expect your father?" he asked as she walked with him to the door. "By rights, I should have post¬poned my call when your butler informed me he was not yet in residence, but I must confess, I was too impatient to heed the proprieties. Oh, and Mama bade me invite you to dinner tomorrow, just a small gathering. She plans a more formal affair to introduce you and Lord Sudley to the neighbors once you've settled in."

Heat rose in Caragh's face. She might return an evasive answer, put off revealing that her father would not be coming to join her. But it would be shabby to bask in the warmth of the hospitable gestures of her new neighbors while leaving them in ignorance of her true status.

She cleared her throat, "My father is a classical scholar of some note. I'm afraid he is far too immersed in his studies to have time or interest in supervising a farm. He...he intends to remain fixed at Sudley."

His bright smile dimmed. "Now that is a disappointment! Not only will we be deprived of his acquaintance, but I had hoped you would be making your residence more or less permanently among us. However, an enterprise as vast as you envision will surely require you to make frequent visits." Winking, he gave a theatrical sigh. "I shall have to content myself with that, I suppose. Please do join us for dinner to¬morrow, even without your father." Reaching for her hand, he said, the caressing undertone back in his voice, "I must make the most of my opportunities."

She allowed him to kiss her fingertips, noting once again that small quiver of physical attraction. He was quite a hand¬some gentleman, she thought dispassionately.

All the more reason to set him straight from the outset. "Lord Russell, before I accept your mama's obliging invita¬tion, you should know that my visits here will be more than frequent. I...I intend to reside here. Without Papa," she added, once more feeling the color rise in her cheeks but determined to make sure there could be no misunderstanding.

His eyebrows winged upward, and for a moment he stood silent.

Even without Quentin's warning, she'd known that by flouting convention, as a single woman living alone she would leave herself open to criticism, ribald conjecture, perhaps even dishonorable offers. She braced herself for the appraising look, the intensifying of his sexual innuendo once he realized the full implications of her disclosure.

Faced for the first time with actually dealing with that potential reaction was more humiliating and distasteful than she had ever imagined. Grimly she set her teeth and lifted her chin.

"What an immense undertaking!" he said at last, bowing with perfect propriety. "Mama and I shall certainly look for¬ward to your telling us all about your plans when you come to dine."

Caught off guard, she let out a gusty breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and looked up into his face. Could it be he had not understood? But no, he would have to be dim-witted indeed not to have comprehended her meaning. Both from Quentin's descriptions and her own dealings with him, she knew him to be quite intelligent.

"You...you are sure? I should not wish to embarrass your lady mama."

He laughed. “Mama is made of sterner stuff than that—as are you, I'll wager. Or so Quentin has led me to believe. 'Flashing-eyed Athena, wise and fair' indeed! Until tomorrow evening, then?"

He did under stand... and meant to befriend her anyway. Gratitude and humility brought her shockingly close to tears. "You are both indeed kind, then. Until tomorrow."

Once more he kissed her hand, his lips lingering on her bare knuckles long enough for the current running between them to intensify.

Pulling her hand away, she wondered if she should revise her previous impression. Was friendship all he was hoping for from a woman who'd just announced herself gentry-born but not gentry-behaved?

And what coercion would he have to exert over his poor mama to keep her from withdrawing her invitation once she learned the shocking truth about her new neighbor?

"I'm deeply indebted to Lord Branson for introducing us," Russell said, pulling her from her thoughts, "and I hope to become much better acquainted."

She curtseyed in return to his final bow, then watched him walk out, an odd mix of feelings—gratitude, suspicion, uncertainty—jostling within her. Just what sort of acquaintance did he wish for with his unconventional new neighbor'?

Although inviting her into his home to dine with his mama argued against his harboring any ignoble intent, she didn't yet know him well enough to be sure.

Ailis would probably say his intentions were irrelevant, ad¬vise her to use the attraction he obviously felt to smooth her way in the neighborhood. Perhaps even take him for her lover.

That would certainly be one way to distract herself from longing for Quentin and quiet the body still clamoring for his touch. She felt a surge of warmth within at the thought.

But her stolen nights with Quentin had taught her several hard truths. She had no intention now of taking another lover, even were she to develop a warm enough friendship with Lord Russell to envision such a step.

She was having difficulty enough coping with the first experience. Loving Quentin as she did, their intimacy, for her, had truly been a merging into one flesh. Having to send him away had been like ripping her soul in two. She didn't think she could survive a second such experience.

Besides, she was discovering, she was not as much her mama's daughter as, in the throes of hurt and heartache, she'd originally assumed.

The social upheaval which still buffeted her had been Ailis's doing. She herself had no real wish to defy the ton's rules by spurning wedlock and traipsing from lover to lover, as her mother—and Ailis—seemed inclined to do. Nor, after nearly a month of isolation at her new farm, was she finding it quite as much a blessing as she'd envisioned to live totally removed from society.

From her girlhood, she'd assumed the reins of a large household and taken up corresponding responsibilities in her « rural society. In addition to her work with the Benevolent Association, she'd participated in a continuous round of calls and consultations with her neighbors. At home, she had her father and Ailis to look after, their company at meals and in the evenings—even if the company of two such self-absorbed individuals was often less than stimulating.

