PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

‘Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed is a lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the last and still wanted more.’ —Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author

‘The fast pace and slightly gothic atmosphere make the pages fly. She keeps readers highly satisfied with the plot’s tenderness and touching emotions that reach the heart.’

—Kathe Robin, RT Book Reviews

‘Campbell matches up two proud, wary victims of abuse in this smart Regency romance…delightful insight and…luscious love scenes. Readers will cheer for these loveable and well-crafted characters.’

—Publishers Weekly

‘Truly, deeply romantic’

—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author on Captive of Sin

‘Regency noir—different and intriguing’

—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author on Claiming the Courtesan

A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.

A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the colour of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn’t.

‘You’re late.’ His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.

Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn’t expected to be angry as well. This man’s palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. ‘The journey took longer than expected.’ She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. ‘The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr Merrick.’

As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.

‘Just who in hell are you?’

THE SONS OF SIN

Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed March 2014

The Rake’s Midnight Kiss July 2014

Till Dawn with the Duke November 2014

ANNA CAMPBELL was the sort of kid who spent her childhood with her nose buried between the pages of a book. She decided when she was a child that she wanted to be a writer. When she’s not writing passionate, intense stories featuring gorgeous Regency heroes and the women who are their destiny, Anna loves to travel, especially in the United Kingdom, and listen to all kinds of music. She has settled near the sea on the east coast of Australia, where she’s losing her battle with an overgrown subtropical garden.

Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed has generated some wonderful reviews and a number of awards, including favourite historical romance from the Australian Romance Readers Association. She was also voted favourite Australian romance author at the ARRA Awards.

Anna loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her through her website at www.annacampbell.info.

Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed
Anna Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Preview

Copyright

Chapter One

South Devon Coast, November 1826

Storms split the heavens on the night Sidonie Forsythe went to her ruin.

The horses neighed wildly as the shabby hired carriage lurched to a shuddering stop. The wind was so powerful the vehicle rocked even when stationary. Sidonie had seconds to catch her breath before the driver, a shadow in streaming oilskins, loomed out of the darkness to wrench the door open.

“Here be Castle Craven, miss,” he shouted through the sheeting rain.

For a second, terror at what awaited inside the castle held her paralyzed. Castle Craven indeed.

“I can’t leave the nags standing. Be ’ee staying, miss?”

The cowardly urge rose to beg the driver to carry her back to Sidmouth and safety. She could leave now with no damage done. Nobody would even know she’d been here.

Then what would happen to Roberta and her sons?

The remorseless reminder of her sister’s danger prodded Sidonie into frantic motion. Grabbing her valise, she stumbled from the carriage. When the wind caught her, she staggered. She fought to keep her footing on the slippery cobbles as she looked up, up, up at the towering black edifice before her.

She thought she’d been cold in the carriage. In the open, the chill was arctic. She cringed as the wind sliced through her woolen cloak like a knife through butter. As if to confirm she’d entered a realm of gothic horrors, lightning flashed. The ensuing crack of thunder made the horses shift nervously in their harness.

For all his understandable wish to return to civilization, the driver didn’t immediately leave. “Sartain ’ee be expected, miss?”

Even through the howling wind, she heard his misgivings. Misgivings echoing her own. Sidonie straightened as well as she could against the gale. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Wallis.”

“I wish ’ee well, then.” He heaved himself onto the driver’s box and whipped the horses into an unsteady gallop.

Sidonie hoisted her bag and dashed up the shallow flight of steps to the heavy doors. The pointed arch above the entrance offered paltry protection. Another flash of lightning helped her locate the iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She seized it in one gloved hand and let it crash. The bang hardly registered against the roaring wind.

Her imperious summons gained no quick response. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees while she huddled against the lashing rain.

What on earth would she do if the house was uninhabited?

By the time the door creaked open to reveal an aged woman, Sidonie’s teeth were chattering and she shook as though she had the ague. A gust caught the servant’s single candle, making the frail light flicker.

“I’m—” she shouted over the storm but the woman merely turned away. At a loss, Sidonie trailed after her.

Sidonie entered a cavernous hall crowded with shadows. Muddy brown tapestries drooped from the lofty stone walls. Ahead, the fire in the massive hearth was unlit, adding to the lack of welcome. Sidonie shivered as cold seeped up from the flagstones beneath her half-boots. Behind her, the heavy door slammed shut with a thud like the strike of doom. Startled, Sidonie turned to discover another equally geriatric retainer, male this time, turning a heavy key in the lock.

What in heaven’s name have I done, coming to this godforsaken place?

With the door shut, the silence within was more ominous than the shrieking tempest without. The only sound was the sullen drip, drip, drip of water from her sodden cloak. Fear, her faithful companion since Roberta had confided her plight, settled like lead in Sidonie’s belly. When she’d agreed to help her sister, she’d assumed the torment, however horrid, would be over quickly. Inside this dismal fortress, the horrible premonition gripped her that she’d never again see the outside world.

You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Stop it.

The bracing words did nothing to calm spiraling panic. Bile rose in her throat as she followed the still-silent housekeeper across acres of floor. She felt like a thousand malevolent ghosts leered from the corners. Sidonie tightened numb fingers around her bag’s handle and reminded herself what agony Roberta would endure if she failed.

I can do this.

The stark fact remained that she’d come so far and still might fail. The plan had always been risky. Arriving here alone and vulnerable, Sidonie couldn’t help considering the scheme devised at Barstowe Hall feeble to the point of idiocy. If only her clamoring doubts conjured some alternative way to save her sister.

The woman still shuffled ahead. Sidonie was so rigid with cold that it was an effort forcing her legs to move. The man had offered to take neither her cloak nor bag. When she glanced back, he’d disappeared as efficiently as if he numbered among the castle’s ghosts.

Sidonie and her taciturn escort approached a door in the opposite wall, as imposing as the door outside. When the woman pushed it open, it shifted smoothly on welloiled hinges. Steeling herself, Sidonie stepped into a blaze of light and warmth.

Trembling, she stopped at one end of a refectory table extending down the room. Heavy oak chairs, dark with age, lined the table on either side. It was a room designed for an uproarious crowd, but as her gaze slowly traveled up the length of board, she realized, apart from her decrepit guide, only one other person was present.

Jonas Merrick.

Bastard offspring of scandal. Rich as Croesus. Power broker to the mighty. And the reprobate who tonight would use her body.

“Maister, the lady be here.”

Without straightening from his careless slouch in the throne-like chair at the room’s far end, the man raised his head.

At this, her first sight of him, the breath jammed painfully in Sidonie’s throat. From nerveless fingers, her bag slid to the floor. Swiftly she looked down, hiding her shock under her hood.

Roberta had warned her. William, her brother-in-law, had been merciless in his excoriations on Merrick’s character and appearance. And of course, like everyone else, Sidonie had heard the gossip.

But nothing had prepared her for that ruined face.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood and fought the urge to turn and flee into the night. She couldn’t run. Too much depended upon staying. In childhood Roberta had been Sidonie’s only protector. Now Sidonie had to save her sister, no matter the cost.

Hesitantly she lifted her gaze to her notorious host. Merrick wore boots, breeches, and a white shirt, open at the neck. Sidonie tore her gaze from the shadowy hint of a muscled chest and made herself look at his face. Perhaps she’d detect a chink in his determination, some trace of pity to deter him from this appalling act.

Closer inspection confirmed that hope was futile. A man ruthless enough to instigate this devil’s bargain wouldn’t relent now that his prize was within his grasp.

Abundant coal black hair, longer than fashion decreed, tumbled across his high forehead. Prominent cheekbones. A square jaw indicating haughty self-confidence. Deep-set eyes focused on her with a bored expression that frightened her more than eagerness would have.

He’d never have been handsome, even before some assailant in his mysterious past had sliced his commanding blade of a nose and his lean cheek. A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.

A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the color of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn’t.

“You’re late.” His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.

Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn’t expected to be angry as well. This man’s palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. “The journey took longer than expected.” She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. “The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr. Merrick.”

As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.

“Just who in hell are you?”

The girl, whoever the devil she was, didn’t flinch at Jonas’s irascible question. Under disheveled coffee-colored hair, her face was pale and beautiful in the heavy-lidded, voluptuous manner.

He had to give her credit. She must be scared out of her wits, not to mention as cold as a cat locked out in a snowstorm, yet she stood calm as a marble monument.

Not quite. If he looked closely, faint color marked her cheeks. She was far from the indomitable creature she struggled to appear.

And she was young. Too young to tangle with a cynical, self-serving scoundrel like Jonas Merrick.

At the bella incognita’s side, Mrs. Bevan wrung her wrinkled hands. “Maister, ’ee said to expect a lady. When she knocked—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bevan.” Without shifting his gaze from his visitor, he waved dismissal. He should be piqued that his original prey evaded his snare, but curiosity swamped anger. Just who was this incomparable? “Leave us.”

“But do ’ee expect another lady tonight?”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “I think not.” He cast an assessing glance over the silent girl. “I’ll ring when I require you, Mrs. Bevan.”

Muttering displeasure under her breath, the housekeeper stumped away, leaving him alone with his guest. “I take it the delightful Roberta is otherwise occupied,” he said in a silky tone.

The girl’s full lips flattened. She must be repulsed by his scars—everyone was—but apart from a slight stiffening of her posture when she’d entered, her composure was remarkable. The delightful Roberta had known him for years and still reacted with trembling horror at every encounter.

Thwarted malice darkened his mood. He’d rather looked forward to teaching his cousin’s wife to endure his presence without suffering the megrims. This impetuous beauty’s arrival dashed those hopes. He wondered idly whether she’d offer adequate compensation for his disappointment. Hard to tell. So little of her was visible under the worn cape dripping puddles onto his floor.

“My name is Sidonie Forsythe.” The girl spat out the introduction and her chin tilted insolently. He was too far away to see the color of her eyes but he knew they sparked resentment. Under delicate brows, they were large and slanted, lending her an exotic appearance. “I’m Lady Hillbrook’s younger sister.”

“My condolences,” he said drily. Ah, he knew who she was now. He’d heard an unmarried Forsythe sister lived at Barstowe Hall, his cousin’s family seat, although he’d never encountered her in person.

