14

I f it hadn't been for a feline altercation on a nearby wall, it might have fallen to Mostyn to wake them.

Even as, alerted to the encroaching dawn, Barnaby hurried Penelope—who didn't want to wake up, and wanted even less to leave his bed—to do both, and dress, and let him lead her downstairs, even as he let them both out of the front door and set out to walk her home, some small part of him was disappointed he hadn't learned how his stultifyingly correct gentleman's gentleman would have coped.

The chill of predawn penetrated his greatcoat. His brain growing more alert, he decided it was just as well he'd acted on instinct and got Penelope away; he wasn't at all sure that, had Mostyn encountered her in his bed, his henchman wouldn't have felt moved to write to his, Barnaby's, mother.

And that would definitely not do.

Not because his mother might disapprove; what he feared—to his toes—was that she might decide he needed help and descend to offer hers.

Just the thought was enough to make him shudder.

He glanced at Penelope. Her arm linked with his, she was matching his stride—shortened to accommodate hers—but her thoughts were clearly far away. Despite the remarkable vigor of their coupling, she seemed unaffected, untroubled. Indeed, if she'd had her way they would still be in his bed, exploring further.

She'd actually pouted when he'd insisted they had to leave.

Her lips weren't pouting now. They were relaxed, rosy red, as luscious as ever.

A few paces later, he realized he was staring, fantasizing again. Shaking the salacious images from his head, he faced forward, and focused his thoughts on where they now were, where he wished them to be, and how to get from one point to the other.

Which, as it happened, was also the route to converting his salacious fantasies to realities.

Concentrating wasn't all that hard.

They'd decided against bothering trying to find a hackney; at this hour, it was likely to be just as fast to walk to Mount Street. In the small hours between the end of one day and the start of the next, there were few people on the streets of Mayfair, either on foot or in carriages.

The night was dark, moonless, at least beneath the November clouds. Although all was quiet, the silence wasn't absolute; the sleeping rumble of the huge city at night, a blanket of distant, muffled sounds, enveloped them.

They were both used to such city silence; unperturbed, they walked along, wreathed in the drifting fog, both busy with their thoughts.

He had little idea what she might be pondering, or even if she was truly thinking at all. Regardless, he'd been left in no doubt of her response to the night's developments, which was, in its way, comforting. He didn't have to wonder if she'd enjoyed it, or if she would be interested in continuing their liaison; she'd already made her views on those matters absolutely clear.

Thinking back…he recalled where they'd been before she'd appeared on his doorstep. Or at least where he'd thought they'd been. He'd thought the next move in their game was his. She, clearly, had been following different rules.

Indeed, now he came to think of it, he didn't know—had no idea—what had prompted her to call on him, let alone in such an eccentric fashion, cosh in hand.

He glanced at her, eyes narrowing as he pieced together what he knew: that she must have come in her brother's town carriage—the plain black carriage that had pulled away just before she'd rushed at him—and instructed the coachman to leave her on the street, Jermyn Street at close to midnight. And the coachman had obeyed.

She was a menace; God only knew what potential dangers might have lurked.

"It occurs to me." He paused until, alerted by the cool steel in his tone, she glanced at him; he caught her eyes. "That your brother clearly fails to exercise sufficient authority, let alone control, over you. Being let out of a carriage in Jermyn Street late at night, rushing up to me wielding a cosh—you had no idea what might have happened. Someone might have seen you, and rushed to my assistance— I might have seen you sooner and struck out with my cane." The thought made him feel ill. He scowled at her. "Your brother has no business letting you run amok."

She studied his eyes, then humphed and looked ahead. "Rubbish. My plan worked perfectly well. And as for Luc—he's the very best of brothers. Even if he is sometimes priggish and stupidly overprotective. He's always insisted that we could go our own ways, make our own decisions on how to live our lives. He's allowed us to—even encouraged us to—make our own choices, and because of that you are not allowed to say so much as one word against him."

He eyed the tip of her nose, which had risen significantly higher; he continued to frown. "That's a…rather unconventional attitude. I've met Luc. He doesn't seem the sort to be so lenient."

"You mean he's the sort who ought to have locked his four sisters in some tower—or at least confined us to Calverton Chase—to be allowed out only after our weddings?"

"To attend your weddings, but not before. Something along those lines."

She smiled. "I daresay he would have been like that—you're correct in thinking that's more his true nature—but Luc himself was almost forced to marry to rescue the family fortunes years ago. He didn't—he couldn't—so he worked like the devil at finances and rescued us that way, and then Amelia proposed to him and he'd always wanted to marry her, so everything turned out perfectly in the end, but only because he stuck to his guns and did what he felt he should, not what society thought he ought."

Barnaby's frown remained. "Don't you mean he proposed to Amelia?"

