Chapter Three

TREVOR WENTWORTH STEPPED into the grand ballroom of Kenefick House, the opulent London home of Lord and Lady Clarendon, having made his greetings to his hosts in the receiving line. He stood taller than most and then was easily able to scan the crush of overheated bodies for a glimpse of his betrothed. He'd sent word ‘round to the Kent residence this afternoon that he would happily attend the sisters at the Clarendon ball. The response, a polite thank you, had been penned not by Sabrina, but Nicole, who'd included a line about her excitement over her first major event of the season.

Growing accustomed to Sabrina's dismissal of all things regarding her own betrothed, Trevor only tightened his jaw as he pondered her lack of communication. Had he a choice in the matter, he'd have told her exactly what he thought of her juvenile attempts to rile him with her indifference. As it was, having no option but to marry the chit for her money, he'd decided that he would exhaust all efforts to at least make some semblance of a decent bond between them that their union might not prove as miserable as her present behavior suggested it would.

He was aware of many pairs of eyes upon him, this being his first true return to the folds of the elite of London society. He of course had no interest in any nuisance such as a ball, but knew he was expected, as a betrothed man, to display some interest in both his fiancé and her pursuits. And he much preferred an event such as this over a repeat of the rather disastrous dinner affair of the other night. He still wasn't quite decided upon whom had proved the most inimical, his wretched mother or the stony fair Sabrina. Thank God for Nicole's presence—how much more awful might that evening have been if not for Nicole's dedication that it not be so! She had been very clever indeed, he'd thought then and now, to have demonstrated so perfectly, if only to him, that sincerity and good intentions would always trump unpleasantness—though she'd proven even more clever, he'd thought at the end of that evening, to have survived the ordeal that was dinner herself.

Glancing around now, he recalled, with a swift rush of disagreeable recollection, that these affairs were not much more than a warehouse of inventory. Gents for sale. Brides for sale. Having grown up a firsthand witness to his mother's difficult nature and his father's unending melancholy because of it, Trevor had early on determined that he would never marry, his lineage and duties be damned.

He shook his head at the quirks of fate. Look at me now, he thought dispassionately, just as he finally spied the Kent sisters amidst the throng. Moving across the room to reach them, he watched—not quite amazed—as Sabrina Kent, witch that she was, having been alerted of his presence by a shining Nicole, had taken off in the opposite direction. Trevor stopped mid-stride, watching with something akin to amused horror as his fiancé ran away from him. And that was that, he thought. Damn her.

His eyes returned from the escaping form of his betrothed to settle upon her sister. Nicole had remained where first he'd seen her, her expression torn between a grimace and a pretense of oblivion. At Trevor's lame attempt to reassure her with a smile, she brightened instantly and moved toward him.

He really did attempt to show no awareness of exactly how exquisite she was as she walked toward him. With a more critical and attentive eye, born of his rather shameful perusal of her just the other day, he decided that she was so much more lovely than his bride-to-be, and not only because of her winning personality. She walked with a grace that belied her years, having a fluidness about her movements that bespoke of innate poise. If she weren't so innocent, so guileless, she would perhaps learn how to affect a sultriness, and he knew it would come easy to her. It was, it seemed, part of her now, though thus far untapped.

Her hair was much as it always was, he supposed, curly and seeming of a mind to confound its pins, swaying in ringlets and waves of dark mahogany as she moved. She wore an empire gown of pure white, the bodice adorned with intricately embroidered threads of silver, being neither too revealing nor too concealing, showing only that she was a young woman of beautifully milky skin, her neck and bare arms tinted only minimally by a flush of heat. Her smile grew as she neared him, and as she drew close Trevor suffered no difficulty clarifying that indeed the green of her eyes was flecked with a bit of gold, allowing them to shine. Her face was small and sat perfectly atop her long neck, and in it, those eyes seemed large and round and beguiling. Below, her nose was tiny and button-like, and further, her lips were neither heart-shaped nor bowed, but thick and lush, even while in repose, but magnificent when stretched across that line of perfectly straight teeth when she smiled.

And there were those dimples again.

"Good eve, my lord," she greeted him, taking up both his hands in hers and squeezing them affectionately. He returned the warm welcome, for how could he not, surprised—though he shouldn't have been—at how petite and delicate her hands felt in his large hold. Nicole Kent was as lovely as anything he'd ever seen, and then far lovelier when she turned those bright eyes so happily upon a person. Trevor wondered if, in all his life, he'd ever met anyone whom he'd liked so well, so quickly upon meeting them. He thought not.