He sought and failed to find any resemblance to her sister. Roberta, Viscountess Hillbrook, was a celebrated beauty, but in the conventional English style. This girl with her dusky hair and air of untapped sensuality was in a different class altogether. His interest sharpened, although he made sure he sounded as if her arrival were the dullest event imaginable. “Where is Roberta on this fine night? If I haven’t mistaken the date, we’d arranged to enjoy a week of each other’s company.”

A hint of triumph lit the girl’s face, made her dark beauty blaze like a torch. “My sister is beyond your reach, Mr. Merrick.”

“You’re not.” He flavored his smile with menace.

Her brief smugness evaporated. “No.”

“I imagine you offer yourself in her place. Gallant, if a tad presumptuous to assume any random woman meets my requirements.” He sipped his wine with an insouciance designed to irk this chit who’d upset his wicked plans. “I’m afraid the obligation isn’t yours. Your sister incurred the gaming debt, not you. Charming as I’m sure you are.”

Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. Yes, definitely jittery underneath the bravado. He wasn’t a good enough man to pity this valiant girl. But for a discomfiting instant, something within him winced with fellow feeling. He’d been young and afraid in his time. He remembered how it felt to pretend courage while dread crippled the heart.

Relentlessly he mashed the unwelcome empathy down into the dank hollow where he caged all his old, evil memories.

“I’m your payment, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice emerged with impressive coolness. Brava, incognita. “If you don’t collect your winnings from me, the debt becomes moot.”

“Says Roberta.”

“Honor forbids—”

He released a harsh crack of laughter and saw the girl quail at last, from his mockery, not his horror of a face. “Honor holds no sway in this house, Miss Forsythe. If your sister cannot pay with her body, she must pay in the more usual way.”

Her tone hardened. “You are well aware my sister cannot cover her losses.”

“Your sister’s dilemma.”

“I suspect you knew that when you lured her into such deep play. You’re using Roberta to trump Lord Hillbrook.”

“Oh, cruel accusation,” he said with theatrical dismay, however accurate her suspicions. He hadn’t set out that night to entrap Roberta into adultery, but the occasion would have tempted a much better man than Jonas Merrick. Especially as he’d always known that Roberta’s disdain for him included an unhealthy dollop of fascination. “Offering yourself as substitute is a devilish strong demonstration of sisterly devotion.”

The girl didn’t answer. He rose and prowled down the room. “If I’m to accept this exchange, I should see what I’m getting. Roberta may be a henwit, but she’s a deuced decorative henwit.”

“She’s not a henwit.” Miss Forsythe edged away, then stopped to ask suspiciously, “What are you doing, Mr. Merrick?”

His advance didn’t falter. “Unwrapping my gift, Miss Forsythe.”

“Unwr…?” This time she didn’t bother hiding her retreat. “No.”

His lips curled in sardonic amusement. “You mean to wear your wet cloak all night?”

The color in her cheeks intensified. She really was pretty with her creamy skin and full-lipped mouth. Now that he was close enough to look into her eyes, he saw they were a deep, velvety brown, like pansies. Sexual interest stirred. Nothing quite so strong as arousal, but curiosity that could soon become hunger.

“Yes. I mean, no.” She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”

He still smiled. “If I am, I’d say I’m succeeding.”

She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn’t come near to matching his more than six feet. “I told you why I’m here. I won’t fight you. There’s no need to play the villain from an opera.”

“You’ll endure my distasteful caresses but won’t let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly.”

She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared gold with anger. “Don’t mock me.”

“Why not?” he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.

She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll get used to it.” His hands brushed along her shoulders, feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. “Before we’re done, you’ll get used to a great deal.”

Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. “I imagine you’re right.”

The amusement left his voice. “Roberta isn’t worth this, you know.”

The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying away. “Yes, she is. You don’t understand.”

“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelled agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body pleasingly curved to fit his hands.

She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”

“I doubt you are, bella.” He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. “What on earth have you got on?”

The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. “What’s wrong with it?”

He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too…everything. “Nothing, if you’re dressing to play the virgin sacrifice.”

“Why not?” she said with a revival of spirit. “I am a virgin.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Which begs the question why you’re presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess.”

“You’re offensive, sir.”

He muffled a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta. At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn’t picture this grave goddess resorting to such dramatics. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta’s maneuvers, fading under the influence of this lovely girl’s defiance, vanished. Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin’s wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine sport indeed.

“It’s my best dress,” Miss Forsythe said huffily.

He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. “Perhaps when you were fifteen.” His gaze sharpened. “Just how old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” she muttered. “How old are you?”

“Too old for you.” At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn’t too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience. And he hadn’t spent those million years wisely.

Sudden hope lit her expression. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”

This time he laughed openly. “Not on your life.”

Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy bodice. At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them. When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.

“What are you waiting for?” she forced through stiff lips.

He should be horsewhipped for tormenting her, but still curiosity was paramount. He raised his other hand to her jaw, angling her face. This close, he could make out each individual eyelash and the gold striations in her rich irises. Her nostrils flared as though she took in his scent just as he took in hers.

Or perhaps she was so frightened, she struggled to breathe.

“The question is whether debauching my enemy’s sister-in-law has quite the same cachet as debauching my enemy’s wife,” he murmured.

“You bastard,” she hissed, her breath warm across his face.

He smiled as dread lit her eyes. “Precisely, belladonna.”

Slowly he bent to place his mouth on hers. Her rain-fresh scent flooded his senses, made him giddy with anticipation. She didn’t move away and her lips remained sealed, but the satiny warmth intoxicated him.

He slid his lips against hers in what was more the hint of a kiss than an actual kiss. Even as arousal pounded through him, insisting that he take her, that she was here to be taken, he kept the contact light, teasing. Nor did he tighten his grip on her shoulder to keep her under his mouth. The agony of suspense bordered on the delicious as he waited for her to wrench free, to curse him for a scoundrel. But she remained still as a china figurine. Except the subtle heat under his lips belonged to a woman, not unresponsive porcelain.

Before more than a second passed, he raised his head. Astounding how reluctant he was to end the unsatisfying kiss. He dragged in an unsteady breath and struggled against the powerful urge to kiss her properly. There mightn’t be much cachet in fucking Lord Hillbrook’s sister-in-law, but he had a grim feeling that wouldn’t stop him.

Her eyes were wide and dark with shock. Because he’d kissed her? Or because for a fleeting instant, she might have enjoyed it?

“Why the hesitation?” Her tone was raw. “Get it over with.”

He tapped her cheek with a chiding index finger. “I haven’t had my dinner yet,” he said mildly and released her.

She staggered but found her balance with impressive speed. Breath escaped her parted lips in unsteady gasps. He preferred her outrage to her vulnerability. Against his will, her vulnerability ate at his ruthlessness like rust on iron. “Won’t you join me?”

She regarded him with well-deserved hatred. “I’m not hungry.”

“Pity. You’ll need your strength later.”

He let that sink in while he sat and rang the bell. Mrs. Bevan appeared with astonishing speed. She’d probably been listening at the door. Entertainment at Castle Craven was so lacking, he hardly blamed her.

“You may serve dinner, Mrs. Bevan,” he said with a cheerfulness that earned him a puzzled glance from his housekeeper.

“Aye, maister. And for yon lady?”

Miss Forsythe remained standing where she had when he’d kissed her. She was back to looking like a marble statue, but now that he’d touched her, he knew she was flesh and blood, all right.

“Two?”

The girl didn’t react. Good Lord, had that kiss silenced her clever tongue? He hoped to coax her into using it again. Not for idle conversation.

He addressed Mrs. Bevan. “No, for one. Please show the lady to her room. Mr. Bevan can serve my meal.”

“Aye, maister.” The woman shuffled out and after a brief hesitation, the girl collected her meager luggage and followed.

Jonas wished he could be there when Miss Forsythe discovered that in this ramshackle pile, her room also served as his.

Chapter Two

In the elaborate four-poster bed, Sidonie huddled under the covers. Outside, the gale tore at the castle walls. Its roar made her feel even more defenseless. Fear had hounded her since Roberta had come to her at Barstowe Hall two days ago and begged for help. Fear cramped her stomach and lodged like a boulder in her throat. Fear tasted foul in her mouth.

Second thoughts came too late. Whatever Merrick did to Sidonie couldn’t compare to the consequences if William discovered his wife had shared his enemy’s bed. Roberta’s recklessness had placed them all in jeopardy. Sidonie. Roberta. Roberta’s two children, Nicholas and Thomas. But how could Sidonie maintain her anger? Roberta had been more mother than sister when the two Forsythe girls had lived under their parents’ negligent regime. Then Roberta had exchanged her father’s cold, sarcastic tyranny for her husband’s cruelty. Over eight years of marriage, Roberta had changed from a vivacious, affectionate girl into a nervy shadow. The only time Sidonie glimpsed a trace of Roberta’s former gaiety was if she won at the gaming tables.

When she was on a winning streak, Roberta was blind to all consequences. It wasn’t difficult to picture Jonas Merrick luring her into deeper and deeper play. Until finally he held his enemy’s wife in his power.

For pride’s sake and to avoid damaging scandal, both William and Roberta kept the misery of their union a domestic secret. Jonas Merrick could have no idea of the damage he threatened to the innocent when he accepted Lady Hillbrook’s vowels. Or perhaps he guessed and didn’t care.

So now Sidonie waited in Jonas Merrick’s bed like a sacrificial lamb. She guessed this was Merrick’s room, although the only evidence of his occupancy was a set of heavy silver brushes on the dressing table, and some subtle scent lingering on the linen and in the air. When he’d kissed her downstairs, he’d imprinted himself on her senses in a way she couldn’t define. And didn’t like. His touch had left an invisible mark. That frightened her almost as much as what was to happen in this glittering chamber. When she pictured him crushing her into the mattress with his powerful body, a scream swelled in her constricted throat.