Though her work here was satisfying and occupied nearly every minute, for the first time she was living totally cut off from both family and local society.

She was, she had to admit, lonely.

She missed the almost daily business of calling and receiving calls. She'd grown to dread the silence of meals where she dined alone but for the attending footman. And after din¬ner, on some evenings where the only sound in the room was her even breathing and the hiss and pop of the fire, she even missed the fractious ladies of the Benevolent Association.

And what of holidays? With whom was she going to share the warmth of the Yule log, the excitement of Boxing Day or the festivities of midsummer?

It appeared Quentin had been right when he'd urged her not to hastily make so irreversible a decision as cutting herself completely off from society.

Having, in addition to a successful farm, a home that in¬cluded not just servants but also friends, a husband and even¬tually children on whom she could lavish her love had, she now realized, a deep-seated appeal.

It wasn't pride that would keep her from confessing this discovery to Quentin when he finally made his visit. She dare not admit it to him, lest he be quick to suggest it was not yet too late to have both her farm and the family she longed for— by accepting his offer of marriage.

Even now, the desire to do so pulled at her with frightening strength. After her nights as Madame LaNoire, she knew they would share passion as well as friendship. Would such a union be so impossible to bear?

But she knew her world too well. Ton couples often went their separate ways once the necessary heirs were conceived. Indeed, it was thought odd for a married couple to live in each other's pocket. As long as a husband supported his wife and children and treated them with courtesy—sometimes even when he did not—society considered it acceptable for him to pursue relationships elsewhere.

When the initial fiery heat of Quentin's passion for her faded to the tepid warmth of companionship, would he be able to resist the temptations their world would inevitably present to a handsome man of his wealth and position?

Discovering that the husband she loved with such intensity had lain with another woman would devastate her.

Her only real chance of avoiding that fate would be if the friendship Quentin felt for her were buttressed by a love as deep and abiding as her own. A love he had, up until now, shown no signs of harboring.

And if, after knowing her these six years, he had not yet developed such an attachment, it seemed unlikely he ever would.

The misery of that conclusion was a familiar one. Before melancholy overwhelmed her, though, a more cheering thought occurred.

She couldn't marry Quentin. But if, despite her status, Lord Russell persisted in befriending her—and that friendship proceeded into courtship—might she envision wedding him, should he turn out to be as kind and honorable as he seemed?

Not in the near term, of course. Her heart and mind were still too full of Quentin. But perhaps once she'd had time to extinguish that love, the yearning for a family might permit her to foster affection for someone else.

Considering that prospect, she suddenly understood why Quentin had felt confident about pressing her to marry him. She now saw the appeal of pledging one's troth to a partner for whom one felt nothing more intense than shared respect and friendship. Such a union might not engender heights of bliss, but it was also unlikely to plunge one into valleys of despair as deep as those she'd recently been plumbing.

Sighing, she turned her gaze out the window in the direc¬tion of Hillcrest Manor.

Regardless of his ultimate intent, the attentions of her new neighbor had already brought warmth and a glimmer of hope into her isolation. Perhaps Lord Alden Russell would prove just the antidote necessary to cure herself once and for all of the malady of loving Quentin Burke.

In the early evening, Quentin sat at the desk in his London study, idly flipping through a stack of invitations. After three long weeks of attending functions ranging from Venetian breakfasts to dinners to musicales to come-out balls, none of the delights promised tonight by London's hostesses held the slightest appeal.

When they'd first arrived in London and he'd wanted to be available to offer Caragh his escort and support, he'd been pulled away repeatedly to address a continuous stream of small concerns at his new property. Naturally, he thought sourly, now that he most needed work to occupy his mind, no further problems had occurred. Even his paperwork had slowed to a trickle.

Yesterday, desperate for some activity, he'd ridden to the estate outside London to find, as he expected, that the new manager he'd just installed was doing splendidly. Indeed, upon his departure, after thanking him for the visit, the man had rather pointedly remarked that as he had matters well in hand, my lord needn't waste any more of his valuable time traveling out from London.

Without the Sudleys' affairs and his own business to dis¬tract him, he'd been experiencing for the first time the full measure of attention Society accorded a bachelor considered by the ton to be an extremely eligible parti.

He had to admit, he'd reveled a bit at first in the triumph of being sought out by matrons who, before his transformation of the Branson fortunes, would have steered their precious daughters well clear of him. For a few evenings he'd found it rather amusing, wondering if the ambitious mamas had all studied the same course at their female academies on "Push¬ing Eligible Daughters to a Gentleman's Attention."

As his connection to the scandalous Sudleys was well known, he was now finding the performance increasingly dis¬tasteful. After Lady So-and-So cornered him over dinner or dancing or cards and prevailed upon him to let her present her "darling Marianne," she would invariably opine that,

given the distress he must have suffered over those "unfortunate girls," he would doubtless find it refreshing to meet a young lady whose breeding was as matchless as her counte¬nance. She would then gesture toward the daughter, who, after lowering her eyes demurely behind her fan, would glance up with an unmistakable "come-hither" look.

He was having a hard time of late restraining the strong desire to cut off Lady So-and-So's effusions about her prog¬eny by informing her just what he thought of a "lady" who would malign persons not present to defend themselves.

Perhaps Caragh was wiser than he'd thought in deciding to forego Society.