"No. She proposed." They walked on a few paces, then she added, breaking into his bemusement, "If you must know, that was where I got the idea of rescuing you on your doorstep in order to end in your bedroom with you, alone. Amelia waylaid Luc one night as he was coming home."

He stared at her. "Did she hit him with a cosh, too?"

She shook her head. "She didn't have to. Luc was five sheets to the wind at the time, after celebrating freeing the family from debt."

"Three sheets."

"What?"

"It's three sheets to the wind." Looking ahead, he paced on. "That's the saying."

"I know. But Luc was definitely five sheets, or so Amelia says. He collapsed at her feet."

Barnaby decided he now knew more than he needed to about Luc and his wife. Yet the man he knew as Viscount Calverton…had as sharp and shrewd a brain…as his sister. And according to Penelope, who could be trusted to know the truth, Luc had always wanted to marry Amelia. So when Amelia had proposed…

Calverton, Barnaby decided, was a lucky dog.

Not having to go down on bended knee and beg, not even metaphorically.

Indeed…now he thought of it, having a lady propose marriage had a great deal to recommend it—specifically and importantly because it excused the gentleman involved from having to declare his lovelorn state.

The more he considered that, the more he saw it as a highly significant, indeed strategic, benefit—especially if the lady involved was Penelope.

As they left Berkeley Square and turned into Mount Street, he glanced at her face—serene, confident, the face of a lady who knew what she wanted and, as she'd had demonstrated on several occasions, that night being the most recent, wasn't in the least reluctant to act to satisfy her needs.

Recalling his earlier assessment of where they now were, and where he wanted them to be, as, fingers tightening about her elbow, he turned with her up the Calverton House steps, it seemed that, courtesy of her most recent plan, he'd just discovered the very best way to realize his ultimate goal.

"Thank you, Mrs. Epps. I'll let my da know." With a smile, Griselda disengaged from the old lady who'd claimed her attention to ask about her widowed father.

Playing his part, Stokes grunted—a universal male "about time" sound—cast Mrs. Epps a frowning nod, and hand locked about Griselda's elbow, hauled her away.

Five paces on, Griselda smiled. "Thank you. I thought I'd never get free."

"So did I." Continuing to frown, Stokes scanned the street along which they were walking. Although the original cobbled width was reasonable, the houses had encroached in myriad ways, deep overhangs above, enclosed and extended porches at street level; with the crates and boxes piled outside various abodes, the route was now little more than a winding passage. "You're sure it's this way?"

Griselda threw him another of her amused glances. "Yes, I am." Looking ahead, she added, "It's not that long ago that I used to live in the area."

He snorted. "It has to be at least…ten years."

Her smile grew. "How tactful of you. It's sixteen. I left at fifteen to start my apprenticeship, but I've visited often enough so I've never completely lost touch—let alone lost my sense of direction."

Stokes humphed; just as well—in the close, winding streets, with the smog above blocking the sun, he was having difficulty knowing which way was which. But he'd finally learned her age—fifteen plus sixteen equaled thirty-one—a few years older than he'd thought her. Which was excellent, given he was thirty-nine.

They were trudging away from the city, Aldgate and Whitechapel at their backs, Stepney ahead of them, in pursuit of one Arnold Hornby. On Friday, after distributing the printed notices among the stallholders of both Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane, they'd "visited" the addresses they'd been given for Slater, then Watts, in each case watching long enough to be sure neither man was involved in anything illegal.

Stokes had considered interviewing Slater and Watts, but the risk that even if they knew nothing they'd mention the interest the police had in whatever school was currently running, thus indirectly alert ing the schoolmaster, who would then shift his school and hide the boys, was too great.

"And," Griselda had said, "we've still got names to chase."

Which was what they were doing today, Saturday—chasing down Arnold Hornby.

They seemed to be trudging awfully far, into increasingly dangerous territory. He glanced at Griselda, but if she was uncomfortable or growing nervous, she gave no sign; even though they were both once more in disguise, in the slums into which they were heading, they were starting to stand out as too well dressed.

But she kept walking confidently on. He strode beside her, at her shoulder, constantly scanning, alert, and growing ever more tense as the potential for danger increased.

He was very aware that had he been alone, he wouldn't have felt anywhere near the same tension.

They reached a fork. Without hesitation, she took the lane on the left, still heading away from London.

"I thought," he grumbled, "that the East End was defined as within hearing of Bow Bells."

She chuckled. "It is—but that depends on how the wind is blowing."

After a moment, she added, "It's not far now. Just beyond that next alley on the left."

He glanced ahead. "The building with the green door?"

She nodded. "And how convenient—there's a tavern directly opposite."