Her surroundings offered no reassurance. Instead, they added to mounting dread, even as they puzzled her. This was the most bizarre room she’d ever seen. Gold proliferated. On the ornate old-fashioned furniture, the sconces along the walls, the glinting metallic thread in curtains and carpets. Everywhere Sidonie saw herself reflected in battalions of mirrors. Instead of paintings, gilt mirrors lined the walls. Cheval mirrors in each corner. A mirror above the dressing table, over the chest of drawers, between the doors of the armoire. Most surprising—and daunting—was the large oval mirror suspended from the tester above her head.

This proof of her mercurial host’s vanity baffled her. His careless dress didn’t indicate overweening conceit. Surely any normal man would shrink from dwelling so obsessively upon his disfigurement.

Reflected high above, she saw a pale girl lying straight and still as a cadaver under the heavy cover, gold of course. Thick brown hair was severely pulled back from her face and one fat plait snaked its way across her chest. A girl lying alone. Mr. Merrick seemed in no hurry to pursue his conquest.

At first, Sidonie had perched on a chair. When she’d started to shiver in the damp muslin, she’d changed into her night rail. As hours passed, marked by the ormolu clock on the cabinet, she’d shifted to the bed. Why draw out the preliminaries? There was no escape from the endgame.

Sourly she wondered whether Merrick would demonstrate more ardor if instead of an inexperienced stranger, her pretty sister awaited. But of course he hadn’t lured Roberta here because he wanted her. He’d concocted this scheme to score points against his cousin, Lord Hillbrook. This was just the latest spiteful gambit between bitter enemies.

Tightening her grip on the covers, Sidonie struggled for fatalistic calm. But courage faltered when she imagined Merrick shoving himself inside her. Would he expect her to undress? Would she have to…touch him? Would he kiss her again? Absurdly, that seemed the greatest threat of all. His kiss left her flummoxed. It had been chaste as a child’s buss upon the lips. Although the fact that Mer-rick was long past childhood robbed the act of genuine innocence.

She’d never been kissed before. Not by a man. Not with desire.

How sad that her first kiss occurred in such sordid circumstances. Sad and insidiously shameful. Because she hadn’t hated his kiss, even though she should. Mer-rick’s kiss had left her intrigued rather than outraged. What would it be like when he took liberties beyond mere kissing?

No, she wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t…

Easier said than done when she lay in Merrick’s bed.

Although her host had long ago lost any legal right to use the Merrick name. He should by rights employ his mother’s surname. Jonas Merrick was son to Anthony, the late Viscount Hillbrook, and the Spanish mistress purporting to be his wife. When the viscount’s younger brother successfully challenged the supposed marriage, Jonas was declared bastard. Upon Anthony’s death, his nephew William inherited the Hillbrook title and the feud between Jonas and his cousin, stemming from boyhood, had only become more vicious.

Sidonie shivered. William’s reaction when he learned his bastard cousin had tumbled his wife—surely this scheme’s object was that William would find out—was unthinkable. Remembering that Roberta’s very life depended on what happened in this bed bolstered Sidonie’s purpose. Until the heavy door opened and Mer-rick prowled into the candlelit room.

A deeply feminine fear, thick and heavy as tar, coalesced in Sidonie’s stomach as she surged up against the headboard. Merrick appeared impossibly large lounging against the door, arms folded across his lean chest. Candlelight flickered over his ruined face, lending him a devilish mien.

Wearing nothing more than shirt and breeches, he should be freezing. He must have a superhuman resistance to cold. Even with the fire blazing in the grate, Sidonie was grateful to have the covers to keep her warm. And to conceal her from his gaze. Which was daft. He’d do considerably more than look at her before the night was out.

He regarded her with the same searching curiosity she’d noticed downstairs. She had no idea what went on behind those deep-set eyes. He tilted his chin toward the tray on the dressing table. “You didn’t eat much.”

“No.” Nerves killed appetite. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, when she’d choked down a piece of toast and some tea. She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth and forced a calmness she didn’t feel into her voice. “You were kind to send it up.”

He shrugged as if it was nothing. During recent years Sidonie had seen little evidence of kindness and she knew to value it. He’d sent up hot water, too. After travelling all day, she’d felt tired and worn. Ridiculous how a wash restored her spirit.

“Don’t interpret my remark as a complaint, but this is a nonsensical thing for you to do.” He studied her as if he meant to winkle out her deepest secrets. One of those secrets gave her more power over him than he’d ever guess. Foreboding flooded her, knotted a belly already tight with fear. The knowledge she possessed was dangerous and she knew to her bones that Merrick made a bad enemy.

She pushed upright, clutching the gold covers to her chest. “By nonsensical thing, you mean sleeping with you?” she asked acidly.

A wry smile rewarded her sharpness. He had a nice mouth, expressive, generous enough to hint at sensual expertise way beyond her ken. “What happens when you marry? How will you set your lack of maidenhead right with your husband?”

Her jaw firmed and she spoke with absolute certainty. “I’ll never marry.” She braced for protest. Most people found it inconceivable that a woman would choose spinsterhood.

“I see.” His expression remained neutral. “I imagine Roberta’s experience has put you off the idea. In the interests of justice, I must point out that William is a poor example of my sex.”

She raised her chin. “Most of the men I’ve met have been poor examples. Selfishness, arrogance, and bullying appear inalienable elements of the masculine character.”

“Tut. I blush for my gender,” he said lightly.

“You’re hardly an exception,” she said bitterly.

“Sadly true, dear lady.” He straightened and strolled across to the tray. “Now what have we here?”

She frowned after him in confusion. His manner expressed no urgency. She’d been sure he’d insist upon having his wicked way the instant he arrived. That couldn’t be chagrin she felt at his lack of dispatch. But there was something lowering in rendering one’s virtue to an unrepentant rake, only to find him reluctant to do his worst.

Merrick wasn’t living up to lurid expectations. Roberta had described a fiendish seducer, a man of surpassing hideousness. When she first saw his face, Sidonie had been appalled, mostly because such scarring could only result from excruciating injury. Now, even after their short acquaintance, she saw past the scarring to the man beneath. That man was no monster. His features intrigued more than mere handsomeness. His was an interesting face, full of vitality and intelligence. Striking.

Just as the man himself was striking.

Nervously wondering what game he played, she watched him cut a couple of slices of hard yellow cheese and place them on some crackers. For such a large man, he had surprisingly elegant hands. In the uncertain light, the ruby ring flashed sullenly like a warning. She’d expected to feel hostility and fear. And she did. But other emotions pulsing between them were less defined. Curiosity, certainly. Wary rapprochement. Something electric and unfamiliar.

The prickly interest was more disturbing than terror or dislike. She was aware of Merrick with an animal intensity she’d never felt before.

He extended the plate toward her. Without thinking, she lifted a cracker and nibbled at it as he wandered away to lean against the carved post at the base of the bed. A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. Her eyes traced the sharply defined cut of his upper lip, the full sweep of his lower one. The disturbing mixture of fear and fascination he aroused left her restless, unsettled.

“I thought you’d be—” she began, then wondered if it was wise to mention his plans to ruin her.

“I can imagine.” He offered the plate again.

She took another two crackers. “Why are you here?”

“In this bedroom? Fie, Miss Forsythe, you’re too coy.”

She blushed with mortification. “No.”

He returned the plate to the tray and poured two glasses of claret. “You mean at Castle Craven?”

“Yes.” She accepted the wine and took a sip. Then another. Pleasant warmth eased alarm to a murmur. The hand gripping the sheet relaxed from white-knuckled tension. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to seduce Roberta at Ferney?”

A few years ago, Merrick had purchased Ferney, the estate adjoining Barstowe Hall’s dilapidated splendor. He’d then spent a fortune creating a residence fit for a viscount. Goodness, fit for a prince. Sidonie had never ventured beyond the gates, but what she’d seen of the exterior made Chatsworth look like a shanty. The neighbors were always gossiping about the house’s magnificence. Although wisely never within William’s hearing. Sidonie had applauded the unknown Jonas Merrick’s audacity. He made it impossible for her brother-in-law to escape the knowledge that in all ways except inheritance, he was a rank failure compared to his cousin.

Merrick’s faint smile lingered as he loaded more crackers and offered them to her. “Even the most dilatory of husbands would retrieve an erring wife when he merely needs to cross his estate boundary.”

She accepted the plate and propped it on upraised knees. The action meant releasing the covers. Merrick didn’t seem to notice how they sagged over her bosom. “You could be right.” She polished off another couple of crackers. “And naturally you enjoy the gothic drama of this setting.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

She sent him a skeptical glance and took more wine. The glass was half empty. How had that happened? “Are you trying to get me intoxicated?”

“No.” He raised his wine in a silent toast.

“It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t work?”

“Trying to soften me up with liquor.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I’d hate to think you so green as to fall for that old trick.” He took her now empty glass, returning it to the table along with his. “Have you finished with that plate?”

“Yes, thank you.” She passed him the empty plate, which he placed on the tray. She’d expected to be cold and proud when he came to take her virginity. Instead she felt confused and surprisingly in charity toward Mr. Merrick. Not that she wanted him to do…that. But it was difficult to summon the outraged self-righteousness that had sustained her so far.

Perhaps the alcohol had done its work after all. That and his self-effacing kindness in making sure she ate something. Poor foolish Sidonie Forsythe. Forfeiting her chastity in return for a few scraps of good farm cheddar.

No, this weakness was dangerous. If she succumbed without demur, she’d never live with herself. “Stop toying with me,” she demanded with sudden harshness.

With excess force, she flung away the bedcovers and lay flat, staring fixedly up at the mirror. A man who liked to watch himself with a woman deserved contempt. Heavens, he didn’t even try to hide what an unregenerate voluptuary he was.

Although it was difficult to maintain a disapproving silence when the blackguard intent on her deflowering burst into laughter. “Good Lord, Miss Forsythe, you desperately need advice on your wardrobe.”

“It’s only my…my nightdress.” She refused to look at him.

Uneasiness crammed in her throat when he prowled closer. “There’s room for six in there.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “Did you expect me to wear nothing at all? The night’s too cold, apart from anything else.”