Ah, Caragh. Longing, confusion, impatience and the bite of repressed desire scorched him anew whenever his thoughts strayed to her, as they did all too frequently.

Impatience that had chafed him every moment since he'd made a thorough search for velvet scarves, from the elite es¬tablishments on Bond Street to the peddlers crying their wares on the streets, without finding another similar to the one draped around his bedpost.

He was now virtually certain that Caragh had to be Madame LaNoire.

After three weeks of wallowing in a most atypical stew of indecision, he was still uncertain what to do about it.

His first thought had been a fierce desire to disregard her wishes and ride to see her immediately, to confront her before she had a chance to prepare herself for the meeting. If she reacted with awkwardness and hesitancy, her cheeks rosy with embarrassment at the memory of their intimacies, surely that would prove her to be the innocent he wanted to believe her.

He had nearly convinced himself of the gratifying notion that love for him must be what had driven her to such un¬precedented conduct. Desire to claim the man she loved with¬out obligating him to marry her had spawned the deception.  To convince her to admit the truth and come to him openly, he would have to avow his own love in return.

Could he offer her that?

Just imagining Caragh's dear face on Madame LaNoire's responsive body caused powerful emotion to bubble up from deep within him, a fiery amalgam of desire, affection and tenderness. Awe and euphoria swelled his chest.

What an amazing woman! Intelligence, courage, honor he'd already known she possessed. But the outrageous impudence that would lead her to create a deception of this magnitude and the passionate audacity with which she'd carried it off illumined a side of his good friend he'd never suspected.

Small wonder he'd had such a difficult time trying to get the veiled lady out of his mind and senses! He could envision no more exciting a prospect than sharing his life with a' woman who could in the space of a single day ride, shoot and manage property like a man, keep house, entertain guests and attire herself with the elegance of a lady—and in his private chambers, drive him delirious with the skill of Madame LaNoire. He was likely to become completely besotted by such a creature.

In fact, he conceded, most likely he already was.

Recalling the joy she brought him, he was hard-pressed not to summon his horse and ride to her farm this instant.

Hunter's Haven, she was calling it.

Heaven, he would name it, if the two of them might be there together...

Which was the crux of the problem.

Every time he told himself to dismiss worries over her pos¬sible wantonness and abandon himself to anticipation of their imminent union, the image of the cuckolded husband—a fa¬bled figure of fun in both literature and society—rose out of mind to give him pause.

He couldn't really believe Caragh would serve him such a turn. Every instinct and years of association argued that, in deciding to seduce him, Caragh had acted out of love rather than lechery. But then, he would never have predicted that the Caragh he thought he knew so well could have masquer¬aded as Madame LaNoire.

Innocent or doxy, he was honor-bound to marry her. The only question was whether he could do so with a full and open heart, or still harboring an unsettling suspicion.

The simple truth was he missed her, and even with his worries about her character, he wanted her.

Hoping time would resolve his doubts, he'd swallowed his frustration and impatience and remained in London awaiting her summons. Waiting, and wasting his time on these damned idiot entertainments.

A wave of frustration welled up, escaping the rapidly fray¬ing bonds of his patience. With an oath he swept the trayful of invitations to the floor.

To hell with matchmaking mamas! He would spend the evening at his club. And give Caragh exactly three more days before, bidden or not, he would go to her.

Suitably re-attired, an hour later he entered White's to find old Lord Andover already at his favorite post by the window. Having little desire for company, Quentin bit back an oath. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he pasted a smile on his lips and approached.

"Ah, Branson, good to see you!" Lord Andover hailed him, waving his cane in salute. "Been missing you. Engaged in cutting a swath through this Season's young lovelies, I hear."

"Not nearly as large a swath as you would, my lord, should you ever decide to thrill the ladies by abandoning this mas¬culine stronghold."

Andover chuckled, his cheeks pinking with pleasure at Quentin's remark. "Damme, I'm much too old to trouble my¬self doing the pretty! Now, there was a time in my youth...ah, but I've never been much in the petticoat line. Not like you!"  The old gentleman poked his finger at the paper on his lap. "Morning Post's society column asserts that 'a certain Lord B, too regrettably absent of late on his estates about London, returned to set several feminine hearts fluttering with his as¬siduous attentions at Lady L's come-out ball last night...'"

Quentin waved a deprecating hand. "I'm merely the latest raw meat being offered the Society hostess wolves."

"Yes, several of their usual favorites have decamped," An-dover agreed. "Russell, for one. Smoke of the city bothers his mama's lungs, he told me. Said Lady Russell was insisting he take her to the country to recuperate."

Quentin, who had been only half listening until he might politely take his leave, suddenly whipped his gaze back to Andover. “Russell has gone out of town, you say? To Hillcrest Manor?''

"He didn't specify, but 'tis his mama's favorite property, so I expect that's where she dragged him. He was kicking up quite a dust over it..."

Russell was at Hillcrest Manor—a mere five miles from Caragh's new property?

"...not like you," Andover was saying. "The Russell lad prefers London to some rubbishing rural backwater full of livestock and bumpkins. I expect he'll not remain long."

If Russell had gone to Hillcrest, he would soon learn through the infallible network of servant's gossip that the new owner of Hunter's Haven had taken up residence.