He took her arm and they made for the tavern, barely glancing at the green-doored hovel. Lowering his head, Stokes murmured in Griselda's ear, "We might be able to learn all we need while we eat."

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, and let him steer her inside.

There were three bruisers lurking at a table toward the rear, but otherwise the small tavern was empty. It was nearing midday; presumably others would soon arrive. A table stood before the front window. The wooden shutters had been set wide, giving an unimpeded view of the residence opposite. Griselda headed for that table; Stokes followed.

There were rough chairs; he nearly pulled one out for her but stopped himself in time. She claimed a chair and sat, facing the window. He pulled out the one beside her, angled it half toward her and sat, draping his arm along the back of her chair. It was a gesture that screamed his view of her as his. He glanced at the bruisers in the shadows to make sure they'd got his message. They shifted their gazes away.

Satisfied, he turned to Griselda and the view beyond the window.

She leaned toward him, patted the arm he'd rested on the table, and whispered, "No need to scare the locals."

He met her amused eyes, then humphed and looked across the road. He left his arm where it was.

A wan waitress came out from the rear; barely beyond girlhood, she asked what they wanted. Beyond growling an order for a pint pot of ale, he left the girl to Griselda. Somewhat to his surprise, she didn't angle for information but confined herself to ordering food for them both.

When the girl went off, he turned to Griselda and raised a brow.

She grimaced lightly. "She was looking at my clothes. We may as well eat and give her time to decide we're no threat."

He grunted and looked away. Reflecting that through most of the days they'd spent together, she must have heard more grunts than anything else from him, he cast about, then ventured, "She's right—you don't belong here."

He looked at her.

She inclined her head. After a moment, her gaze on the green door, she said, "I left. I knew if I stayed there was a good chance I'd turn out like her"—with her head she indicated the waitress—"with no real hope of anything better."

"So you worked, and left, and worked still harder to establish yourself outside the East End."

She nodded, lips curving. "And I succeeded. So now"—she glanced at him, met his eyes—"I'm betwixt and between—not of the East End any longer, yet I don't belong anywhere else, either."

He saw beyond her easy smile. "I know how that feels."

She raised her brows, not disbelieving so much as curious. "Do you?"

He held her gaze. "I'm not exactly a gentleman, yet I'm not your average rozzer, either."

She smiled. "I'd noticed." She studied him, then asked, "So where do you hail from? And how did that—being betwixt and between like me—come about?"

He gazed at the green door. "I was born in Colchester. My father was a merchant, my mother a clergyman's daughter. I was an only child, as my mother had been. My grandfather—her father—took an interest in me, and had me educated at the local grammar school."

Looking back, he met Griselda's eyes. "That's where the ‘almost a gentleman' part comes from, and that sets me apart from most of those in the force. I'm not one of the higher-ups, but I'm not one of the men, either." He held her gaze. "I'm not a gentleman."

Her expression was serious as she studied his eyes, but then her lips curved; she leaned confidingly closer. "Just as well—I don't know that I'd feel all that comfortable sitting here with a gentleman."

The girl came out bearing a tray with their meal—two bowls of surprisingly appetizing stew and bread, a trifle hard but edible. The aroma of the stew gave Griselda a chance to compliment the girl sincerely. She thawed somewhat, but again Griselda let her go.

Stokes told himself to trust her instincts. He applied himself to his bowl and kept his gaze on the green door.

He and Griselda had finished their meal and were sitting waiting patiently for the waitress to come back when the green door opened and a blowsy brunette in her twenties stepped out. Leaving the door ajar, she strode for the tavern.

Hands on hips, she stopped just inside the door. "Here—Maida! Get me five pints, there's a dear."

Maida, the waitress, ducked her head and disappeared into the rear. She returned minutes later bearing a wooden tray with five brimming pint pots balanced on it.

"Ta." The brunette hefted the tray. "Put it on our tab. Arnold'll be around later to settle."

Maida bobbed her head again. Standing in the doorway wiping her hands on a rag, she watched the brunette cross the narrow street and go in through the green door. It shut behind her.

"A bit of action across the way?" Griselda murmured.

Maida glanced at her, and pulled a face. "You could say that." She looked back at the green door. "Wonder how many they have in there this morning." She glanced back at Griselda. "Johns, I mean."

Griselda's brows rose. "That's the way of it, is it?"

"Aye." Maida settled her weight, disposed to chat. "There's three of them there—girls, that is. Poor old Arnold. I thought, when he said they were his nieces come to stay, he was spinning a yarn, but I've heard them have at him. Reckon they must be related. Poor old codger—if he's getting rent money from them, he'll be lucky. But the girls are doing all right, and they're good enough neighbors, all in all."

"No nephews?" Stokes asked, as if he were merely curious. Discussing all manner of crime was, after all, normal East End gossip.

