A Regency Courtesan's Pride. Ann Lethbridge

desirable.

      Beautiful. Cool and closed off. And brittle. The tension from their earlier kisses vibrated in the air. Whatever was happening, he feared if it went on any longer, she might shatter.

      The closing notes of the piece she was playing brought him to his feet. He clapped loudly at the same time as he strode to the piano. He took her hand and kissed the back before she could start again.

      ‘That was lovely, Miss Draycott; however, I think it is time I retired.’

      She glanced at the clock. ‘Eleven already? I had no idea. Still, I am sure that is not all that late for a man such as you.’

      Ah, still angry then. He smiled wolfishly. ‘And what sort of man would that be?’

      Her lips parted. Her face flushed. ‘A man who spends his time in London, I suppose.’

      ‘Have you ever been to London?’

      The blush deepened. ‘I visited once. As a child.’

      ‘Perhaps it is time you visited again. And when you do, let me know, and I will be delighted to show you the sights.’ He took her hand again, held it in his and had the urge to bring her to her feet and kiss her again, recapture that moment of blissful mindlessness in the sleigh. The moment before she made her outrageous proposal, which now hung over them like a storm cloud. Kissing her would be a mistake. She would think his resolve was weakening.

      He would not be twisted around any woman’s finger.

      He raised her hand to his lips one more time and dropped the tiniest of kisses on the back of it, felt the tremor in her fingers in response and his body clenched.

      He released her hand. ‘I bid you goodnight.’ He bowed and strode for the door before he changed his mind.

      Why did doing the right thing feel so completely wrong?

      Merry paced her chamber; her nightdress swirled around her ankles each time she turned and the rug was rough beneath her bare feet. Two hours has passed and she still couldn’t settle. She just wished she could clearly see a path.

      Caro was right. She was. They must find a way to accomplish their goals and vanquish their opponents. She certainly didn’t need the help of a husband. Not even a pretend one. A woman with a husband wasn’t a person. She had no rights. No freedom of choice or of decision. Until Caro came, she had never thought of it that way. She’d always thought that one day she would have a husband and children. Men married for money and power. A man would absorb her money, wield her power, without consultation. Grandfather had trusted her enough to leave her his hard-earned business; she would never hand it over in exchange for a ring. Or companionship in bed.

      She kicked her gown out of the way and turned. Tonbridge had no place in her life.

      The thought left her with a deep sense of loss. Because her body was yearning for the pleasure it knew could be hers? Was that the reason she felt restless? On edge. She kept remembering his beauty as he left the drawing room. Virile, powerful and unbelievably handsome.

      And that was the problem. She glared at her empty rumpled bed. The flare of heat in his gaze and the intensity of his kiss this afternoon had called to long-repressed desires and longings.

      It had been years since she felt the warmth of a man. And this one knew how to seduce a woman’s senses. When his mouth had plied her lips, her body had been overjoyed.

      She missed it.

      She clenched her fists until they stung from lack of blood and lifted her gaze to the portrait above the mantel. Her mother. Daughter of an earl, beloved wife of her father—what would she think of the wicked thoughts going through her daughter’s mind, the hot fires of lust burning in her loins?

      They burned within him, too.

      Merry turned away from the gentle face looking down. No doubt her mother would be ashamed of her along with the rest of the fashionable world.

      Tonbridge lay nearby alone in his bed and she would lie alone in hers. This was her future. She and Caro would live together, helping each other while she remained a spinster in name, if not in truth, forever.

      Why not take advantage of the chance that brought him into her house? a voice whispered in her mind. Why not? A night of pleasure they would both enjoy. It would only be one night. No ties. No obligations. No tit for tat.

      She’d kept him at a distance this evening, despite the way her body hummed each time he came close. Was still humming with the after-effects of his kiss this afternoon. Oh Lord, and the pleasure of his touch last night.

      In spite of her coldness toward him tonight, there was no doubt of his desire when he kissed her hand. She rubbed the back of her hand as if she could erase the feel of his lips against her skin.

      Lust.

      Unrequited passion.

      What if he rejected her? But if she didn’t ask, how would she know?

Chapter Eight

      Tired! Hah! Charlie hadn’t felt less tired in his life.

      Used to awakening in the smallest hours of the night, he always kept the candles alight to ward off the hated sensation of suffocation brought on by total darkness.

      At home, when it got really bad, he’d go for a ride. His servants were used to his odd ways. But here, there would be questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

      He rarely had trouble falling asleep. Only when the dreams started did he feel the need for escape. Tonight was different. He tossed off the brandy he had poured. It added to the heat in his blood, increased the thud of his heart.

      Desire for Merry.

      An urgent pressing lust.

      Never had he felt like this about a woman. Naked, with the fire almost dead, he didn’t feel the least bit cold. The vaguest thought of the woman had his blood running hot, had him rousing.

      She’d certainly taken him by surprise this afternoon, asking him to pretend to be her betrothed. God, he’d like to pretend to be her husband.

      His shaft jerked with pleasure at the thought. He could bring himself to release. A youth’s trick, something he’d given up long ago in favour of control. If a man couldn’t control his own base urges, what hope did he have of controlling his life? Or his bloody dreams?

      He got up and strode to the window, thrusting back heavy brocade curtains glinting with gold bullion knots and twists. The cold permeating through the casement seared his overheated skin. He breathed in the smell of old wood and frost on the windowpane.

      He placed his palm on the glass and thawed the ice.

      The world outside looked ghostly. Snow glittered where the moon cast its path. Here and there, dark patches ruined the purity. A thaw well under way. Tomorrow he would leave.

      Drive away from temptation.

      Slowly, painfully slowly, his erection subsided, chilled by the cold air, or the thought of departure.

      It didn’t matter which.

      Sure he would now sleep, he let the curtain fall and returned to the bed. The candles had hours of life left. They would last until dawn.

      Stretched out on top of the covers, he closed his eyes, kept his mind deliberately blank and breathed deeply.

      A sound by the door.

      A mere whisper of noise. His gut clenched.

      Nothing. It was his mind playing tricks. He forced himself to ignore it, the way he had ignored far worse indignities after Waterloo. He would sleep. He must.

      He resisted the urge to toss