The lovely new owner, whom he'd already ogled on several occasions, would certainly soon become the object of his assiduous attentions. Attentions that, Quentin thought, a surge of fury rising in his breast, he would not bet on remaining honorable once he discovered that Caragh intended to live there alone and unchaperoned.

The very idea of Russell luring a lonely and responsive Madame LaNoire into his arms and her bed flamed Quentin's long-smoldering frustration into fury, curled his fingers into

fists he hungered to clasp around Alden Russell's throat. He jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair.

"Excuse me, my lord, but I must leave on the instant," he said, sketching a bow. "Urgent business." Ignoring the aston¬ishment on the old man's face, he strode away.

He'd pack his bag tonight and be on the road to Hunter's Haven first thing tomorrow.

Not that he didn't trust Caragh. But if she felt as lonely and dissatisfied as he did, if her body ached for his touch as much as his did for hers, she might be vulnerable to a handsome, charming devil like Russell.

Wanton or innocent, she was his lover and would soon be his wife. Doubts be damned, it was past time for Quentin to claim the lady who had stolen his heart as completely as she'd bewitched his senses.

Having gone to such lengths to conceal her identity, Caragh might well, at first, deny the deception and reject his suit. But if she should prove a little slow to believe in his love or to accept the proposal he was more eager than ever to tender, he now had a few more tools in his arsenal of persuasion.

Fortunately, he thought, his lips curving in a smug grin, he knew just where Madame LaNoire was most vulnerable to his touch. Should Caragh prove resistant to reason, he would sim¬ply lure her into his arms where, if he repeated his offer at the right moment of intimacy, she would be helpless to refuse him.

Besides, the cardinal rule in assuring that a woman of passionate temperament was not tempted to find another lover was for her current lover to keep her well satisfied.

A task to which Quentin was looking forward with great enthusiasm. Even if he had to strangle Alden Russell first.

CHAPTER 22

Peering into the dull tin mirror as he shaved five days later, Quentin reflected he'd been right to set out without his valet. Not only would the modest accommodations, much less ex¬alted than the man would deem fitting for a gentleman of Quentin's stature, have pained him, the journey had been an exercise in frustration from start to finish.

After exchanging his own mount for a job horse at a busy , inn the first afternoon, he was halfway to the next posting stop when the animal threw a shoe. He'd led the lame beast for over five miles, only to discover at the first hamlet he encountered that the town smith was gone for the day and the inn had no mounts for hire.

Not until nearly noon the following day, having with a lib¬eral infusion of gold coins persuaded the smith to put aside his other tasks, was he back in the saddle. Soon after, the dull gray clouds dissolved into steady rain which intensified to a ceaseless torrent, turning the road to a river of mud and lim¬iting visibility to within a few feet. Though every delay rubbed his ragged patience like a burr beneath a saddle, he knew 'twas insanity to try to gallop his mount through dense fog along an unfamiliar road in hock-deep mud. He spent his second night drying his sodden clothing before a smoking fire at a modest inn, still far from his destination.

He made better progress the third day, but it was not until late afternoon of the fourth day that he finally turned the last hired mount into the streets of the village nearest Hunter's Haven. Rather than ride up to Caragh's gate bone-weary and

mud-splattered, he decided to endure one final night apart and stay at the inn in the village.

In addition to rubbing his temper raw, the dawdling pace of his journey had given him entirely too much time to worry over what Alden Russell might be doing with his lady.

With a sigh, he put the shaving water aside and rang for a servant to remove it. Taking up one of the clean cravats the inn's maidservant had just pressed, he set about tying it.

In the first heat of jealousy, he'd unfairly suspected his friend might take advantage of Caragh's unusual circum¬stances. Upon more reasoned reflection, he'd decided that, regardless of Caragh's situation, Alden was unlikely to make improper advances toward a lady he knew to be gently born.

However, despite her assertion that she intended to re¬nounce Society—and her rejection of his suit, for which he thought he now understood the reason—he did not believe someone as loving as Caragh would be content to spend her life alone. She might not, he sincerely hoped, easily succumb to the blandishments of a man who wished to seduce her, but she just might be persuaded to marry, should some other el¬igible and presentable gentleman press her.

A handsome, charming, persuasive gentleman like Alden Russell. A man who'd been attracted to her from the outset, who had heard Quentin sing her praises, who was intelligent enough to weigh her excellence of character more than her sister's indiscretion.

A man not blinded by years of friendship, who had seen immediately upon meeting her that the girl Quentin held in such esteem had become a desirable woman.

At that conclusion, he gave one end of the cravat such a tug he nearly ruined the knot.

Still, though Caragh might eventually decide she had erred in deciding to remove to Hunter's Haven, she probably hadn't yet had sufficient time to begin regretting her self-imposed isolation.

And, Quentin reassured himself again, dropping his chin to crease the cloth into perfect symmetrical folds, as far as he knew, Russell wasn't hanging out for a wife. Most likely he'd only be interested in engaging Caragh in an agreeable flirta¬tion to pass the time while his mama held him captive at Hillcrest.

How likely was he to have fallen in love in the short space of...a week?

It had only taken Quentin two magical nights.

Just thinking of Alden discovering love the way Quentin had was enough to bring his rational musings to a halt and fire the primitive jealousy smoldering beneath.