Mr. Merrick subjected her to a thorough and searing inspection. She just knew he pictured her naked and it was her fault for mentioning the possibility. All her life, people had warned that her impulsive tongue would get her into trouble. She was most definitely in trouble. Not just because Mr. Merrick’s manner had within an instant transformed from nonchalance to interest. That fleeting accounting of her body extended mere seconds, yet every inch of her skin burned. Her belly clenched with a painful mixture of shame and reluctant excitement. She met his eyes, then heartily wished she hadn’t. The predatory glint was unmistakable.

“There’s room for maneuver between nakedness and that tent you’re wearing.” His gaze sharpened. “Did you think I’d quail at all that flannel?”

“I took what defensive measures I could,” she muttered, staring upward again. Although truthfully it hadn’t occurred to her to pack anything other than her usual nightwear.

“You underestimate the stimulating power of imagination,” he said drily. “I’m intrigued to discover the treasures beneath that billowing fabric.”

In wordless horror, Sidonie turned her head to stare at him. His shell of carelessness disintegrated and she read raw hunger in his saturnine face. The air vibrated with blazing sexual awareness. In the bristling silence, the sound of rain sheeting against the windows was a jarring intrusion.

“Take it off,” he said softly.

Dear Lord …

The time had come. Of course it had. She’d arrived on Merrick’s doorstep inviting him to tup her. He was hardly likely to turn her away in favor of an early night with an improving book. Reluctantly, her heart thundering panic, she sat. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the nightgown’s hem. Briefly her vision drowned in white flannel, then she was free. With a defiant gesture, she tossed the garment to the floor. She refused to meet Merrick’s gaze just as she refused to betray her humiliation by covering herself with her hands.

Now the true wickedness of this mirror-filled room struck hard as a hammer on brass. Like endless echoes of that clanging blow, everywhere she looked, she saw her naked body. Over and over again. Pale skin. Jutting breasts. Bare legs.

Reflected a hundred times, Merrick loomed above her, tall, dominating, uncompromisingly male. In candlelight, his loose shirt glowed with supernatural whiteness. He hadn’t shifted since she’d removed her nightdress, but the tension in his long body indicated any plea for mercy would go unheeded. His stance conveyed hunting readiness.

The silence stretched until she wanted to scream.

She twisted at the waist to face him. His expression was vivid with what, even in her innocence, she recognized as arousal. In his angular face, his eyes blazed hot silver. He was no longer the languid, sardonically amused man who’d fed her a makeshift supper. This man was captive to appetite.

Dread coiled in her belly. Dread and unwilling curiosity. When she looked at Merrick, unfamiliar heat eddied through her. Since agreeing to take Roberta’s place, she’d told herself her travails would be vile. Vile travails would leave her self-respect, if not her virginity, intact. Those glittering eyes hinted that self-respect would be the first casualty of this desperate bargain. She swallowed to moisten a parched mouth and her hands tangled in the sheets beneath her. She was so taut, she feared she’d snap in two if he touched her.

A muscle jerked in his cheek and his fists clenched at his sides as his leisurely investigation paused at her breasts. Seconds spun into scorching fire. To her humiliation, her nipples tightened. An aggravatingly knowing expression narrowed his eyes and a smug smile curved his lips. He knew he didn’t repulse her, much as she wished he did.

His lingering attention descended to the triangle of feathery brown hair between her legs. It was as if he touched her there. Molten heat flooded her belly, made her gasp with surprise. She squeezed her thighs together and her hand whipped down to shield her sex. “Stop it,” she whispered, the demand thick with tears she refused to shed.

He seemed not to hear. Instead, he stepped nearer and slid his hand behind her neck. She started, then sat unmoving. Through encroaching warmth, she felt the roughness of faint calluses on his fingers. After a charged hesitation, he ran his hand lightly down her neck to the pulse racing in her throat. Every nerve leaped and the molten sensation widened, deepened, left her unbearably agitated. Her instinct was to pull away, drag up the covers, cower.

Pride kept her still.

That searching hand dipped lower, stroked the upper slopes of her breasts. Then glanced across one beaded nipple. Unwelcome pleasure sizzled through her. In the silence, her unsteady breath was audible. Even the storm seemed to pause in anticipation. Her gaze flew to his face, where she found desire, but also something that looked like wonder. Her heart skipped a beat, then crashed painfully against her ribs.

“You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely. Delicately he circled her nipple then cupped her breast in one large hand.

It was too much. She couldn’t endure these lying overtures, however sweet. They lent a gloss of false tenderness to what was at its basest level a squalid business arrangement. She jerked away and slid down the bed. At last she summoned courage to look into the mirror above. She lay rigid, her body pallid against the sheets. Her face was drawn with fear and determination. Hectic color marked her cheekbones.

“Do it.” She hardly recognized the strident voice. “For God’s sake, don’t torture me. Just…do it.”

For a long time, the man reflected in the mirror didn’t move. Then with a smooth swiftness that made her wanton heart kick into a gallop, he seized the heavy brocade cover.

“Your pardon, Miss Forsythe.” He didn’t sound at all like the shaken, sincere man who told her she was beautiful. With a contemptuous gesture, he tossed the covers over her nakedness. Shock held her speechless as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “I find tonight my taste doesn’t run to martyrs.”

Chapter Three

In the cavernous hall, Sidonie Forsythe stood tall and straight in a pool of pale sunshine. She wore her heavy cloak and she clutched her valise at her side.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jonas strode across the flagstones and stopped a few paces short of her. Thank God he was an early riser or he’d be too late. He’d been flicking through the prospectus for a canal scheme when Mrs. Bevan lumbered into the library to announce the young lady requested use of his carriage.

At his furious question, Miss Forsythe whipped around. She stared dismayed into his face and he knew they both revisited those blazing moments in his bed. The memory thundered through him like the blast of a thousand cannons. Her lovely eyes darkened with what he could only interpret as humiliation before anger rescued her. “Don’t you ever dress like a Christian?”

Again, she surprised him. He liked that. He liked it almost as much as he’d liked seeing her unclothed body last night. And he’d liked that very much indeed.

He released a derisive grunt of laughter. “This is my house. If I want to run around in my shirtsleeves, I will. If I tour the estate stark naked, I daresay it’s my privilege.”

Delicate color tinged her cheeks at the mention of nakedness. This morning she looked brighter. She must have managed some sleep after he’d stormed from her room.

He wished to Hades he had.

“It’s nothing to me what you wear.” Calm determination masked any disquiet. He’d lay money that composure was as false as the canal scheme’s projected profits. “We’ll never see each other again after all.”

“I wouldn’t place too much store in that particular prediction,” he said drily. “It’s a devilish shabby trick to sneak away without a by-your-leave.”

“We have nothing to say to one another.”

“You think not?” He turned to Mrs. Bevan. “Tell Hobbs the carriage isn’t required.”

“Mr. Merrick—” Miss Forsythe began in a repressive voice.

He’d be damned if he was squabbling with her out here while his housekeeper stood around with flapping ears. “Perhaps you’d rather continue this discussion in the library.”

“I’d rather leave your house and pretend these lamentable hours never occurred.”

“So vehement for daybreak.” He weighted his tone with completely spurious boredom. “It’s a trifle fatiguing.”

“Only for a man of your advanced years,” she snapped back.

Brava ancora. He could guess how awkward she felt in his presence after what had happened—and not happened—last night. Still she came back fighting. “At least let me rest my ageing bones on a cushion while you harangue me.”

No answering humor. She continued to eye him warily. “I’d prefer to go.”

“I’m sure you would. But I’ve still got Roberta’s vowels. Or had you forgotten?”

Her magnificent eyes flashed hatred. “I hadn’t forgotten. I paid you last night.”

He gave her a nasty smile. “That’s a matter of opinion.” He gestured toward the library. “Miss Forsythe?”

She glowered at him, then glanced at Mrs. Bevan, who watched with avid interest. The girl’s color deepened and she nodded abruptly. “Five minutes.”

Jonas knew not to push his advantage. Or at least to wait until they were alone before he did. He opened the door and ushered her into the book-lined room.

Her shoulders tensed into a ruler-straight line when he lifted her cloak away. The white gown beneath was as inappropriate as ever. Although he appreciated the way it strained across her full bosom. As if once more shaping her perfect breasts, his hands curled in the cloak’s rough wool. Yielding to temptation, he leaned in to catch her fresh scent. She didn’t smell like rain this morning. Instead she smelled of lemon soap. Still, the commonplace fragrance stirred turbulent eddies of desire in his blood. He dropped the cloak onto a chair and stepped closer to release the ribbons on her unbecoming bonnet. Whoever chose her clothing should be drawn and quartered.

She batted his hand away and her breath accelerated—whether with fear or excitement, he wasn’t sure. Probably a mixture of the two. “Stop it.”

“Just making you comfortable.” The ribbons loosened and he lifted the bonnet, tossing it on top of the cloak.

“As if you care for my comfort. If you did, you’d let me go.”

His lips twitched as he wandered away. “But that would have a disagreeable effect on my comfort.” He gestured toward a leather chair. “Please sit down.”

She remained standing uneasily in the center of the room. “No, thank you. I’ll be on my way shortly.”

He sauntered to the window and slouched against the frame, basking in the sun’s unseasonal warmth. Last night’s storm had blown itself out and the day outside was pleasant for November. Although he suspected the temperature inside the library was about to drop several degrees.

He fixed an unwavering stare upon her. “I hadn’t taken you for a cheat, Miss Forsythe.”

Her expression remained neutral, although she must know what he meant. “I’ve cheated you of nothing, Mr. Merrick.”

His tone held an edge. “What would you call bilking me of your company after promising…satisfaction?”

She paled and her gloved hand tightened around the handle of her bag. “You didn’t want me last night,” she said flatly.

He raised his eyebrows in mocking disbelief, while burgeoning need crooned its alluring song in his ears. “You’re not that innocent.”

She growled softly and swung away with a flounce of filmy skirts. He caught a glimpse of two well-turned ankles. Interesting that the sight proved so arousing when he’d already seen her naked.

“You’re in a humor to tease, I see.”

He tilted his head back against the window frame and surveyed her down the bumpy length of his broken nose. “No, I’m in a humor to have my bargain honored.”