"Nah." Maida shifted. "Not much of that this way—more the toffs who go fer that sort of thing and we're too far from their playgrounds. Mind you, I'm sure Arnold wouldn't mind having some male in the house to share the load—those girls keep him in there most of the time. He may be old, but he's a hulking sort—good protection. And if he's their uncle, what's he to do? Got him all tied up, those girls have, no mistake."

Griselda frowned, as if remembering. "My old da used to know an Arnold somewhere round here—used to be a bit of a fence, in that game anyway. What was his name?" She stared at Stokes as if searching for inspiration, then her face lit. She looked at Maida. "Ormsby—that was it. Arnold Ormsby."

"Hornby," Maida corrected. "Aye, that's our Arnold. He was in that game, but he ain't in it now. Farthest he gets from his house is in here. Moans about the old days and how he's lost all his contacts and how's a man to get along." She shrugged. "Unless his nieces leave, he's got no hope—they've got first call on his time, seems."

And that, Stokes judged, was all they were likely to get from Maida. He caught Griselda's eye. "We'd better get on."

She nodded. He stood, waited for her to do the same, then dropped a few coins on the table. Turning, he flipped a sixpence at Maida. "Thanks, love. It was good grub."

Moving faster than a hornet, Maida's hand snagged the sixpence out of the air. She grinned and nodded as they passed her. "Aye, well—stop by again sometime."

Griselda smiled and waved.

Stokes caught her arm and steered her determinedly back toward the city and civilization as he knew it, the words "not in this lifetime" ringing in his mind.

Penelope lurked in Lady Carnegie's drawing room, pretending to listen to the political discussions going on about her. Her ladyship's November dinner was a major event in political circles, one of the last before Parliament rose and most members retreated to their far-flung estates for the winter.

For them, tonight was their chance to rally for the last surge of activity in the houses.

For her, tonight figured as a gilt-edged opportunity to learn more.

Barnaby would have been invited. Quite aside from being his father's son—and the earl had his finger in numerous political pies—his connection with Peel and the police force made him a sought-after source of information for those present tonight; they would far rather question him—one of their own—than any of Peel's official deputies.

Regardless, in this company, she could disappear for a few hours and not be missed, and after the initial round of questioning in the drawing room prior to going in to dinner, Barnaby, too, should be ranked as excusable.

Smiling encouragingly at Lord Molyneaux, who was holding forth on the new reform laws, Penelope went over her plans, and her expectations. Last night had been a good first step in learning of desire, of what hers encompassed, what fueled it, but it was plain that, however enthralling the previous night's endeavors, she'd only scratched the surface.

In the wake of last night, a small host of questions had suggested themselves, popping into her head at odd moments through the day, distracting her. Step by step whipping her curiosity to new heights.

To gain any degree of satisfaction, she was going to have to learn more.

Without being obvious, she scanned the crowd again. And inwardly frowned. If Barnaby had decided not to attend, she would simply have to hunt him down.

She still had her cosh.

As if her mental threat had summoned him, he walked through the open doorway, Lord Nettlefold at his elbow. He paused to greet Lady Carnegie; whatever he said made her ladyship laugh. She patted his cheek, and waved him on. Nettlefold followed, intent on continuing a conversation with Barnaby.

Halting, Barnaby let Nettlefold talk to him while he scanned the room. His blue gaze swept over the various groups—until it reached her, and landed on her face.

She allowed her gaze to meet his for an instant, then she turned to respond to Lord Molyneaux. From the corner of her eye, she saw Barnaby remain where he was, turning to speak with Nettlefold.

Good. Nettlefold was one of the few present of their generation; in the past, he'd shown a diffident but definite tendency to see her presence at such events as declaring her a potentially eligible parti . In reality she was there to keep abreast of any legislative maneuverings that might impact on the Foundling House, and also to keep in touch with past and potential donors.

She really didn't want to spend her evening hinting Nettlefold away.

Barnaby apparently agreed with her; only after he and Nettlefold had concluded their conversation and parted did he make his way, in fits and starts via various other groups, to her side.

Eventually he arrived, and took the hand she offered him. A medley of emotions washed over her as his fingers closed on hers; relief of a sort that he was there, that she would indeed be learning more that night, welling expectation over what tonight's lesson would encompass, and a frisson of something more acute, arising from a suprisingly clear tactile memory of his hands on her breasts, on her hips, between her thighs.

She flicked open her fan and plied it. "Good evening, sir."

She waited while he and Lord Molyneaux exchanged greetings. Thankfully, the police force wasn't one of Molyneaux's interests.

Lord Carnegie, their host, came up at that moment, keen to have a word with Molyneaux. With smiles, the four parted; setting her hand on his arm, Barnaby guided Penelope to a spot closer to the wall, out of the immediate circle of the conversing groups.