He gave a final nod to the scuffed mirror and strode from the room. If Alden had become enamored of Caragh, that was regrettable. But if Quentin discovered Russell had been hov¬ering about her—or daring to lay hands on Quentin's lady— he was going to murder him.

Now to find Caragh and persuade her to finish the unfin¬ished business between them with a wedding.

Once on the road, desire and impatience to see her swelled to such a pitch of anticipation he had difficulty refraining from kicking his horse to a gallop.

He hoped the shock of his unexpected arrival would send Caragh running to him before she remembered all the paltry reasons she'd used to convince herself to keep him at arm's length. And once he had her there—ah, he'd give her no op¬portunity for regrets! He intended to kiss her until she had just breath enough to say “yes'' to his proposal of marriage.

Thoroughly warmed by envisioning that happy scene, he turned his horse in through a stone gateway bearing the sign Hunter's Haven and spurred his mount down the drive. After a few moments, the wooded border of the carriageway gave way to newly-fenced pastureland. Then the manor itself ap¬peared in the distance, mullioned windows sparkling in the morning sun.

In just a few moments, he thought, heedless of his clothes as he kicked the horse to a gallop, he would be kissing her hands, her lips...

Reaching the manor, he turned his horse over to a servant and hurried up the entry stairs, heart pounding and hands trembling with eagerness. His enthusiasm was checked by the butler, however, who informed him Miss Sudley was not in the house, having departed at first light to supervise the on¬going construction of some new barns.

Stifling a curse at this further delay, he swallowed his disappointment and followed the footman the butler summoned to lead him to the construction site.

He'd hoped to bribe her butler into letting him come into her presence unannounced. It was unlikely, with him ap¬proaching down an open lane, that he'd now be able to use the element of surprise.

With her forewarned of his approach, he feared he'd prob¬ably need to apply some intimate persuasion to get her to admit her deception and accept his hand—which he could hardly do in the middle of an open field full of interested workmen. Fortunately, his guide informed him the new barns were being constructed beside an existing structure. He would have to persuade her to give him a tour, then look for an estate office or tack room—given the height of his impatience, even an unoccupied box stall would do—for the privacy in which to press his argument.

Once he confronted her, might she admit everything and fall into his embrace, as eager to be back in his arms as he was to have her there? Or would she have used these weeks of separation to armor herself against him?

Rounding a curve in the lane, he saw straight ahead a knot of workmen around a frame structure, masons at its base set¬ting a first course of stone. Unable to wait any longer, he paced past his escort, searching for her.

As he trotted by a stack of lumber and building stone, a flash of light blue caught his eye. He slowed, then skidded to a halt.

On a cloth spread on a bench of stone blocks sat Caragh, gesturing toward the toiling workman. Pressed close behind her, his hand on her shoulder—was Alden Russell.

He must have uttered some sound, for Alden glanced over. In his eyes, Quentin saw the same desire he felt welling up within himself.

The gladness flooding him at the sight of her steamed immediately into rage. For a moment he couldn't trust himself to speak or move, so strong was the impulse to charge over, rip Alden's hand off Caragh's shoulder and plant him a facer.

While he struggled to master it, Caragh turned toward him. Through the red haze clouding his vision he saw her eyes widen, a smile of delight spring to her lips. She half rose, only to sit back at the restraining pressure of Alden's fingers.

Quentin's gaze narrowed to the hand that prevented Caragh from coming to him. He was going to break every bone in it.

"Quentin, what a surprise!" Russell said, his unwelcoming tone and the unfriendly glint in his eyes confirming Quentin's suspicions that his friend was as little delighted to see him as he was to see Russell.

"Y-yes," Caragh echoed, her voice uneven, "I was not expecting you. Have you other business in the area?"

Even then, he might have carried off the meeting with some aplomb, had not Russell stepped in front of Caragh, as if to deny Quentin access to her.

The courtly veneer of civilization disintegrated under the primal hostility of a man who sees his mate coveted by an¬other. Sidestepping Russell, he grabbed Caragh's arm and pulled her to her feet. “I have business with you,'' he all but snarled.

"Quentin, what in the world?" she exclaimed.

"See here, Branson, that's no way to greet a lady!" Russell protested, seizing his sleeve.

Quentin jerked his arm free and gazed into Caragh's eyes. "Come with me, please, Caragh! It's important."

Russell stretched a warning hand toward Quentin. "Miss Sudley, if you wish me to send him to the right-about, I'd be happy—''

"Thank you, Lord Russell, but that will not be necessary. I...I'll rejoin you in a moment."

After one speaking glance, Caragh followed Quentin si¬lently as he led her toward the stone barn. He knew he'd annoyed her, rushing in like someone demented, but the feel of her flesh under his fingers at last, following swiftly upon the shock of finding her with Russell's hands on her, was making it very difficult for him to think.

Her docile silence ended the second they entered the barn. "Quentin Burke, what in blazes was that all about?" she demanded, shaking her arm free of his grasp.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The clever little packet of an address he'd intended to deliver seemed to have smashed itself to bits on the unexpected shoal of Russell's presence, leaving him at a loss for words.

After all, he couldn't shout "How dare you let him touch you?" or "Why did you keep me away so long?"

