Chapter One

T he evening had passed well beyond tediousness for Anthony Maltravers, Viscount Stirling, first son of the Earl of Huntington. He had arrived at Lady Spencer's ball no less than an hour late in an attempt to shorten the time between his arrival and his planned assignation with a certain honorable (soon to be dis-honorable) Miss, who had only arrived in town the week before. However, when he'd entered the ballroom and caught the young lady's eye, she had beat a hasty retreat to her parents and feigned a headache, and for the past two hours he had been unable to escape the dullness of social obligations and head for home, a hot bath, and perhaps a low woman to relieve his frustration. He sighed. The virgins of Bath were becoming easier to seduce and harder to bed. And as for the matrons and widows of society… well, they were easy to bed and required no seduction at all. The finesse and talent of the studied rake, he mused as he downed his sixth glass of wine and summoned a footman to pour him a seventh, was no longer appreciated in England.

On the dance floor couples were gathering for the third waltz. His brain unable to take any more spinning than was absolutely necessary, Anthony headed for the card room. Halfway through the door, however, he was spotted by the widow Walters, his too-willing conquest of last month. She bowed her head in acknowledgement and flicked her tongue over her lower lip. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of having to put up with her mewling, childish cries of ecstasy for another night. Bowing his head curtly, he headed for the host's library.

He closed the door behind him, inhaling the scent of leather and dusty paper. Ah, books! How he had detested them as a youth! He avoided opening them even now. But the beautiful thing about the libraries of Bath was that everyone left them, and their dull residents, alone. Libraries were custom made for solitude during mind-numbing social events, as well as the occasional assignation.

A breeze from the library's open bay windows swept through the room, relieving some of the stale odor. Fresh air. Pushing his deceptively cherubic blond curls away from his sweating forehead and setting his wine glass on a table, Anthony moved to the balcony to clear his head.

He stood in the doorway a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the night sky, before he noticed that he was not alone. At the far end of the balcony a figure stood, leaning out over the railing, satin gloved hands gripping the balustrade. For a moment he thought the woman must be a statue: she was standing so still, the pale skin of her arms and neck shining like marble in the moonlight. Then the breeze stirred across the balcony again, fluttering her dress ever so slightly and making her shiver. Not a member of the resident garden statuary, then.

He stepped closer to see what she was looking at in the gardens below but was surprised to see that her eyes were closed, her chin tucked into her chest and her lips pulled thin in a… grimace? Her delicate silk dress glowed deep purple where the moon shone on it, and black in the darkness where it did not, sharply contrasting with the pale freckled skin of her face and chest, and for a moment he thought she must be something inhuman. A Greek Fate? A fairy queen, perhaps?

Her chest expanded in a deep breath, the scandalous crease of shadow between her breasts catching his attention. He allowed himself another moment of silence to inspect her. Her appearance was unusual to say the least. She wore her hair, which appeared red in the moonlight, in a severe chignon, allowing only one curl to escape and cascade down the side of her neck. The simple style was decidedly unfashionable, however it served to highlight her high cheekbones and strong jawline to perfection, enhancing his earlier idea that she was, indeed, a symmetrically carved statue. Her dress was cut low on her chest, and she had left the expanse of skin between her neck and breasts free of jewels, which puzzled him, as the dress and gloves she wore were obviously some of the finest and most expensive available in Bath. Her bosom, he noted with appreciation, was large for her lean frame, and sloped down to an almost boyish waist and hips, revealed by the cling of her gown in the night breeze.

Lust.

The emotion surged to mind as he drank in her form. No, he could not group her with the other women in his life who had inspired lust: the curvaceous, delicate, fashionably styled women. It was something more like… need for this statuesque creature who was somewhere between woman and Goddess. Need to caress her skin and convince himself that it was not the cold, polished stone it appeared to be. Need to kiss the pursed lips, feel them open and swell under his own. Need to run his thumbs along her cheekbones as he cupped her face in his hands, a welcoming smile blossoming under his touch. And perhaps, he conceded, as the shallowness of his breathing called him back from his fantasies, just a hint of lust.

He could have her, now. In three steps he could have his arms around her waist, press his lips against hers before she could cry out. He could hold her in his embrace until he was sure she would make no protest to his advances, feel her stiffness and poise melt under his expert touch. He took those three silent steps to close the distance between them, standing behind her so closely he could feel the heat of her body through her thin gown. She was most certainly not cold marble.

She seemed to sense his presence, lifting her chin but keeping her eyes closed. He reached out a fingertip to trace the line of her collarbone, and wrapped the other arm around her ribs just below her breasts. She didn't shrink from his presumptuous caress, didn't speak. Emboldened, Anthony pressed her back against himself. The firm round contour of her buttocks against his thighs was almost too exquisite, and his growing erection pushed into her lower back. She felt it and began to pull away, a grimace at the corners of her mouth, and the frown of disgust on her face stopped him from kissing her just long enough for her to speak.

"Not here," she said, her voice deep and ragged like torn velvet, the statement halfway between begging and demanding. Ignoring her, he brushed his lips along her neck where the single tendril of soft hair had absconded from her chignon. The curl tickled his lips. He chuckled against her skin. She smelled of sandalwood soap, a mild, earthy, almost masculine scent. The woman did not pull away, but she turned her face away from him, lowering her chin into her chest again as if to insulate herself from his warmth. She spoke barely above a whisper, the edge of disdain in her voice sharp enough to wound him where the words struck: "I see town has taught you some tenderness."

His lips stopped their ministrations and he released his arms from around her waist ever so slightly. The tone in her voice was clear. She thought he was someone else. She had allowed him to touch her only because she was expecting a rendezvous with another man. A man who was evidently not tender. He cleared his throat. "Madam, tenderness has always been a part of my reputation."

She opened her eyes in surprise at the unfamiliar sound of his voice and looked over her shoulder at him. He watched her eyes, black as her dress in the darkness, assess every inch of his face before settling on his lips, her expression warring between surprise and relief and perhaps even… hope?

She turned slowly to face him and brought one gloved hand up to his mouth, allowing his shallow breath to fall on her fingertips for a moment. He thought he saw the beginning of a devilish smile twitch at the corners of her lips, but the next moment she had pressed herself against him and brought her mouth up to his, her kiss so violent and desperate his teeth ached against hers. She gripped his shoulder with one hand and snaked the other behind his head, spreading her satin covered fingers through his hair. Anthony pulled her hips into him, forcing her belly against the throbbing need in his breeches. Through the thin material of her dress, he thought he could feel a tremor of pleasure pass quickly up her side as she exhaled a small sigh into his mouth. She released the kiss for a moment, then caught his lower lip between her teeth. She bit down and he gasped, kneading her backside with one hand as the other sought her breasts.

Then she pushed him away and the moment was gone as quickly as it had begun. He staggered back and opened his eyes. She, too, was gone, the curtains at the library windows rustling after her as she ran away.

Licking his tongue over his lower lip, he tasted blood. Good God , was the only thought he could muster. What was that? What was she ?