"Good evening, Nicole," he said. "You are beautiful tonight. You outshine every girl here."

She blushed prettily at his words. "Do you think so, my lord?"

"Absolutely."

Before him, she visibly relaxed, even blew out a small sigh. "Oh, thank heavens. Sabrina said I looked like a spotted mole in sunshine."

He knew his frown was tremendous then but seemed unable to curtail it and his vexed response. "Ah, the ever charming—though elusive—Sabrina."

"Don't be angry with her, my lord. She will come ‘round. This all came as quite a shock to her."

"To me, as well," he murmured, noting that she made no specific excuse for Sabrina's flight from him this very evening. Over the top of Nicole's head, he spied two of his cronies, Lords Abercorn and Isherwood, making their way toward him. Having no intention of putting Nicole anywhere near these two bounders, he said in a polite but dismissive tone, "Save me a dance, Nicole—if you've any left on your card." And he winked at her as she nodded and turned to find the group she'd abandoned when she'd spotted him earlier.

NICOLE KENT STOOD AMONG her circle of acquaintances, giving a fair sigh for her frustration. True, she did enjoy the frippery and splendor of these events, all this being relatively new to her. She'd had her come out last season after her presentation at court, but it had been delayed by her father's illness—a rather severe bout of the ague last spring—which had kept them in the country longer than expected. As it was, this affair was only her third ball, but already the thrill of it was lost as Sabrina had dashed any joy with her cruel and deplorable behavior towards Trevor.

Nicole turned her head, her eyes once again settling on the Earl of Leven. She felt particularly sorry for him, being aware of his circumstance, which all but forced him to have no choice but to accept Sabrina, faults and ill-behavior and all. Would that I were the child of the grand inheritance, she thought wistfully, thinking there was no man so handsome as Trevor Wentworth. Nicole let her eyes wander about the room, to verify her claim.

It was true, she decided after a moment. Trevor Wentworth stood at least half a head taller than any man present, his shoulders so broad as to surely cause his tailor fits. The very size and strength of his legs, encased rather snugly in his black breeches, let a person know this man was no idle lord, that indeed his years in service to the crown, and likely upon a horse, had left its mark. Nicole thought of his hands, so large and strong when he'd held hers, but pursed further thoughts from her mind.

Guy Fellows, with whom she was only newly acquainted, stood at her side presently. She knew he attempted to engage her in private conversation—he'd already placed his name on her card—but Nicole would have none of this. Guy was genial and quite entertaining but had proven to be a mean-spirited person at times, leaving Nicole with something of a distaste for him. She smiled blandly at some remark of his but quickly turned her attention back to the earl. Trevor stood with several other gentlemen, his person a stand-out among lesser men. She watched him laugh amiably at something said and envied any person who might be the recipient of that smile, or the deep richness of that chuckle, just warm enough to wash over a person in rivers of pleasure. And should his eyes, those dark blue rounds so piercing in intensity, rest upon a girl with anything akin to delight, surely, she would die happy.

Oh, my, Nicole thought. I am being quite fanciful. But it was not to be undone. She was not the only victim of this malady, aware that many eyes sought out the form of Trevor Wentworth and rested quite remarkably upon his person. He turned his own head about the room, seeming to disregard all eyes upon him, until his gaze settled on Nicole. Automatically, she smiled at him, uncaring that he found her watching him. He inclined his head in response, his nearly black hair, short-cropped and with just a bit of a wave to it, shining under the many candles strung above. His gaze slid off her and over Guy Fellows, still at her side, attempting again to make conversation with her. As not to be completely rude, Nicole turned her attention to Guy, but not before she surmised just a small unpleasant curl to the earl's lip as he studied the other man.

"I was saying, Miss Kent, that the air in this room is growing a bit thin," Guy said, making a show to swipe at the beads of sweat on his very high forehead. "Miss Borrow and Miss Clare have requested some company out on the terrace."

Nicole saw that indeed, those two ladies had left their group and headed toward one set of French doors that would lead a person directly outside.

"Shall we join them?" Guy asked, offering his arm, showing more gums than teeth when he smiled.