Instead, he fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat, dragged out the figured veil and flung it at her. "This!"

She gasped, her eyes widening and her face going pale, then crimson. Having given him all the proof he needed, Quentin stepped toward her, eager to sweep away every mis¬understanding in the heat of the passion they'd shared.

She sidestepped his advance and backed away toward a stall, her arms crossed before her. “I fail to see what that—'' she jerked her chin at the scarf that had come to rest on the stable floor between them "—has to do with you dragging me off like a Bedlamite."

"Come, Caragh, you can't mean to deny it!"

"Deny what?"

"Vauxhall! Madame LaNoire!"

She sniffed, the picture of hauteur. "Not having gone to Vauxhall, I have no idea what you are talking about."       .

"Come now, haven't you tortured me enough, practically nestling in Russell's arms? Need I remind you what you did to me that first night at Mercer Street? Then again, I should be delighted to show you." He stepped closer.

"N-no!" she cried, holding up a hand. A tell-tale crimson came and went in her cheeks, but her glance didn't waver. “What nonsense are you spouting? Indeed, I begin to believe you are a Bedlamite."

"If I am, 'tis you who've made me one!" he nearly shouted. Grasping for control, he exhaled a gusty breath. "Faith, Caragh, I know I'm making a hash of this, but I've never known you to tell an untruth. Surely you don't mean to start now by denying that, under the guise of Madame La¬Noire, you lured me from Vauxhall to Mercer Street and made me a gift of your virtue—and what a beautiful gift it was! But you must agree, sweeting, 'tis now imperative that we marry."

For a long time she made no reply, merely gazing at him, her breath coming quickly, her face guarded. He longed to cross the space separating them and pull her into his arms, assure her everything would be all right as long as they were together, but her hostile stance warned him not to attempt it.

Hugging her arms more tightly about her, she said at last, "Even if...what you said were correct, I see no reason to marry. A man does not feel obliged to wed a woman just because they shared...intimacies. Why should I?"

"That sounds like your sister speaking. Has she had the tutoring of you? Caragh, I'm not that sly cur Holden Freemont, and you're not Ailis!"

"Indeed I am not!" she flashed back. "If I were, I'd have my servants haul you off my property for embarrassing me in front of my friends and staff, dragging me from my work and then verbally harassing me!"

"I don't mean to harass you!" He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "I admit, I suppose it seems I am. But if ever a matter needed settling speedily, this—''

"Enough!" she broke in, shaking her head rapidly "I'll not hear another preposterous word."

With that, she straightened her shoulders, jerked her chin up and marched past him, treading the velvet scarf into the mud of the stable floor.

He snatched up the crumpled material and shook it off, then ran to grab her arm. "Caragh, we are not done yet!"

She ripped her arm free and whirled to face him. “How dare you presume to dictate to me?"

He reached out a hand, desperate, appealing, but she batted it away.

“Touch me again,'' she said, her low voice trembling with emotion, "and I shall have you evicted."

"Because you can't ignore what happens between us when I do?" he threw back.

In response, she turned her back on him. “Good day, Quentin," she said as she walked away. "Kind of you to stop by, but I'm still too busy to entertain company. I hope your busi¬ness in the neighborhood prospers."

For an instant he considered calling her bluff, but the reason struggling to emerge from the chaos of jealousy, hurt, disappointment and anger warned him trying to hold her by force would only alienate her further. Better to let her go, for now at least.                                                                            

He'd chosen his ground poorly and then made mice-feet of his advance. Caragh was too much a fighter to succumb meekly to what she saw as an attack—even if she secretly agreed with him—as, despite her stance today, he knew she must. Why else would she not trust herself to allow his touch?

He'd not been able to detain her long enough to reconstruct the pretty, persuasive speech that his rage at Alden Russell had driven out of his head. He would have to come back later, apologize, plead with her to listen to him one more time.

How he was going to lure her into meeting him after having just blundered so badly would require some ingenuity. But he hadn't pulled himself up from near-poverty to impressive wealth by quailing at a challenge.

He wasn't about to give up the woman he loved either.

Slowly he walked from the barn. Caragh stood beside a stonemason, her eyes focused on the workman's face, nodding as he talked. The surrounding laborers listened silently, their approving glances and respectful attitudes showing she had already won the local craftsmen over to the novel idea of working for a woman, a significant achievement in the few weeks she'd been at Hunter's Haven.

Pride in her character and abilities washed over him, crest¬ing to a swell of love and admiration.

Gently he brushed the drying mud from the tufted scarf and slipped it back into his waistcoat.

He thought at first she would ignore him as he walked by. But with admirable graciousness, considering the rancor of their brief meeting, she stayed the stonemason in mid speech and turned to him.

"Good day, Lord Branson. Thank you for your visit." Though a subtle blush stained her cheeks, her cordial tone gave no hint she'd threatened to have him forcibly ejected just a few moments previous.

"Miss Sudley," he replied, bowing to her and nodding at Russell. The triumphant gleam in Russell's eyes nearly over¬set Quentin's resolve to retreat with whatever dignity he could muster. But knowing he must not further prejudice his case by giving in to the desire to mill down his erstwhile friend, he managed to keep his back straight and his feet marching away from her.