She stopped and regarded him with a troubled light in her dark eyes. Grown men cringed from his scars. Why the hell didn’t his grotesque appearance daunt this untried girl?

“I offered my…services; you rejected them.” She set down the bag and stubbornness squared her jaw. “I’m within my rights to leave unmolested.”

“You’re quite the lawyer, Miss Forsythe. You employed similar sophistry last night when you presented yourself in your beguiling sister’s stead.”

Not that he could summon one morsel of regret for the exchange. Roberta was a beautiful, if shallow, creature, and he’d have fucked her perfectly happily. Not least because every time he poked her, he’d know he cuckolded his toad of a cousin.

But Roberta’s sister …

Sidonie Forsythe was a jewel such as he’d never encountered. He wasn’t fool enough to leave her where he’d found her and walk away whistling.

“Surely you won’t insist on full restitution.” The uncertainty that had always lurked beneath her bravado became overt. “Not after—”

“Presumably you arrived expecting to repay the debt as it stands,” he said coolly. He folded his arms across his chest to stop himself from reaching for her. One ridiculously chaste kiss, a brief exploration of silky skin, now the craving to touch her was a fever.

“This is insane.” Like a mare scenting a stallion, she shifted nervously. “If you won’t lend me your carriage, I’ll walk to Sidmouth and find transport there. It’s only a couple of miles.” She turned and marched away.

He leaped forward and caught her arm. “Wait.”

Immediately, even through her sleeve, there was that electric connection he’d felt cupping her naked breast last night. When she turned an appalled brown gaze on him, he knew she felt it, too. Much as she clearly wished she didn’t. He fought the urge to sweep the girl into his arms. The brief taste of her lips had left him hungry for more. The memory of her glorious body had kept him awake most of the night. In occasional snatches of sleep, he’d dreamed of her. Naked. Willing. Sighing her pleasure as he pounded into her.

She trembled under his hand. “You don’t need to manhandle me.”

“I mightn’t need to, but I’d certainly like to,” he purred and was rewarded with another beguiling blush. Jonas couldn’t recall the last time he’d consorted with a woman innocent enough to blush. The only females who took him on had become jaded with the banal charms of unmutilated men. “What about Roberta’s debt?”

Miss Forsythe’s self-righteousness faded. “I came to you. I—”

He struggled to ignore the fear in her face. Now wasn’t the time to develop a conscience. “No matter,” he said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Roberta can sell some jewelry to repay me.”

“That’s impossible.” He felt her quivering resistance under his grasp. “William would find out.”

Ah, at last they reached the nut of the matter. “I expect he would.”

His gut twisted with reluctant remorse when tears brightened the girl’s eyes. Tears she bravely blinked away. Just as she’d bravely offered herself to save her sister. Sidonie Forsythe was a remarkable woman. Which didn’t make him one whit more inclined to send her away.

A strange moment to realize that he envied Roberta. It must be wonderful to know such steadfast love as Sidonie demonstrated. His father had undoubtedly loved him. But his father had been crippled by sorrow for his wife and then the ensuing scandal. Through a life of betrayal and rejection, Jonas had learned to mistrust love. Too often it masked self-serving interests. Too often it proved a fragile thread that snapped under the lightest pressure. And even if it was the powerful, overwhelming force the poets claimed, it brought destruction in its wake. Yet Sidonie loved her sister enough to sacrifice herself like this.

Bah, he became sentimental. He shook off the uncharacteristic self-pity and concentrated on the woman before him.

Her stare was bleak. “You know, don’t you?”

“That William takes his temper out on his wife? Not until last night. I spent hours awake, puzzling out your behavior.” And cursing like the devil that his pride exiled him to the dressing room’s minuscule cot. “Your actions only make sense if the consequences of Roberta’s seduction are dire indeed. And my cousin has always met disappointment with violence.”

With a twist of his gut, he realized his free hand crept up to touch his disfigured cheek. Hoping Miss Forsythe hadn’t noticed the betraying gesture, he forced his arm back to his side. His tone hardened. “I should have guessed.”

Poor bloody Roberta. Life as William’s wife must be hell on earth. Her frenetic gaiety in society made sense now—she was probably relieved that her husband wouldn’t cuff her in public. Jonas could almost forgive her for the way she cringed at the merest sight of him.

Miss Forsythe looked devastated. Her voice was low and shaking. “If you know…Roberta’s circumstances, chivalry insists you pardon the debt.”

His lips lengthened in an unamused smile. “Like honor, chivalry isn’t a rule in this game. Surely you know by now that I’m a bastard by nature just as I’m a bastard by birth.”

He expected her to flinch from his plain speaking, but she confronted him squarely. “If I stay here, I’ll be ruined.”

With a grunt of disgust—at himself more than her—he released her arm and prowled back to the window. She came after him, standing too near for caution and staring at him as though seeking some evidence of goodness. She’d search till doomsday. The world had turned him into a monster. He’d done his best since to live up to the description.

“You must have realized that before you arrived.” He forced himself to sound careless, no matter that her proximity stirred his senses so powerfully. The sun flooding through the window lit rich colors in her opulent hair. Flax. Gold. Auburn. “Presumably you’ve told your nearest and dearest some tale to keep them at bay over the next seven days.”

“I still don’t want my name sullied.”

“You have my word our…liaison will remain secret.” Sarcasm sharpened his voice as he continued. “Rejoice in your freedom, Miss Forsythe. This week you’re at liberty.”

“I’m not at liberty to become a libertine.”

His lips quirked at her quick response. “Actually you are.”

Sidonie Forsythe was totally unawakened—good God, how had no man seen what he had?—but she was in essence a sensual creature. He was adept enough at pleasing a woman, however grotesque his face. His deepest instincts insisted she’d relish the act once she’d conquered her qualms.

She surveyed him with unconcealed contempt. “You’d force me into your bed, knowing the only reason I’m there is to save my sister physical harm?”

“I told you—my taste doesn’t run to martyrs.”

Her gaze remained stony. “I’ll never come to you willingly.”

When he caught her hand, the jolt of heat threatened to blast his control to ashes. He drew her down beside him on the window seat. “I’d like the chance to convince you otherwise, bella.”

When had her willingness become so important? Sometime since he’d kissed her and caught a hint of how sweet she’d be in his arms when she finally gave herself up.

She tried and failed to pull away. “Only a swaggering coxcomb would hope to change my mind in a mere week. I won’t change my mind in a hundred years.”

He fought another smile. Did she feel the vivid energy flickering between them? He couldn’t believe he burned alone, for all she denied him with words. “You make the challenge so delicious.”

“I’m not…flirting with you, Mr. Merrick. I’m pointing out you waste your time with this absurd scheme.”

“In which case, you’ll return to your sister none the worse,” he said calmly, efficiently stripping her glove away. He ached to touch her skin.

The cynicism in her expression made her look older than her twenty-four years. “You don’t for one moment expect to lose, do you?”

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss to her soft palm. Her scent filled his head, intoxicating him like the finest wine. “I rely upon my fatal charm.”

She tugged at her hand. Her cheeks were pink with outrage and what unfounded optimism read as grudging pleasure. “It would almost be worth staying to take you down a few pegs.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Reluctantly he released her. Touching her turned thought to chaos and he needed all his wits to gain his way. “You forget your sister’s stake in our bargain.”

Shock tautened her features. She had forgotten Roberta. “So you still compel me.”

He shrugged. “Only to remain at Castle Craven as my guest. Anything further is your choice.”

Straightening, she regarded him with the same chilly disdain she’d displayed last night. Would she say yes? It astounded him how eager he was for her to stay. He’d be in the devil’s own thrall before the week was done. God knew how he’d keep his hands to himself until she agreed to become his lover. As surely she must.

Still his gut tightened with agonizing suspense as he awaited her assent.

She sucked in a shaky breath but spoke with impressive firmness for a chaste woman conceding herself to a scoundrel. “Let us be clear then, Mr. Merrick.”

With a mocking gesture, he bent his head. “By all means, Miss Forsythe.”

Her voice turned flat as she strove for control. In her lap the ungloved hand tightened around the gloved one in silent protest at what he compelled from her. “In return for my presence in Castle Craven over the next seven days, or rather six days as I’ve already spent a night under your roof, you will surrender Roberta’s vowels. Her debt will be fully acquitted.”

“Your companionship, bella. Make no mistake—I want you in my bed and I’ll take every opportunity to get you there. No locking yourself away in the highest tower.”

“I won’t cheat.”

“And you won’t cheat in other ways. You won’t lock yourself away in your mind, either.”

She flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. When I tell you of my intentions, you’ll listen. When I touch you—and believe me, tesoro, I’ll touch you over and over again, in ways you haven’t imagined a man can touch you—you won’t fight the pleasure.”

She cast him a disgruntled glance under her lashes. “You certainly don’t lack confidence, Mr. Merrick. Do I have a choice about staying?”

His smile turned sly. And triumphant. He’d prevailed. Of course he had. In this particular game, he’d always held the winning hand. He refused to acknowledge the shaming relief coiling in his belly. “Does Roberta have any jewelry William doesn’t know about?”

Her lips tightened. “You really are a bastard.”

“Make no mistake.” This once, his cheerful self-abnegation rang hollow. She deserved better than this arrangement and they both knew it. He stretched his legs out with an appearance of insouciant superiority.

She gave a sharp nod, still with that hard light in her eyes. “You have an agreement, sir. I look forward to leaving here in a week with both pride and virtue intact.”

“And I look forward to nights of untold rapture in your arms, my dear Miss Forsythe.” His smile broadened as victory rang around him like a fanfare of trumpets. “May the best man win.”

She subjected him to a glare of fulminating dislike, although the color lingering in her cheeks from his kiss spoiled the effect. “Make that the best woman, Mr. Merrick.”

Chapter Four

What had she done?

Sidonie remained as trapped as she’d been since Roberta had flung herself upon her mercy two days ago. She should have known her attempt to leave after only one night would fail. While Merrick cajoled her into staying, she’d desperately struggled to avoid her fate. But the threat to her sister remained paramount. Last time William lost his temper, he’d broken Roberta’s arm and two ribs. If he learned his wife betrayed him with his worst enemy, he’d kill her.