"Of course," Nicole allowed, placing her hand upon his sleeve. He steered her through the crush, skimming around the crowded dance floor and to a separate set of French doors, though these led to the terrace as well. "This is much better, indeed," she granted, once upon the flagstone, with fresh air upon her face. "I don't see Miss Borrow or Miss Clare." She glanced up and down the terrace, finding several people taking air, but not the ones she sought.

"Likely, they moved off into the garden," Guy suggested, guiding Nicole down the stone steps and out into the yard before she thought better of it.

When they were quite a distance from the house itself, when the great light from the magnificent windows began to fade, Nicole removed her hand from Guy's arm. "I don't see them out here, sir. We should return." She wasn't panicked, but she saw clearly what this man was about.

He confirmed her suspicions when he persisted. "Surely, the ladies are just a bit deeper along the path." He reached for her hand.

Nicole retreated a step. "Tis enough air for me, thank you, sir. Perhaps you might find them still, but I shall return to the house," she said before he might try to take her hand again. She noted that Guy's face registered some visible distress, his gaze fixed above and beyond Nicole. But she spun on her heel to be away from him, and promptly crashed into the solid wall of a hard chest.

She bounced back, a startled gasp escaping, finding the earl there, his hands upon her arms to steady her. His handsome face was stiffened into a hard mien, his eyes dangerously dark as they fixed over her head on Guy. Nicole half-turned in his arms, as much as he would allow.

"You have somewhere to be," he suggested tightly, to which the younger man nodded slowly and mutely, before Trevor added harshly, "From now on, it is not within ten feet of her, do you understand?"

Aghast, Nicole could only stare up at him, her back to Guy, shocked as she was by this turn in his character. "My Lord—what—?"

She was ignored while his hard stare remained. "I see less than ten feet now," he warned ominously, and Nicole was aware of Guy Fellows, somewhere in her periphery, scrambling hastily to be away.

Only then did Trevor lower his gaze to her, his hand still on her arms. "What would possess you to rendezvous with a villain such as Fellows?" His voice was a whispered hiss.

Nicole's jaw gaped. "'Twas no rendezvous! We—we were to meet Miss Borrow and Miss Clare," Nicole answered, a crack in her voice. "My lord, why are you angry?" Her brows lowered, her lips remained parted in surprise at his unaccountable fury.

WHY was he angry?

This was not Sabrina. Not his betrothed. Not his...anything. With supreme effort, he gentled his gaze and his words, "Nicole, never go anywhere unchaperoned—least of all, out into the darkness. At the very least, appropriate a friend, or if you have to, summon me." He loosened his hold on her arms, sorry that he had behaved so boorishly. With greater calmness, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her back into the ballroom.

He could sense about her still an apprehension wrought by his very uncharacteristic —very inappropriate—response to having spied her being led out of the house and into the darkness by that bounder, Fellows.

He noticed immediately that his own betrothed stood in quiet and seemingly charming conversation with that Marcus Trent across the room. Trevor took note of the smiling couple, wondering at his lack of proper outrage now, and lowered his head toward Nicole. His cheek was tickled by the softness of her shiny curls. He inhaled the soft, fresh scent of her. "Promise me you won't disappear again."

She turned those green eyes up to him and nodded briefly, though she seemed to search his eyes for some explanation for his ill-mannered conduct.

"Shall we dance?" He asked, by way of apology, leading her out onto the floor without actually waiting for her consent just as a waltz was about to start.

A quick glance at her before raising his eyes above her to give an air of proper disinterest to any attentive onlookers showed her still mulling over the confrontation, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

"I have two questions," she said after a moment.

He'd expected as much, tilting his head now to attend her. Her green eyes were not so much troubled as they were confused.

"Do you think it acceptable behavior for me to be dancing a waltz?"

Trevor considered this. The likely answer was no, but he put her mind at ease with, "This is not Almack's and no aged patron—who in all likelihood was never once herself invited to waltz—presently holds a quizzing glass to her eye, committing your name to memory, to castigate at some further instance." He watched her acknowledge this with a bare nod of her head while they moved smoothly about the floor. "And, too, you are to be my sister by marriage very soon, which gives it some legitimacy, actually makes it rather boring, I'm afraid."

"Pity, that," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Next question: did you, my lord, or did you not, just instruct me to seek out your most august and reputable presence when next I am invited to partake of the fresh night air with some young swain hopeful of only some private moments with me so that the three of us, then, might convene a tête-à-tête?"

Well, yes, he did then recognize the absurdity of such a request.