As he trudged, he raised his hand to touch the crushed velvet inside his waistcoat. No, by heaven, he would win her. The consequences of a future without Caragh were so bleak he refused even to contemplate them.

A long, chore-filled day later, Caragh finally reached the sanctuary of her office at the manor. After weeks of wrestling with the problem of her love for Quentin, she'd developed a real appreciation for Hercules's struggle with the nine-headed Hydra.

Just when, under the soothing balm of Lord Russell's attentions, she felt she was at last making progress in her at¬tempt to cut off and cauterize the many threats Quentin Burke posed to her emotions, the immortal center of the beast—the man himself—arrived, overthrowing all her efforts. Instead of dismissing him from her mind as speedily as she'd dismissed him from her property, she'd been impatient all day for the privacy with which to contemplate how she meant to deal with his unexpected reappearance—and unprecedented behavior.

She drew from its hiding place beneath the ledger the crin¬kled list that she had not, in the end, been able to make herself destroy. Shaking her head in bemusement at her folly, she read through the familiar words again.

After his performance at the building site, she ought to restore "Arrogant" to the list—and add "Presumptuous" as well.

But given that he'd evidently discovered the truth behind Madame LaNoire's disguise, what could she expect? Tempted as she'd been to refute his assumption, he'd been correct in believing it went too much against the grain for her to lie. Though she'd not actually confirmed his assumption, he would surely construe her evasion for the admission it was.

Perhaps what had impelled him to seek her out was the possibility that their interludes might result in a child. Since she now had evidence it would not, she could put to rest that argument for forcing a ring on her finger.

Despite the wording of her dismissal, she knew quite well that one paltry reverse wouldn't send Quentin Burke scurrying back to London. Sooner rather than later, he'd be returning for another skirmish.

Hopeless gudgeon that she was, an immediate surge of anticipation filled her at the thought.

What good would it do to meet him, talk with him any further? Seeing him only meant taxing her mental reserves by pretending herself indifferent to his appeal, as well as courting the danger that he might use her physical yearning for him against her.

After all, he'd given her no indication that anything else had changed between them. He'd certainly not vouchsafed the declaration of undying love she secretly craved—and without which she refused to marry him.

Sighing, she started to thrust the paper back under the led¬ger when another memory stilled her hand. Quentin had given no sign his feelings for her had changed, except...there had been a look on his face when she first saw him. His eyes narrowed on the fingers Alden Russell was resting on her back, that look had said he would derive great pleasure in separating Lord Russell from those digits.

Passing in review both his words and his actions, her star¬tling suspicion wavered toward certainty. Slowly a smile curved her lips, and for the first time since Madame LaNoire had watched the lover she adored departing, she felt a stirring of hope.

Taking up her pen, she scrawled "Jealous" on the list.

A flaw, to be sure. But perhaps, if she were clever enough to manage the matter of Lord Russell, one that might at last bring her more joy than she had ever believed possible: having both her enterprise and Quentin Burke on his knees, delivering a heartfelt declaration.

Late that evening, Caragh finally transferred the last of the week's totals for labor and materials from the craftsmen's bills into her ledger. Closing the leather journal with a thump, she sighed and stretched her tired shoulders. She'd sent the ser¬vants to their beds hours ago, so after lighting a single candle to guide her to her chamber, she blew out the rest and headed for the stairs.

She was, she had to admit, just the tiniest bit disappointed that Quentin had not come back to spar with her again today. She really was hopeless, she thought with a despairing shake of her head, when even the idea of clashing with him sent a burst of energy and excitement flowing through her. But the sooner he appeared—particularly if he encountered Lord Rus¬sell when he did—the sooner she could begin testing whether Quentin's apparent jealousy sprang from a paternalistic desire to protect his "innocent" friend from a man's carnal ad¬vances—or because he wanted no man but himself to make such advances.

As she entered her chamber and set down the candle, a shiver of delight escaped the prudent hold she was trying to maintain over her emotions. Oh, that she might drive him to distraction with jealousy! If he truly feared she was tempted by another man, perhaps that shallow emotion could be the catalyst to transform his affection into a deeper, genuine love.

She was smiling at that happy prospect when she was seized from behind and a thick gloved hand clapped over her mouth.

Unable to scream, she struggled like a madwoman, twisting and lashing out with hands and legs. But hampered by her skirts and a long cloak that protected her assailant from her blows, she found herself being pushed inexorably toward the bed.

She landed face-first on the soft surface and tried to twist free, only to have her attacker sit down and swivel her into his lap. As he did, she caught a glimpse of a tall figure swathed in a black cloak, his face obscured by a black domino.

"Ah, chérie, listen to me! Vraiment, you must not struggle so," a deep masculine voice in a lilting French accent breathed into her ear.

A familiar deep masculine voice.

"Quentin!" she shrieked, the sound muffled by his glove. "Let me go!"

"But I dare not liberate your lips, ma jolie, unless it is to cover them with my own. Only hear my sad tale,  je vous implore.''

"Madness," she muttered into his glove, amused in spite of her anger at him for frightening her. But since she was clearly no match for his strength, better to cease struggling and allow him to say whatever he wished—before the heat of his body against hers melted will and resistance into nothing more protective than a puddle beneath his boot.