At least Sidonie had wrenched a small portion of control back, but she didn’t underestimate how difficult Mer-rick would make it to maintain her virtue. She already found him compelling and he’d hardly exerted himself yet to suborn her. Even now, when she’d pledged her word to cooperate, her mind scurried hither and yon to find an escape. But there was nothing. Only her hollow claim that she’d cleave to her chastity, however he tempted her.

Believe me, tesoro, I’ll touch you over and over again, in ways you haven’t even imagined a man can touch you.

She hid a shiver as she recalled those low words, promising pleasures beyond her wildest dreams. A shiver of fear. Also a shiver of unwilling interest.

“Shall we shake on the deal?” He stood and extended one elegant hand in her direction.

Sidonie fought the urge to tell him he’d touched her quite enough. “Why not?”

As his hand curled firm around hers, heat tingled on her skin. Heat that had surged to flame when he kissed her palm.

As he lowered her hand, his knowing expression bolstered resistance. Privately she might admit he drew her on levels she’d never known. To his face, she meant to continue her defiance. And hope against hope a sharp tongue and prickly attitude saved her. Six days of discomfiting, unceasing awareness of her captor loomed ahead. More to the point, six nights.

She met Merrick’s silvery gaze and acknowledged with a sinking feeling in her stomach that six days could be a lifetime. Only seconds into their bargain and already she recognized the dangers of allowing him to touch her when and how he liked. The memory of his fingers trailing over her naked skin blinded her to her surroundings. She shifted uncomfortably against the window seat.

He’d made no secret of his sinful plans. At least he’d been honest with her. A grim voice at the back of her mind reminded her she hadn’t been honest with him. Not completely. Not about a discovery that would change his life forever. Her eyes faltered away from his as though he might read her guilty secrets in her face.

“Have you had breakfast?”

She frowned and rose, even if it meant standing far too close to him. Perching on the window seat left her feeling disagreeably like a sitting duck. “Mr. Merrick, the way to my heart isn’t through my stomach.”

He arched his black eyebrows. “My sights are set on parts of you other than your heart, Miss Forsythe.”

“Oh.” She wished desperately he wouldn’t keep stealing her capacity for speech. For pity’s sake, what was wrong with her? He couldn’t undermine twenty-four years of rectitude with a mere kiss on the hand.

His thumb rubbed casually over the back of her hand. Except nothing he did was casual. “Given what we’ll become to each other, surely we can dispense with formalities. My name is Jonas.”

“I suspect it’s to my advantage to preserve formalities.”

“And I’m convinced of the outcome whatever we call each other, bella.”

“Oh, very well,” she said irritably. She straightened and withdrew her hand, surprised he let her go. “You may call me Sidonie.”

Why not let her go? He had her exactly where he wanted. Within pouncing reach. “Excellent. The idea of whispering ‘Miss Forsythe’ into your ear as I slide inside you is just too arousing.”

She flushed at the graphic picture he painted. “You can’t say things like that.”

He smiled with an annoying edge of triumph and stepped nearer, towering above her. “So early in the game, and you cry forfeit, Sidonie.”

Temper came to her rescue. He might treat her ruin as an unimportant trifle, but she wasn’t nearly so easy with what occurred. “I suppose I’ll become accustomed to your vulgarity.”

His laugh curled around her resistance like ivy clinging to a crumbling stone tower. “I’m sure you will, at that.”

He strode toward the door and opened it with a flourish. “Shall we proceed to the dining room?” He surveyed her with unreadable eyes. “Then perhaps you and I can share a ride.”

She blushed furiously. “Mr. Merrick—”

His smile turned wicked. “Now who’s being vulgar? I need to check the property after the storm. I thought you might like some fresh air.”

She marched past into the hallway. Six days. Then she’d be free, never to see the wanton and irritating Jonas Merrick again.

Those six days promised torments to shame the devil.

When Sidonie rushed into the stableyard, Jonas was talking to a small, wizened man who held the reins of two high-bred horses, a cream Arab mare and a large bay gelding. Without interrupting his discussion, her nemesis sent her a faint smile. She’d taken longer changing than arranged but he betrayed no impatience. Yet again, she contemplated the contrast between the Merrick cousins. William loathed the smallest inconvenience and lashed out if anyone delayed or obstructed him.

The last lonely years, mainly spent running Barstowe Hall, hadn’t prepared her to defend herself from a dangerous roué. She supposed she must have had girlish dreams once of a fascinating man focusing his attention on her. She couldn’t remember them. Once she was old enough to understand the dynamic of the marital bond, her dreams had become more prosaic: an independent, useful life where decisions were hers and no man treated her as his property.

The groom dipped his head to acknowledge her and disappeared into the stables. Merrick studied her with a glint in his eye. Part sexual interest, part approval, part something she couldn’t altogether interpret. It was as though he asked a question and she said yes without knowing what she agreed to.

She shook off the disturbing sensation and lifted her chin. Her hands tightened on the elegant little crop.

“I see you found the riding habit,” he said neutrally.

“I see you’re prepared for all eventualities when ladies visit,” she responded with a tart edge. When she’d seen the stylish black habit laid across her bed—his bed, she supposed—she’d cringed. She told herself his liaisons were none of her business, but that niggle of resentment persisted.

A deepening of the faint lines around his eyes indicated amusement. “I’ve never brought a mistress here, if that worries you.”

“I’m not your mistress,” she snapped, annoyed that he immediately attributed her ill temper to jealousy.

“Yet.” He subjected her to a thorough inspection. “It fits.”

“It’s too tight. Mrs. Bevan had to shift the buttons. That’s why I’m late.”

“You’re more…generously endowed than your sister.”

She stared into his face and stupidly wondered whether he preferred a more slender woman. Compared to Roberta’s willowy proportions, she was a Valkyrie. “Roberta doesn’t ride,” she said, telling herself she didn’t care what this miscreant made of her appearance.

More hollow bravado. She was becoming quite expert in the art.

“I don’t know your sister well enough to be familiar with her amusements—apart from chasing the next hand of cards.”

“You judge her harshly.” She bit back the impulse to tell Merrick that her sister hadn’t always been the brittle, supercilious creature he knew. When they were children, Roberta’s affection had been Sidonie’s only refuge against their mother’s indifference and their father’s contempt.

He shrugged. “She was a means to an end.”

Sidonie’s lips tightened. “That puts me in my place.”

He skimmed the back of his gloved hand under her chin. “You’re in a different category altogether, bella.”

The caress—if such fleeting contact justified the name—lasted a mere second but she felt it to her toes. This absurd physical awareness heightened rather than ebbed with familiarity. “Yes, I’ve agreed not to fight you,” she said with a bitter edge.

“The day’s too fine to quarrel,” he said lightly. “Let me help you into the saddle. Kismet grows restless.”

When he grabbed her around the waist, she waited for his hands to linger, to stray, but he merely tossed her into the sidesaddle with breathtaking ease. The beautiful horse sidled then settled at a reassuring word from Jonas. He had a way with females, Sidonie thought with another spike of resentment. Strange to remember Roberta describing him as so hideously ugly that he gave her nightmares. She tried to imagine what Merrick would look like without scars, but they seemed as much part of him as that sensually knowing mouth.

He stepped close enough to catch Kismet’s bridle. “Still now while I adjust your stirrups.”

He brushed her black skirts aside. She waited in quivering expectation for him to touch her legs but his hands were sure as they tightened the leathers. Something about the sheer competence of those strong gloved hands made her stomach jump. From Kismet’s back, she had a fine view of his wild gypsy hair. It was pitch black and untidy and another indication that he insisted on the world taking him on his terms.

He shifted away and glanced up. “Are you cold?”

How she wished she could hide her reactions. “No.”

She waited for some comment about her trembling, but he merely turned to collect his beaver hat from the bench behind him. Smoothly he rose into the bay’s saddle and her heart slammed with admiration at his effortless strength.

Believe me, tesoro, I’ll touch you over and over again, in ways you haven’t even imagined a man can touch you.

She smothered the memory of Merrick’s daunting promise and frantically sought some neutral topic of conversation as they trotted away from the castle. Difficult when every time she looked at him, she remembered him kissing her, touching her skin.

“Why do you tease me in Italian? I would have thought you’d speak—” Then she recalled that the world accounted his mother little better than a whore. The subject of Consuela Alvarez was likely off limits.

He arched a satirical eyebrow as if guessing her quandary. “You imagine I speak fluent Spanish?”

“Don’t you?”

“My mother died when I was two. I don’t remember her.”

“Oh.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. They crossed a wide green field, the cliffs to their left. The waves crashed upon the rocks below. Gulls on the wind cried like lost souls. Behind her, the bulk of Castle Craven squatted dark on the horizon. Even in sunshine, it looked a dour place.

The silence extended, became increasingly awkward. The horses’ hooves landed dully on the thick grass. She was casting around wildly for something to talk about—the weather seemed too banal but a remark about the bright day hovered on her lips—before he finally spoke. “After I failed to make a success of Eton, my father took me to Venice to live.”

Something in his tone indicated a complicated story behind the laconic accounting. There was so much she didn’t understand, so much she wanted to know. Her feverish curiosity disturbed her. Merrick was a stranger. It would be easier if he remained so.

He went on when she didn’t respond. “We rarely returned to England.”

She could imagine why. She was too young to remember the original scandal of Lord Hillbrook and his imposter viscountess, but vicious gossip had persisted over the years. So much of the story remained mysterious, like how Jonas had earned the marks on his face. Sidonie was familiar with the basic facts. It was common knowledge that all his life Jonas’s father, Anthony Merrick, protested the validity of his marriage. After his death, the Hillbrook title fell to William, Jonas’s cousin. William, who married Roberta Forsythe for her dowry soon after inheriting.

Anthony Merrick had achieved posthumous revenge of a sort. He’d been one of the richest men in England and aside from Barstowe Hall in Wiltshire and Merrick House in London, none of that fortune was entailed. Upon Anthony’s death nine years ago, Jonas Merrick had inherited vast wealth. William Merrick was left with two tumbledown houses, deliberately neglected by his uncle, and no funds to support the dignity of the Hillbrook title.