He supposed and appreciated this quality that surely must be instilled well in her, quick to lose her reactions to affronts against her, and similarly unlikely to hang onto ill-humors.

Trevor smiled down at her now laughing green eyes. "You are a cheeky little miss, are you not?"

She favored him with a saucy smile, which he hoped she practiced upon no other, and asked, "Would it at that time be more formally called, a tête-à-tête-à-tête?"

And now he laughed out loud, causing several heads to turn at the sight and sound of the Earl of Leven expressing amusement, enjoyment even, upon a dance floor and with a debutante.

"The point, my dear," he clarified, so that the lesson not be lost, "is for you not to partake of anything in private with anyone."

"Duly noted, my lord."

He had never been an enthusiast of the waltz, as he didn't know anyone whom he'd care to hold this close—in public. Dancing with Nicole, however, irrevocably changed his opinion of said dance. As with simply walking, she had a young woman's grace about her. She was light in his arms and on her feet, her head coming not quite to his shoulder. Rather inexplicably, the hand he'd pressed lightly into her lower back pulled her closer, ostensibly forgetting who she was or where they were.

His drawing her close had not gone unnoticed. "Ah, is it your plan then to make Sabrina jealous?" She raised an inquiring brow at him, though this was tempered by the lightness in her eyes. "If that is the case, this shall never do."

"Because you are her sister?"

"Well, at the very least, yes. Because I am just Nicki—Sabrina hasn't cause to be envious of me," she told him, and Trevor left off giving his opinion of this. "But mostly," she continued in her soft voice, "because Marcus and Sabrina have left."

He was watching her lips as she spoke, two perfectly pink and tempting crescents forming words around her tongue and teeth, words that did not immediately register, as his mind had taken up with other matters.

"They've exited through the French doors to the west terrace. Or is that the east?"

He did now consider this news. The waltz was drawing to a close. He passed a glance over the doors to the left of the orchestra, as she indicted, but there was no sign of Sabrina or Marcus. "Damn," he cursed heatedly, ignoring Nicole's widening eyes as he strode then in that direction, leading Nicole by the hand.

NICOLE FOLLOWED GAMELY, though she hadn't any idea why she needed to be present for the fetching of Trevor's fiancé.

Once outside, he scanned the length of the now emptied terrace and the immediate manicured lawns, but Sabrina and Marcus were nowhere in sight. Still holding her hand, and presently with a more purposeful gait, Trevor led her down the smooth stone steps and into the darkness along the garden path, just as Guy Fellows had attempted earlier.

"Perhaps they've returned to the house already," Nicole said, hurrying her pace to keep up with his long strides, a bit unnerved by his sudden disturbing purpose. She knew of Sabrina's affection for Marcus Trent and was beginning to be afraid of what they might find.

"We'd have seen them re-enter," he sent back, his tone clipped.

Nicole prayed to the dear Lord that Sabrina was not so unwise as to actually disappear into the darkness with Marcus. If they were discovered by the earl, she feared for the continued existence of Marcus Trent, having witnessed the earl's unfathomable response to finding her with Guy Fellows, and they still within the light of the house. If they were discovered by any other, Sabrina would be ruined forever.

"My lord! Sabrina would not—" she began but he stopped his chase right then, turning on her, his eyes, in the moonlight, appearing as black as this night, his beautiful features contorted with annoyance.

"Wouldn't she?" He asked, one brow raised daringly.

"I think not," Nicole offered, wishing that her voice had emerged with much less wavering.

"That, my dear, remains to be seen."

"Quite ungenerous of you," she said, once again to his back as he moved further along the path, tugging her along behind him. "I know you cannot help but to think ill of—"

"Shh," he said, cutting her off, stopping so suddenly as to bring Nicole crashing into his back with a rather breathless, "oomph."

"Someone comes," he whispered over his shoulder at her, pulling Nicole off the trail, behind a wide oak. He pressed her back against the trunk of the tree and himself against her, apparently using his large form and dark evening wear to cover what he might of her white gown.

Voices, soft and whispering, reached them, coming up the trail, but still far enough away that it was unlikely their presence was realized.

Nicole could not hear what was being said, nor could she immediately define if the interlopers be male or female, but she did notice when they stopped moving. Being so still against the tree, not instantly aware of their own precarious position in the darkened garden, she listened attentively to the pair, guessing that they had parked themselves somewhere not too far from where she and Trevor hid now. She might have balked against his manhandling, and their present circumstance, but Nicole was not so na?ve to not understand the possible ramifications if they were to be caught alone and in the darkness themselves.