Though she went still, he bound her even more closely, as if he wished to meld them into one body. A possibility that, acutely conscious as she was of his hard chest behind her and startlingly prominent male member beneath her, did nothing to improve her ability to concentrate on outwitting him at this game, whatever it turned out to be.

"I was a man given a great gift, ma chere, the gift of a young girl's love. Yet foolishly, I was too blind to see the gem she offered. Even when the girl changed before my eyes, her loveliness enhanced by a woman's passion as a diamond cut by a master jeweler takes on brilliance, I was too cautious to claim this prize. Now I may have lost that which I have come to love so deeply. Please, will you not end my suffering, bien-aimée, and tell me it is not too late?"

At last he removed his gloved hand, but before she could utter a word or even take a breath, he jerked her chin up and covered her mouth with a kiss.

At first his lips on hers were hard, demanding, as if to stifle protest before it began and channel any anger into fire of another sort.

But by the time her greedy senses rallied in response, fog¬ging her brain and robbing her of any desire to object, the kiss gentled, became coaxing, almost reverent, as if she were a priceless object too delicate to be roughly handled. At the tenderness of the slow, lingering brush of his lips against hers an ache of love and longing swelled in her chest. This is where I belong, her heart whispered.

In spite of the dizziness afflicting her when at last he re¬leased her lips, she could feel his heart thundering in his chest beneath her. As rapidly as my own.

"Quentin," she groaned as she sagged against him, "that was not fair. And how dare you invade my chamber in the dead of night and scare me witless?"

“Who are you to talk of fair?'' he demanded, cupping her face in his hands. “You took what you wanted, hid the truth from me, then disappeared before I had a chance to say what I felt or wanted. After my stupid jealous fit this morning, I feared you might never do so. I had to come up with some way to insure you'd let me speak to you."

"Well, you now have my full attention," she replied wryly, "so say what you wish." And quickly, before the joy of being in your arms again makes it impossible for me to refuse what¬ever you might ask.     

From the pocket of his long cloak, he drew out the black velvet scarf. "You were Madame LaNoire?"

Since there was no longer any point in denying it, with a sigh, she nodded.

"Why did you do it, Caragh?"

"Because...because I longed to be close to you. But just because I pretended to be Madame does not mean anything must change between us. Certainly you don't need to marry me! No one but we two—and Ailis, of course—knows of this and there..." she felt her face heat in the darkness. "I know for sure there will be no...consequences."

"Ah, but there have been—exceedingly grave conse¬quences, my sweet. For if an audacious and lovely lady had not embarked upon so scandalous a course, I might have drifted along forever, too complacent to recognize the truth."

He resettled her closer into his embrace and continued, "You were little more than a child when we first met. Not until I finally put the puzzle together and figured out that the friend I valued so highly was also the Madame LaNoire who had so bedazzled me did I realize that you are the one woman, the only woman, I shall ever want. Surely you love me, too, or you would never have embarked on so outrageous a course. That is, you're not going to make a practice of seducing in¬nocent Vauxhall revelers?"

Incensed, she jerked away from him and attempted a punch to his jaw, which given her proximity and the poor angle of its delivery, merely glanced off his chin. "Certainly not!"

Chuckling softly, he captured her hand and kissed it. "You relieve my mind. So you do love me, my dear Caragh?"

"Since that first morning you rode down our drive," she admitted. Oh, how liberating it was to say those words at last! Still, she must be wary. "But you say Madame 'bedazzled' you. Is it truly a life with Caragh you want—or simply more nights in the bed of Madame LaNoire?''

"You doubt that what I feel is love? I confess I was slow to recognize it myself, nor can I put my thumb on th precise moment when I decided that marrying you was essential to my happiness. But if love is wanting to spend the rest of my days with you, a joy that wells up whenever I am new you, and a hunger to take you here and now and nevei lei you go, then I swear by my sacred honor that I truly love you.”

"You...you are that certain?" she whispered, not daring to believe it.

He nodded. "I came here intending to persuade you into accepting my proposal by seduction, if necessary. But that wouldn't be a proper way to begin a life together. You must accept me willingly, with a clear mind—not befuddled by passion—much as I long to befuddle you again."

His ardent eyes compelling her gaze, he held out his palm. "Caragh, will you give me your hand?"

When without hesitation she placed hers on his, his face lit in a smile. He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly, then laid her hand against his heart.

"Caragh Sudley, will you marry me and make my life a joy for the rest of my 'days?"

He wasn't down on his knees, but given the strength of the commitment evident in his eyes, the passion of his tone—and the hardness of the anatomy pressing so invitingly against her bottom—it was good enough.

"As long as you haven't any stuffy notions about waiting to act on this—'' she rubbed her derriere against him, eliciting a groan ''—until after the vows are formalized, then I accept. After all, I am my mother's daughter."

"So long as you agree to become my wife as well as my wanton, there is nothing I'd like more. After all, I did come prepared."

At that, he nudged her off his lap and stood. Swiftly he began unfastening his cloak to reveal first his bare throat, then his naked chest...

He stopped, the cloak still masking him below his waist. "Il vous plait, Madame?" he murmured with an exaggerated French accent.

“Tu me plais beaucoup,'' she replied, laughter in her voice. And then sought his lips as, tugging the cloak from his shoul¬ders, she dragged it free and pulled him back into bed.