He met her eyes, read the determination that burned in the dark depths. "We can't slip away yet."

"Of course not." She glanced over the rest of the guests. "After dinner. You know what they're like once the gentlemen are well primed. They won't miss us for at least a few hours."

"Your mother's here?" He hadn't sighted her.

"No. She cried off. She sometimes does."

"So you're here unchaperoned?" He was faintly amazed. He glanced at her, recalling. "And I know perfectly well you're not twenty-eight."

She shrugged, nose elevating. "Your Mostyn is an old woman—adding a few years made it easier to calm him."

He snorted. "He was totally confounded when he learned I'd miraculously recovered enough to take you home."

She shrugged again, signifying it mattered not at all to her. "I'm here as the administrator of the Foundling House, not as Miss Penelope Ashford. That's why the hostesses—most of whom have known me from birth—think nothing of it if I appear without Mama."

He raised his brows, but had to admit that having no one specifically keeping an eye on her would make it considerably easier and safer to slip away from this sort of gathering; it was far less crowded than a ball, and therefore not so easy to believe that members of the company would be lost from sight for any length of time while actually remaining in the drawing room. "After dinner then, once we return to the drawing room."

She was right; the discussions would go on for hours, and would only grow more heated, holding the attention of the company even more avidly than now.

"You haven't heard anything from Stokes, have you?"

His gaze on the company, he shook his head. "No—I would have sent word if I had."

She nodded, then said, "There's a lovely parlor on the other side of the house." She glanced up at him. "While I have no experience from which to judge, I would imagine it to be perfect for…consideration of that subject we both wish to explore."

His lips twitched. After a moment, he inclined his head. "Very well. But until then, behave."

"Of course." With a haughty glance at him, she left his side and swanned off to join Mrs. Henderson's group.

He watched her until she'd merged with that circle, then went off to join one of his own, allowing the other men present to pose the questions they wished to ask on the current state of the police force. His father was in town, but attending a cabinet dinner tonight; he would drop by later, but until then, Barnaby was in large measure his surrogate. If he wanted to slip away with Penelope and keep his absence unnoticed, he needed to satisfy all queries first.

While he moved from group to group, applying himself to that task, another part of his mind tried to think ahead, to plan how tonight's engagement should go.

Unfortunately, while his goal—to marry her—was now clear, and his route to achieving that—convincing her that marrying him would have more benefits than risks—obvious, that very route dictated that, in large measure, he had to let her direct their interaction.

He needed her, of her own accord, to reach the conclusion that she had nothing to fear in marrying him, that as her husband he wouldn't curtail her independence, let alone seek to control her. If he was lucky, once she'd made up her mind she would act and propose; that shouldn't be too difficult to arrange. Given she'd instigated their liaison, it seemed only fair that she be the one to bring it to its appropriate end.

To attain that ultimate prize, however, he had to show himself willing to indulge her in allowing her to take the dominant role. Once again, he had to let her lead, and relegate himself to following.

The concept wasn't one that, until her, he'd ever contemplated, and not even his sophisticated self approved of it, much less that more primitive side that, when it came to her, dominated in his mind.

However…as they went into dinner, and he found himself seated on the opposite side of the table to her, he realized he was simply going to have to grit his teeth and bear it.

Grit his teeth and remind himself of the ultimate benefits.

The dinner was an extended one, with much conversation during courses, but eventually the last was removed. As was common at such gatherings, the men did not remain at the table but followed the ladies back to the drawing room, where port and brandy were served to lubricate the vocal cords for further discussion.

Shaking his head at a footman offering him brandy, Barnaby made his way to Penelope's side. By the time he reached her, she'd dismissed the gentleman who'd partnered her at the table. As was customary, the lamps had been turned low, allowing shadows to cloak sections of the room; often the discussions held in this later stage were sensitive, and those undertaking them preferred to keep their expressions masked from potential observers.

The shadow Penelope had chosen for her own hid the expectant anticipation glowing in her eyes from all but him.

For which he was grateful. Lady Carnegie was a close friend of his mother's and very far from blind.

Taking Penelope's hand, he set it on his sleeve. "Where's this parlor?"

Penelope gestured to a side door. "We can reach it through there."

He steered her the few paces to the door, concealed by the angle of a minor wall in the irregularly shaped room. Opening the door, he ushered her through, then followed, shutting it behind him.

The corridor was unlit, but enough moonlight seeped in through uncurtained windows to allow them to see. As she led the way down it, Penelope's instincts prodded, increasingly insistent; something wasn't quite right. Wasn't quite believable.

Halfway down the corridor, she halted and turned to face the looming presence at her heels.

Through the soft gloom, she studied his face, confirming, affirming, defining what, exactly, didn't add up.