A breathless cry of "No, not here" reached her, followed immediately by an answering, "If my father were to know of this...."

Nicole stood calmly against the tree, with Trevor's cheek very near her ear, while only inches separated his solid chest from her bosom and his thighs from her skirts. She tried to breathe, slowly, normally, listening to the pair on the opposite side of the tree in what now sounded like—even to her uneducated ears—heavy petting and kissing. Fisting her hands at her side, she raised her head to Trevor, but his face was turned away, his forehead resting in the crook of his elbow as his forearms braced his upper body weight against the tree on either side of her head.

Breathing slowly and deeply had brought Trevor's scent to her, as if his mere closeness could not. He smelled of spice and soap and brandy, all these flavors mingling around her. Closing her eyes, she inhaled him, her nose mere inches from his neck, a lock of his short hair tickling her forehead. Managing to tune out the sounds of the lovers on the lane, Nicole thought only of Trevor. He was big and powerful and so very handsome—all very tempting to a mere girl such as she. At that exact moment, with his body covering hers, with her eyes closed though she could see him perfectly, Nicole knew she was in trouble.

"We must return, my dove," said the lover on the path, his voice carrying easily to Trevor and Nicole now. "As much as I'd like to bury myself inside you, we have your father and my own spouse to consider."

At this, Nicole's eyes flew open, finding with a quickly indrawn breath that Trevor had turned his head, his face only inches from hers, his eyes shiny and intent.

"You are right," said the dove. "I imagine I shall have to wait to feel you inside me again."

Eye to eye, Trevor and Nicole regarded each other, her eyes widening yet more at the dove's response. She blinked rapidly, in disbelief or in shock, but never took her gaze from Trevor. All at once, staring into eyes she knew to be a perfect shade of sapphire, her limbs became tremulous, craving movement. Her stomach fluttered as she was now very much aware of Trevor's breath on her face, and likewise imagined he must feel her rapid little rushes of air on him. When his gaze shifted to her lips, she unconsciously sent her tongue out to moisten them.

Without warning or pretext, Trevor's mouth covered hers, hard. No other part of their bodies touched save their lips. Truly, only his moved, firmly molding his mouth to hers, side to side, soft then firm, but with a sense of heretofore denied urgency. Nicole could only receive him, shocked as she was by his very action, and more so by her immediate excitement.

When Trevor's lips parted, unyielding yet almost gentle still, tasting her fully, Nicole finally responded, moving her lips to match his own apparent need to devour. She opened her mouth as he had done, as seemed natural, and heard the muted groan deep in his chest moments before his tongue entered, slick and knowledgeable, tasting and probing, rendering Nicole's limbs utterly useless, her mind dysfunctional. Still, she found herself responding in equal measure, pushing her tongue into him. Suddenly then, he was all hands, cupping the sides of her head, turning her face one way and then the other to better slant his mouth against her. Long fingers of velvet steel slid across her neck and over her shoulders, drawing their bodies nearer.

Nicki withstood the near painful grasp of his hands on her shoulders, reacting in kind, feeling this same urgency as she raised her hands to hold him close, gripping the slight lapels of his evening jacket. This kiss, her first, lasted an eternity, it seemed, never tender but neither frightening, only leaving her with a want of more.

At last, Trevor pulled his lips from her, breathing heavily against her mouth, resting his forehead against hers for a spare moment before lifting his gaze to scan the path in both directions.

"They've gone."

And Nicole expelled a breath, lowering her face against his chest. My Lord, she thought, she'd given no thought to the lovers who might have spied upon them, no thought at all once Trevor's lips had touched hers.

He dug his hands into her hair, bringing her eyes back to his now very searching gaze. She guessed that all he might see presently was great confusion attempting to squelch her even greater joy. But when she could look no more into those probing eyes of his, she removed her own, studying instead his lips. "I have never been kissed before," this, breathlessly.

"Ah, Nicki," he breathed and again took her lips, his movements less urgent now, but unyielding all the same. He traced the seam of her lips with his deft tongue, causing shivers of delight to flutter across her insides.

Guilt, however, was a hard emotion to squash, she learned, pushing against him to be free, her hands pressed against his rock hard chest. "What are we doing?" She whispered in an aching voice. "Against my own sister, I have sinned," she cried, looking up at him for reason.