Since then, Jonas’s fortune had grown exponentially. He was clever, determined, innovative, and ruthless. His wealth ensured grudging social acceptance, despite his illegitimacy. William careered from one financial disaster to another, until now he verged on bankruptcy. With every failure, his loathing for Jonas built to mania. So many times, Sidonie had heard William curse his cousin. His attacks upon Roberta became especially vicious after Jonas had bested William in some way. A reminder, if she’d needed one, of what was at stake here at Castle Craven.

Merrick veered toward the headland. Sidonie followed him down a gentle slope toward the wide sweep of beach. Despite the warm day, the waves were a gray tumult, thundering against the shore with malevolent force. Suddenly needing the release of speed, she urged Kismet to a gallop. For a sweet interval, there was only rushing, briny air and pounding hooves upon smooth sand. She heard Merrick behind her but didn’t look back. For this moment, she needed the fantasy that she could outrun trouble.

A brief moment indeed.

She reached the debris-strewn end of the beach and reined Kismet to a quivering stop. She turned in the saddle to watch Merrick’s thundering approach. The big bay reared to a halt behind her. Merrick’s easy control over the highly strung horse shivered awareness through her. Those skillful hands that calmed a restless horse would soon touch her body.

As he leaned to pat the horse’s satiny neck, he glanced up at her. A light in his silvery eyes indicated he divined the tenor of her thoughts. Of course he did.

“Feeling better?” That slight twist of his lips cut straight to her heart.

She blinked. Her heart? No, no, no. Her heart wasn’t involved. She veered close enough to disaster bartering her body.

He saw her perturbation. “What’s wrong?”

She bit her lip and chose dangerous honesty. “I keep forgetting you mean to destroy me.”

If she hadn’t watched so carefully, she might have missed the troubled frown that darkened his eyes. It struck her that, if Merrick could read her, she was learning to read him. This encroaching intimacy leached resistance, but she didn’t know how to fight it.

“Nothing quite so drastic, surely,” he said mildly. “This gothic setting plays with your imagination.”

The gelding edged closer until Merrick’s leg bumped hers. He reached to curl his hand behind her neck, tangling his fingers in the strands of hair loosened in her reckless gallop. Heat tightened her skin.

Oh, Lord …

Nervousness crashed through her like a landslide. That cursed promise to allow him access was a mistake, but it was too late to renege.

“Merrick…” She stiffened without drawing away.

“Jonas.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Jonas, then. Let me go.”

Holding her with gentle implacability, he loomed nearer. His answer was a whisper upon her tingling lips. “Oh, no, Sidonie. Never ask me to let you go. Not yet. Not before we’ve discovered paradise.”

“Stop it.” Her heart thumped so hard she thought it must burst.

“I would if I could.”

She tensed against his grip. “Balderdash. You’re just playing with me.”

“Most definitely, tesoro. But your dilemma is your own fault. You’re so irresistible and I find myself unable to…resist.”

“Command your willpower, Mr. Merrick. Defeat this weakness.”

“I try, dear lady. I try.”

“I’ll bite you,” she said savagely, although she didn’t move.

“I’ll bite you too before I’m done.” His gaze sharpened upon her lips, making her heart hammer a panicked warning. “Eat you like a ripe peach, all juice and sweetness. And lick my lips afterward.”

She knew enough to recognize he meant sin. More than kissing, that was certain. For a rogue like him, kissing must be small beer indeed. “You’re…you’re frightening me, Mr. Merrick.”

Although fear was only part of what she felt. License had never lured her. She’d never imagined she’d give her body to a man. But something about Merrick charged her blood with inchoate longing, despite what she knew of him and what he intended for her.

“Seize your courage, Miss Forsythe.” He mocked her formality. Even she felt idiotic calling him Mr. Merrick when he was about to kiss her. Ruthlessness hardened his jaw. “No more preliminary skirmishes, Sidonie. Let’s start the games. To the victor the spoils.”

Chapter Five

Sidonie braced to revisit last night’s chaste kiss. There was the same inescapable intimacy. The same reluctant delight. The same suspense, as if revelation hovered just out of reach. That had been disturbing enough. But this was…more.

The kiss was an unmistakable invitation. To what? She was too inexperienced to know. What she did know was that the slightest signal of cooperation would bring her more trouble than she could handle. As she had last night, she remained unmoving under his lips, hoping lack of encouragement would deter him.

A futile hope.

He took his time so that she moved through resistance to overwhelming awareness of physical details. The sleek texture of his lips. The soft flexing of his hand on the back of her neck. The mad race of her heart. The heat pooling in the base of her belly. This unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation lured her to sink into the kiss. Disturbed, she edged away. Kismet whickered and shifted under her.

“Shh,” Merrick said softly.

“Are you talking to me or the horse?” She loathed the betraying huskiness in her voice.

He laughed softly. “What do you think?”

“I think you should stop.” Her hands tightened on the reins, although she was careful not to unsettle her mount again.

“Not yet,” he said mildly, even as the excitement glittering in his eyes set the blood rushing through her veins.

She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Get it over with, then.”

His eyes sparked with the humor that rapidly became irresistible, curse him. “No need to beg, tesoro.”

The grip on her neck tightened, although she’d immediately recognized the futility of running. She’d made promises to him and he still held Roberta’s vowels. Kissing her stretched the boundaries of their agreement, but she’d known he plotted blatant seduction when he offered the bargain.

His lips rubbed across hers, pursed to kiss the corners, returned to suck subtly at her lower lip. More dangerously alluring pleasure blasted her. She made a muffled sound of distress, raising one hand to his chest. To push him away or draw him closer? She couldn’t have said.

Her eyes fluttered shut and her senses flooded with Merrick. With his male scent, so alien yet so alluring. The emphatic beat of his heart under her palm. The firm warmth of his mouth.

When his tongue flickered out to touch where he’d kissed her, she started. What an odd thing to do. If he’d told her he meant to lick her, she would have been revolted. In practice, it was…intriguing. Another whimper escaped as her hand clutched at his loose shirt. The leashed power beneath the shirt should terrify her. Right now, that strength stirred curiosity rather than trepidation.

Already his kiss sapped common sense. She more than most women knew the cost of giving in to a man, especially a demanding, managing man. Witness her mother drifting like a ghost under her father’s domination. Witness Roberta’s helplessness against William. Sidonie didn’t fool herself that Merrick’s charm concealed anything but a will to be in charge.

She made an incoherent protest and tried to pull away, but his hold was implacable. Still he brushed his lips against hers. Pausing briefly here to taste more thoroughly. Lingering there. Without conscious volition, she pursed her lips. Just a hint of kissing him back. No more. Satisfaction rumbled deep in his throat. Her belly pitched as she realized even ceding so little, she ceded too much. Once more she tried to retreat, but it was too late. The hand at her nape flexed and brought her nearer. More heat. More gentleness. More kisses inviting her into the unknown.

By the time he raised his head, she trembled with fear, resentment, and unwilling sensual reaction. She sucked in her first breath in what felt like an hour and opened dazed eyes. He was so close, she had to lean back before his features came into focus. He watched her with an alertness that contradicted the kiss’s leisurely sweetness.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” She wished she sounded appalled rather than beguiled.

The breeze played with her untidy hair, wafted strands across her eyes. Beneath her, Kismet was still. Merrick’s bay nosed desultorily at some seaweed. A few feet away, waves crashed upon the beach. When Merrick kissed her, all she’d heard was her heart’s wild dance. She’d been deaf to everything else. Including dictates of self-preservation.

With one gloved finger, he traced an invisible line down her cheek. Last night he’d touched her naked breast like this. The memory spurred the outrage she should have summoned when he started kissing her.

“Don’t.” She jerked away. Kismet shifted restlessly at her rider’s abrupt movement.

“You’ve never been kissed before, have you?” Merrick didn’t sound his usual mocking self. He sounded shaken. The silvery eyes were soft as autumn mist and his mouth was soft, too, full and so tempting it made her ache.

She blinked, horrified to realize she stared at him like a child entranced by Christmas candles. “What…what did you say?”

He regarded her almost tenderly. A warning clanged in her mind’s distant reaches. Beware. Beware.

“You’ve never been kissed before.”

She frowned, trying to make sense of the words. “Of course I have.”

A skeptical lift of one black eyebrow. “Thousands of times, I’ll warrant.”

She flushed and her hands fisted on the reins as she fought the desire to slap him. “Well, once. You kissed me last night.” Her voice developed an edge. “Or don’t you remember?”

His hand slid under her chin and tilted her face. He inspected her like a bizarre new species under a naturalist’s magnifying glass. “Of course I remember, bella. The memory haunts me. It’s just that you’re more…untouched than I’d realized.”

Annoyance coiled in her belly that he dared to mock her inexperience. She tugged her chin free. “I don’t make a habit of associating with unprincipled rakes. Why are you making so much of this? You know I’m a virgin.”

“Oh, yes.” Something flared in his deep-set silver eyes before he lowered his eyelids and studied her mouth. “But you’re even more…virgin than I’d guessed.”

“You can’t be more virgin than a virgin,” she snapped.

He leaned forward with unmistakable intention. She’d had enough of lying kisses and sarcastic teasing. She twisted to avoid him. Kismet snorted and sidled uneasily.

“Whoa there!” Merrick grabbed Kismet’s bridle and the horse immediately settled. “Get down, Sidonie.”

The brusque tone lifted every hackle that hadn’t risen when he’d derided her awkwardness. “Just because I let you kiss me doesn’t mean I’m about to lie down for you.”

He was still laughing at her. “Even I’m not so presumptuous, bella. But you’re overdue for a lesson in kissing and I can’t do the task justice when we’re in danger of tumbling on our arses.”

If her face got any hotter, it would burst into flame. “I have no wish to suffer further tawdry pawing.”

“Interest in physical pleasure is perfectly natural. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He dismounted and tied the bay’s reins on its neck so they didn’t dangle. “There’s no need to apologize.”

Oh, she really wanted to slap him. Her hand curled in its glove. “I’m not apologizing.”