Studying her face in return, he arched one brow in arrogant query.

Underscoring her instincts' accuracy.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're being far too… amenable over this. You are not the sort to follow meekly at any lady's heels."

A second ticked by, then he said, "When the lady is heading in the direction I wish to go, there's little point in arguing over who's in the lead."

She frowned. After a moment, she asked, "Does that mean that if I choose to go in a direction you don't wish to, you won't follow?"

The line of his lips subtly altered, more a warning than a smile. "No—it means that if you attempt to go in a direction that has no value, I'll…redirect you."

Brows rising, she held his gaze. " Redirect me?"

He met her gaze steadily, and made no reply. Leaving her no longer so certain she was, as she'd assumed, in charge of their affair, controlling it by defining when they would meet, and what aspects she was interested in pursuing.

If he allowed her to be in charge…did that count as being in charge? Especially if he could, at any time, rescind his follower status and take control?

She blinked, no longer so sure where they stood—her or him—in relation to each other.

After a moment more of searching his blue eyes, and gaining no further insight, she waved down the corridor. "And tonight?"

His lips curved a fraction more; graceful yet intent, he inclined his head. "Lead on."

She turned and did, awareness slithering down her spine. Odd. Exciting. She was in charge—he would let her retain control—as long as her direction suited him.

Which left her with the challenge of "suiting him," a challenge she was, at this point, apparently meeting.

Reaching the parlor, she opened the door and walked in. She glanced around, confirming it was as she'd recalled, a square room overlooking the deserted side garden, comfortably furnished with two well-padded sofas angled before the hearth, an armchair, and numerous side tables. A bureau stood against one wall, and a harp occupied one shadowed corner.

No lamp or candle had been left burning; the room hadn't been prepared for guests. But moonlight, soft and pervasive, streamed in, a gentle illumination that, at least to her, seemed more conducive to their purpose.

Halting between the sofas, she turned; he'd paused just inside the door. She spread her arms. "Is this suitable?"

He'd been scanning the room. Now he looked at her. In the silence, she heard the lock on the door click. Leaving the door, he slowly walked toward her. "That depends on what you have in mind."

More. But exactly what, and how…she met his eyes as he halted before her. "I'm aware that ladies and gentlemen of our station frequently indulge in encounters at events such as this, in rooms such as this." That was one of the reasons she was keen to try it, to experience whatever illicit thrill was associated with such an encounter. To learn what more it might teach her of desire.

His gaze had lowered to her lips. She wondered if he was imagining kissing her.

Boldly stepping closer, she raised her hands, pressed them to his chest, then slid them slowly up, over his shoulders, moving closer yet so her breasts brushed his chest as she linked her hands at his nape. "I thought…"

His gaze was fixed on her lips. His hands rose to grasp her waist, fingers flexing as he gripped, and held her.

Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, she watched his eyes track the movement. Felt deliciously sinful—deliciously sirenlike and in control as she continued, "That perhaps we might play it by ear, so to speak, and see where desire leads us."

His eyes rose, at last, to meet hers. To search them briefly, then his lips curved. "What," he murmured, his breath a warm wash over her lips as he bent his head, "an excellent idea."

She stretched up as he bent; their lips met—she couldn't have said who kissed whom. From the first touch, the engagement was intent, fiery, and entirely mutual, driven by the desire that, somewhat to her surprise, seemed to flare all but instantly, from spark to flame to raging inferno.

Stronger than before, more certain, more powerful, it spread beneath her skin, and left her sensually gasping.

Desire wasn't pleasure but the need for it, not delight but the hunger that craved it.

Within minutes their kiss had become a wanton duel of deliberate incitement—a contest to see who could more deeply, more completely, evoke the other's passions. While he was unquestionably more experienced, she had enthusiasm, eagerness, and the blind faith in her own invincibility that was the hallmark of the innocent.

Mouths melded, lips locked, tongues tangling and claiming, he plundered while she taunted, and the flames between them roared.

Neither won. She wasn't even sure such a concept applied, not in this sort of contest.

Her body was heated, breasts swollen and aching within the restrictive confines of her bodice, long before he stepped back, taking her with him; without breaking the kiss, he sank back and down, onto one of the sofas, lifting her, then setting her on her knees, one on either side of his thighs, so she could lean into him and continue their heated kiss.

While his hands rose and pandered to her needs, swiftly unbuttoning her bodice so it gaped, then with a flick of his long fingers dispensing with her chemise so his hand could make contact with her flushed skin and ease her.

Soothe her, and excite her.

The duality in his touch was plain to her, even through the distracting fire of the kiss. When his fingers found her nipple and traced, then tweaked, she gasped as pleasure radiated through her, but escalating hunger swam in its wake.