Trevor opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut and grabbed her hand off his chest. After an interminable moment, he said gruffly, "Come, I'll take you back." His present gait as he led her once again along the garden path made his earlier stride appear a Sunday stroll.

Panicked, Nicole whispered breathlessly, guiltily behind him, "My lord, it was wrong... right? We just—well, the...with the dove and...the situation, it was wrong. Right?"

He did not answer her.

Once returned to the ballroom, he deposited her near the ladies retiring room, suggesting thickly that she attend to her person, while Nicole wondered hopefully if it were only his own guilt, manifested as anger, that had him staring at her with eyes shot so liberally with fury.

And with one last penetrating, probing glare, his jaw clenched tight, he turned on his heel and left her. Nicole took immediately to the retiring room, thankful it was empty save for its attendant maid, and cried quietly into a handkerchief plucked from her reticule. She could not show her face, now tear stained and reddened, in the ballroom again and so, from there, went directly to the Kent carriage, waiting what seemed like hours for Sabrina to appear.

Luckily, Sabrina had never had much cause or penchant for making conversation with Nicole, and after a brief inquiry as to how long she'd waited—to which Nicole lied and said only a few minutes—they'd driven home in complete silence. Nicole felt especially unable to chastise her sister now for her ill-treatment of Trevor, knowing her own sins were by far greater.

IT WAS WRONG. RIGHT? She'd asked him after that fateful venture into the gardens at Kenefick House. Trevor could not remove those words from his brain even three days later. He could not stop hearing them again, in that torn little voice of hers. He could not erase the picture of her, her lips swollen and reddened from his kiss, her gaze seeking assurances from him. He'd been unable to answer her then, unwilling to examine his own reasons for that kiss, and what his reaction to her meant to him now.

Wrong? No, it had not been wrong. Nothing, he'd determined, not anything in all his twenty-nine years had ever felt so right. But what to do now?

He'd called yesterday at the Kent townhouse—on Sabrina, ostensibly—but had also asked Bennett, the Kent butler, to fetch Nicole as well, if he pleased, as Trevor had pretended to have some business with her. He'd been informed straight away that Miss Nicole was not at home. "Driving with friends, I am to understand," Bennett had told him in his staid and low voice, leaving Trevor left with nothing to do but await Sabrina's incalculable presence.

He might have expressed surprise over Sabrina's actual appearance and unaccountable willingness to visit with him if his mind were not so detracted by thoughts of her sister. As it was, Sabrina had invited him into the visitor's parlor and served him tea, even going so far as to make banal conversation with him. But all of this—her questionable attempts at congeniality —was lost on Trevor until much later in the day. Then, he surmised it was her own guilt, having all but openly cuckholded him at the Clarendon ball, which allowed her to put on sweet airs for his benefit. Or perhaps—and more probably—her father had gotten wind of her recent headstrong and inappropriate behavior and had threatened her very existence. Either way, Trevor found that he didn't care. Sabrina could do as she pleased. He would eventually let her know this. Their union was to be a business arrangement only, he would inform her. As long as she was discreet—he would insist upon this—and as long as she put out the requisite heir and a spare, she could damn well do as she pleased. He cared not. He would stop pretending that he did.

And on each of the next three occasions in which Trevor called at the Kent house, hoping only for a word with Nicole, he'd been greeted by his own fiancé instead, Nicole being unavailable in all instances. After one week of this, having today left the Kent house after being hosted to tea by both Sabrina and her nearly always absent father, in which time Sabrina had nearly bored him to tears with the apparently inexhaustible topic of bonnets, Trevor went in direct search of Nicole. Vaguely, Baron Kent had let it be known that Nicole had taken up with "that Cattermole chit" and they were even now driving in the park with Miss Cattermole's mama and brother.

Leaving Kent House, Trevor headed straight for Hyde Park, but despaired at finding his quarry, because a glance at his timepiece told him that the fashionable hour for driving was coming to an end and Nicole was likely, even now, on her way home.

But find her he did—walking, not driving indeed—unaccompanied along her very own street. Trevor jerked hard on the reins, pulling his phaeton alongside her, acutely aware of her shocked and distressed expression.

"Get in," he commanded, to which she frowned and continued moving. "Nicki, get in the damn carriage."

Her bonneted head swiveled sharply at his tone and language, her eyes lighting on his with dismay. But she did as he'd demanded, slipping her hand into his to be pulled up into the open rig.

"Really, my lord—"

"We will talk about this, Nicki," he stated with only marginally less harshness. She seemed to sigh audibly next to him, Trevor not unaware of their thighs and elbows touching as the vehicle moved steadily around the block.

"Truly, there isn't anything to discuss," she said, her voice sounding falsely bright and guiltless to him. "We made a mistake. We forgot ourselves, that is all."

Forgot ourselves? He mulled these words. This statement insinuated that there had been a longstanding attraction growing, one they'd been forced to deny for some time. Was that the case? he wondered. Their acquaintance in itself was too short for this desire to have been sprung so long ago. But there was desire, he knew, misplaced and dastardly though it was. Trevor glanced sideways at Nicole, taking note of her prim and purposeful position, her eyes staring straight ahead, which afforded him, around the edges of her ruffled rimmed bonnet, only a slight view of her stalwart profile. His gaze settled longingly upon her lips, recalling their softness, already well met but never to be tasted again, he acknowledged with a hammering of his heart that was nearly painful.

Jesus! He cursed inwardly, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into—betrothed to a beautiful witch who stirred his blood not at all, and desirous of her very own sister, whose presence alone seemed to rouse many things inside of him, least of all being the urge to touch her again, to feel her respond to him with so tantalizing an innocence once more.

Rather out of the blue, as he'd not replied to her last statement, Nicki said, "It won't ever happen again, that lapse of sanity." She did not move her head to look at him as she delivered this vexing news.

Was that what he wanted? Instinctively, Trevor knew the answer was no. But his choices were so very...non-existent. Sabrina, from her mother, had the huge inheritance, which his family and estate needed so desperately. And Nicki, according to her father—even if she possessed the dowry and moneys that Sabrina would bring to a union—was not allowed to even consider a betrothal, as the baron thought eighteen too young yet to wed. It was often the practice in aristocratic families that the oldest daughter should marry first, lest she be considered less attractive to prospective takers, having been shelved while the younger took her place.

"Nicki, I don't want you to think—"

She finally turned to him, laying her gloved hand upon his arm while he managed the ribbons, effectively silencing him. His skin under her small palm and fingers flexed and heated even at this slight touch. "Trevor, please do not concern yourself on my account. I may be young, but I think I am not so na?ve as to think that what happened between us was anything other than a complete and absurd lack of judgment, instigated solely because of those strange circumstances." With a quirky little smile, which he was beginning to favor greatly, she added, "Having listened to the Dove and her paramour upon the garden path, I am sure—"

Sternly, irrationally, he said, "You should not have listened to that."

Nicki gave him a funny look, one brow raised over her vivid green eyes. "You were there, my lord. There wasn't much I could've done to not listen. But please, set your mind to rest. It happened, but it won't again. Why, I've barely given it a thought."

His gaze turned sharp at this dismissive statement. He studied her pretty face, looking for signs to refute her words, but she faced the street before them again, allowing him no glimpses into her mind. He'd driven them fully around the block by now, and back to her house, drawing the bays to a stop at the curb.

"Why did I find you walking along the street alone just now?"

She seemed surprised by the question, obviously hadn't any knowledge of how desperate he was to not see her leave him just yet.

"I was with Lucy Cattermole," she answered, and pointed up the street, "she lives just there."

"You have plans for this evening?" God, he was pathetic.

"Um, I do not." She pushed aside the curls that had escaped her bonnet and which the wind tried to sweep across her face. "No engagements at all until your betrothal ball this weekend."

He didn't think it was her intent to so boldly lay that out as a reminder of their circumstance, but it hung between them, nevertheless. He nodded tightly, his eyes on the ribbons in his hands.

"My lord, are... you worried I might say something to Sabrina or...?"

Trevor tipped his eyes toward her and shook his head. He stared at her lips, so temptingly full, so damnably delicious he now knew, and confessed, "I hadn't even thought of that."

Nicki patted his arm one last time and clambered down from the high phaeton, without awaiting his assistance. "Think no more upon it, my lord. I couldn't bear to lose you as my friend over something so absurd, so... unfortunate."

He nodded tightly, his teeth clamped painfully, guessing as he watched her disappear within the house that had he unlocked his jaw and opened his mouth, something irrevocably stupid, something completely dangerous might have spewed forth.

"Think no more upon it?" Trevor considered her words, shaking his head at the improbability of that as an option. "I can think of little else," he grumbled as he moved the team away from her stoop and back out onto the road.