For every touch he gave her, she wanted many more. Every brief burst of pleasure, of delight, only deepened her craving.

She reached for the buttons closing his shirt.

He stopped her, his hand closing over hers. He drew back from the kiss, only a bare inch, just enough to inform her, his voice a dark rumble, "No—we have to return to the drawing room. You wanted this type of encounter—you have to play by the rules."

In control, yet not. She licked her swollen lips. "What are these rules?"

"We remain more or less fully clothed."

She blinked. "Can we?"

"Easily."

He proceeded to show her how. How, with her as she was on her knees before him, he could arrange her skirt and petticoats, spreading the back free over his legs, tugging the fronts from beneath her knees, leaving the silk skirt relatively uncrushed, the froth of her petticoats no longer between them—leaving the sensitive inner faces of her thighs riding against the fine wool of his trousers and the steely muscles beneath.

The faint abrading every time they shifted, however slightly, felt unexpectedly erotic.

She'd barely absorbed that when he pushed up the front of her skirts and slid his hands beneath. And touched her.

Sensation stabbed through her, a delicious spike. On a moan, she closed her eyes, felt her spine weaken. He leaned forward and captured her lips, took her mouth in a slow, languorous claiming while beneath her skirts he traced, explored, fondled, and caressed.

Touched and stroked until she burned with a now familiar longing.

His hands were magic, pure magic on her skin. Strong palms intimately scuplted her curves, powerful, too-knowing fingers caressed and stroked, penetrated and retreated, until she was afire, until she thought she'd go mad with wanting.

She didn't have the strength to pull back from the kiss and issue an order. Her hands were locked on his shoulders, gripping in near desperation; easing the grip of one, she slid it to his throat, found his earlobe, and pinched.

He drew back from the kiss. "What?" His voice was a gravelly rumble.

"Now!" She closed her eyes and shuddered as his fingers slid deep and stroked inside her. "Not that, " she hissed. "You!"

For a moment, she thought she was going to have to drag her lids open and glare, and somehow take matters into her own hands…the notion was attractive—very—but courtesy of their position and her already too-fraught state, she doubted she could—certainly not in the sense of giving the moment its due, and properly learning from it.

But thankfully he comprehended that she was beyond being denied. She felt more than heard his irritatingly arrogant chuckle, but as he promptly shifted, one hand going to the buttons of his trousers, she decided to ignore it.

Then the rigid rod of his erection sprang free, effectively claiming her entire attention. He guided the blunt head to her entrance; his hand on her hip tightened, she realized how it would work, and eagerly, enthusiastically—with untold relief—embraced the moment and sank down.

Slowly.

The sensation of him filling her, stetching her, all under her control, flooded her mind. With him only an inch in, she drew a huge breath, and opened her eyes.

She had to see his face, had to watch as, inch by slow inch, she eased him into her body, enclosing him—taking him.

Not being taken.

The difference, she realized, eyes locked on his, her senses and all she was locked on the sensation of their joining, was profound.

Barnaby felt it. To his marrow. He'd never felt the like, not in all his years of similar experiences. He couldn't count the times he'd been in a situation just like this; he'd never been backward in accepting the diversions the bored matrons of the ton had always been so ready to offer him.

But with not one of them had it been like this.

Not one of them had been her.

It was a battle to keep his eyes open, to focus on her face as she slowly, deliberately, took him in, encasing him in a slick, scalding heat that threatened to cinder every civilized instinct he possessed.

There was nothing civilized about the way he felt—the powerful gloating triumph that flooded him, that hardened every muscle and flexed in greedy anticipation.

She. Was. His.

Despite the steady awareness, the intelligence and will that watched him from the depths of her dark eyes, regardless of that, of anything she thought, he saw the moment as an elemental surrender.

A sensual sacrifice.

One in which she pandered to his desires and willingly set herself to sate his hunger.

His potent, unrelenting hunger for her.

It only seemed to grow with every day that passed, had escalated dramatically since the previous night.

She reached the end of her long downward slide, then shifted, pressing lower still to take him all.

Then she smiled.

In the dim light, the gesture was veiled in mystery, a quintessentially female smile. It deepened fractionally; still holding his gaze, she started to rise.

Smothering a groan, he closed his eyes; he understood what she wanted, what she wished…he didn't know if he was strong enough to give it to her.

He tried. Tried to lock his body into submission, to stop himself from taking control, so she could ride him as she wished, and experiment.

She rose up and, once again slowly, slid down, exploring as she did, contracting the muscles of her sheath about his hard length, feeling him.

The sensation was more potent than if she'd used her hands.

Eyes shut, he concentrated on not reacting, tried to blot out the barrage of tactile sensations she pressed on him—largely failed. His fingers sank deep, gripping almost desperately, locking about her hips; he'd leave bruises, but he knew without thinking that she would prefer bruises to him taking control. To him denying her the freedom to explore and learn.

But he could only go so far.

Could only endure so much of the delicious torture.

Releasing one of her hips, he cupped her nape and hauled her forward—into a bruising kiss.

She didn't recoil, but met him—every bit as hungry as he.

Not good.

Control—his or hers—became a moot point. A thing of the past, past and forgotten.

Not in all his years, in his countless engagements, had he ever found himself immersed in such heat. Engulfed in such an elemental conflagration. It seared through them both, like a wave reared and crashed, broke through them and swept them away.

Into a raging tide of need, of hungry, desperate yearning. More powerful, so much more needy, greedy, so much more passion-racked that he was lost—as lost as she—equally at its mercy.

Entirely beyond control.

Lost in the realm of a deeper need, a more fundamental, more primitive hunger.

They both gasped, clung, kissed as if their lives hung in the balance. Joined, their bodies slick beneath her skirts, as if reaching the promised paradise was an absolute requirement for continued existence.

And then they were there.

She shattered with a cry, muted by their kiss; in reply, release swept him, fracturing and scattering his wits, cracking his awareness, leaving it open. Receptive.

To the powerful surge of feeling that came in release's wake.

That filled him, gilding satiation in a way he'd never before felt.

Burgeoning to fill his chest as, replete, a small delighted smile curv ing her lips, she collapsed against him, into his arms, and he closed them about her.

Untold minutes later, he sat cradling her in his arms, one hand stroking her nape and back, soothing not just her, but himself.

The warm weight of her slumped around him, her sheath a hot glove about his semiturgid erection, he wanted nothing more in that moment but to hold her, and feel complete.

Feel, for the first time in his life, what completeness could be.

It wasn't simply a physical sensation. Admittedly his palate had grown jaded with the years, making her innocent delight an intoxicating elixir, yet the joy and untainted pleasure they shared seemed somehow finer, more refined, a culminating experience he'd been unknowingly searching for all his life.

She was what he'd been searching for all his adult life.

His arms tightened about her; having found her, he had no intention of ever letting her go. On that, both his sophisticated self and his more primitive nature were in complete accord.

Leaning his jaw against the sleek silk of her hair, he breathed in—the musk of their lovemaking was overlaid by a scent that was purely her, a fragrance of lilacs and rose, of soft female and indomitable will. How willpower could have a scent he didn't know, but to him it definitely had a place in the bouquet that was her.

She stirred, still loose-limbed, relaxed to her toes. He dropped a gentle kiss on her hair. "We have time. No rush."

She humphed, and slumped again. "Good."

The word, almost purred, conveyed pleasured content beyond description. He smiled, more than pleased to hear that in her tone. To know it was there because of what they'd shared.

At long last he understood, fully and completely, why his friends—Gerrard Debbington, Dillon Caxton, and Charlie Morwellan—had all changed their minds about marriage. At one time, albeit for widely differing reasons, the four of them had been firmly set against the wedded state. Yet with the right lady, as each of the other three had found, marriage—to have and to hold from that day forth, forevermore—was for them the true path, their real destinies.

Penelope Ashford was the right lady for him. She was his destiny.

That had, to him, been proved beyond doubt. He'd been feeling restless, dissatisfied with his lot; since she'd walked into his life, restlessness and dissatisfaction had been banished. She was the missing piece in the jigsaw of his life; with her in place, his life would form a cohesive whole.

He no longer even contemplated a life without her; that was not in the cards. So…

The best, possibly the only, way to ensure she agreed to wed him was to subtly lead her to decide, of her own will, that being his wife was her destiny. That decision had to be freely reached; he might encourage, demonstrate the benefits, persuade—but he couldn't push. Even less could he dictate. And as the evening's endeavors had illustrated, allowing her to pursue her own route to that decision meant letting her follow her own script.

Unfortunately—as she'd just demonstrated—her script might require actions, even sacrifices, on his part that were more than he was accustomed to, more than he felt all that comfortable making. Letting her take him rather than the other way about had shaken him; it had required more strength than he'd known he possessed to even indulge her as far as he had.

If he wanted to be able to let her follow her own road…he was going to have to limit the byways.

Or, perhaps, to subtly suggest avenues she might wish to explore—ones that left him in control.

Eyes narrowing, gaze unfocused, he considered. Under her skirts, his hands cupped her naked bottom, porcelain curves he'd glimpsed the night before but hadn't had time to visually savor.

He could easily envision an interlude that pandered to that and associated whims.

Perhaps, with her, what he needed to do was not minimize his control, but rather make her crave it, desire and invite it, by casting that as a natural part of the game—as indeed it was.

Curiosity, after all, was her major motivation.

All he had to do was interest her in the right things.