He ignored her. “You must be burning with curiosity.”

“I’m burning with the desire to box your ears.”

He slapped the bay’s rump so the horse trotted out of the way with a snort, then strode across to where Sidonie sat fuming on Kismet. “Repressed passion turns violent if unaddressed.”

“Only if one is mentally deranged.”

“I look forward to deranging you, tesoro. Now don’t gallop away.” He caught the bridle. His instincts were acute indeed. She’d been about to canter off. “Wouldn’t you rather discover what you’ve been missing?”

“You just showed me what I’ve been missing. Such a lot of fuss about nothing.”

“You weren’t complaining a few minutes ago.”

He still smiled. Blast him, he wasn’t taking her seriously. Perhaps because, blast her, for one forbidden moment she’d been idiotic enough to kiss him back. “You caught me by surprise.”

“Then this time consider yourself forewarned.” He released Kismet and grabbed Sidonie’s waist. She wasn’t a small woman. Compared to Roberta, she was a lumbering draft horse. But Merrick easily lifted her to the ground.

“The horses will bolt,” she said shakily, unaccountably wobbly on her feet with him so near. Her heart dived and swooped in her chest in a most disconcerting fashion. She was unbearably conscious of those hard, strong hands constraining her.

“If they do, they’ll just go back to the stables and we’ll have a walk back.” As if to prove her fears groundless, Kismet sidled a few yards then stopped beside the bay.

“I’ll run away,” Sidonie said without shifting.

“I’ll chase you.”

“Why bother?”

He took her trembling hands and stupid, weak female she was, she didn’t draw away. Danger clanged around her like a huge bell but she remained glued to the spot.

“Because you’re quite beautiful, dolcissima,” he said gently. “Don’t you know that?”

Last night he’d told her she was beautiful. Before he’d stalked out in a huff. He sounded as sincere as he had then. Just as it had then, her heart slammed to a stop. “That’s a rake’s trick, to tell a girl she’s beautiful.”

“Is it working?” he said amiably, stripping off her gloves.

“No.” She wished to heaven she meant it.

“Pity.” He dropped her gloves to the ground and stripped off his own. “Damn it, you’re always inconveniently overdressed.”

Not always.

The thought hovered between them as if spoken aloud. She was free to run; he no longer held her. Go, go, she told her feet, but they stubbornly refused to budge. “I don’t find it inconvenient at all.”

“Another regrettable sign of innocence. One day you’ll be grateful I showed you the ropes.”

Her lips flattened in disapproval. “This is a public service?”

She wished she didn’t like his laugh. Every time she heard that deep, musical rumble, another brick crumbled from her defenses. “A chap has a duty to his fellow man.”

“They’ll probably give you a medal,” she said faintly as his hands framed her face. Sucking in a shaky breath, she exhorted herself to be strong. She strove to stiffen a backbone that showed a lamentable tendency to curve in his direction.

His palms were warm against her cheeks. “A knighthood at the very least.”

“For services to womankind.” She tried to sound sarcastic but the words emerged on a burst of breathless excitement.

A light flared in his gray eyes. “Oh, I intend to service you, bella.” Before she mustered another unconvincing protest, he lowered his lips to hers.

Heat. Softness. Trembling uncertainty. A hidden longing to respond. Jonas tasted all of that when he dipped his lips to Sidonie’s. He couldn’t say why he was so deeply moved to be the first man to kiss her. His cock swelled to attention. Her merest presence aroused him. It had from the first. Whatever power she possessed, he was helpless against it.

Experimentally, he nibbled, licked at the seam. She was bewitching. Even now when she conceded little more than she had when he’d kissed her last night. She quivered under his hands. He still wasn’t sure whether she was excited or frightened. He’d read both curiosity and dread in her pansy eyes. Her thick tortoiseshell hair tickled his fingers. After her wild ride, she looked enchantingly disheveled. It made him contemplate other wild rides he’d like to take with her.

Raising his head, he stared at her. Her eyes were shut and her lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks. His nostrils flared as he drew in the evocative scents of the sea and Sidonie.

“Open your mouth, tesoro.” He angled her face higher. “Open your mouth for me.”

At his raw demand, her eyes flared wide. For a drunken moment, he drowned in glorious brown, rich, autumnal, sensual.

“O-open…?”

He took advantage and claimed her, sliding his tongue into the interior. She made a sound of surprise and tried to back off. “No.”

“Bella, don’t be afraid.”

She stopped edging away but her lips closed against him again. He returned to demanding nothing more than her stillness. She stood unresponsive, although her choppy breathing indicated she was far from unmoved. She resisted to the point where he thought he’d run mad with wanting her.

Just resistance, resistance, resistance. Endless resistance.

Then in the space between one second and the next, endless resistance dissolved. Her hand curved around his shoulder. On a sigh, she leaned into him. Warmth powerful enough to melt the chill from his obsidian heart enveloped him. The hand on his shoulder flexed into a caress. Her lips parted and at last gave up the honey within. Luxuriously he savored her mouth. She was delicious. His tongue flickered over hers and he heard a smothered protest.

If he had an ounce of charity in his soul, he’d release her. But her flavor was as addictive as gin to a toper. He’d blithely imagined he’d keep his head during this impromptu lesson. Instead she made a mockery of arrogance. She who had never kissed a man.

On a long, languid exploration, he stroked her tongue. This time, he felt faint movement in return. He released a low growl of approval and teased her again. When she tentatively brushed her tongue against his, the surge of arousal nearly blew his head off. He, the worldly libertine, brought to his knees by an innocent’s clumsy kiss. Except now she cooperated, she wasn’t clumsy. She was sweet and passionate and quick to follow his lead. When his tongue danced along her lips, she copied his action. When he sucked her tongue into his mouth, she gasped with surprise then tasted him so deeply and with such unalloyed pleasure, his heart crashed against his ribs.

Even in the throes of delight, he held to strategy. His hands ached to touch her body, trace every curve and hollow. But if he pushed too far, he’d lose any advantage he’d gained. Heat rose, threatened to incinerate him. Still some distant voice in his mind reminded him this was meant as a lesson only. His arms loosened, although he couldn’t summon the will to release her completely. Gradually he doused frantic passion until his mouth glanced across hers in an echo of his first kiss. Except now he knew her taste. He knew the tiny breathless sounds she made when surrendering to dark delight.

She’d be magnificent in his bed.

He chanced once last touch of his mouth to hers then drew away. She was flushed and her lips were red and moist. Her glowing beauty made his heart stumble. A man with one ounce of principle would send her on her way with Roberta’s vowels safely folded in her reticule. If Sidonie stayed, Jonas would tarnish her shining goodness. He’d drag this angel down to share his hell.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, staring up with eyes more gold than brown.

“Oh, my, indeed.” He smiled, he feared, with drunken joy rather than the cynical amusement with which he usually confronted the world.

“If I’d known a kiss was like that—”

He loved how she didn’t pretend she hadn’t enjoyed the kiss, purely for pride’s sake. The problem rapidly became finding something he didn’t like about her. “You’d have kissed every man in your vicinity?”

A shaking hand brushed her hair from her face. He saw she gradually returned to reality and discomfiting comprehension of how thoroughly she’d succumbed to his kiss. “Well, perhaps every man under forty.”

He was only human. “Shall we do it again?”

She cast him a disapproving look, marred by the tender fullness of her lips. “When you kiss me, I can’t think.”

“That’s good.”

“I need to think.”

He laughed softly. “Think inside. I don’t fancy a dousing. The weather’s closing in.”

“Oh,” she said on a gasp of surprise, glancing around. Another shock of arousal jolted him as he realized she’d been so focused on him that she hadn’t noticed the change from sunshine to approaching storm.

He easily caught the horses and tossed her up into the saddle. Loving the way the wind played merry hell with her chignon, he smiled at her as he mounted Casimir. “It’s a pleasure to see a pretty woman sitting well on a good horse.”

She blushed. How had such a gorgeous creature lived twenty-four years without becoming inured to compliments? She’d leave Castle Craven knowing how spectacular she was. He stifled a disagreeable pang at the prospect of her departure and urged Casimir to a gallop. Behind him, he heard her shout encouragement to Kismet. Ahead of a rising wind, they pelted along the beach.

Jonas had started this battle confident of victory, but he had a sinking feeling he’d end up surrendering as much to Sidonie as she surrendered to him. Damn it, he wasn’t sure he could afford the sacrifice.

Chapter Six

Another lobster patty?”

Warily Sidonie eyed the long, lean man slouched beside her on the brocade sofa, his legs stretched across a priceless oriental carpet in crimson and cobalt. Merrick hadn’t done anything overtly seductive since he’d kissed her, unless one counted the lazy, heavy-lidded attention he devoted to her. Still, she didn’t trust him an inch.

What she’d give for a nice straight chair, the more uncomfortable, the better. If she hadn’t known Merrick would mock her mercilessly, she’d fetch an oak chair from the hall. Her back ached from the rigid posture she maintained against the temptation to sprawl. She suspected if she started lolling against the cushions, she’d end up lolling against Merrick. She knew her starchy attitude amused him. But last time she’d lowered her guard, she’d succumbed to his wiles with terrifying swiftness.

After their ride, he’d brought her to this sultan’s bower of rich silks and velvets. Outside rain pounded against the mullioned windows but inside Castle Craven, everything was warmth and sybaritic comfort. Stained glass lent the light a sensuous dimness. Heated braziers scented the air with subtle perfume. This seraglio seemed incongruous inside the grim medieval fortress. Until Sidonie remembered idiosyncratic décor was the rule here. Think of the mirror-lined room upstairs.

Foreboding made her shiver. No, she didn’t want to think of the bedroom. It reminded her of what Merrick meant to do to her there.

She straightened her back another degree, even as Merrick’s eyelids sank lower. He looked half asleep but he remained alert to everything around him, including her increasingly frail resistance. Good heavens, he didn’t have to watch her to confirm her vulnerability. Hadn’t she just let him kiss her into a stupor?

He hadn’t mentioned the kisses. Nor had she. But every time she met his glinting silver eyes, she remembered the shocking intimacy of his tongue in her mouth.

“You needn’t keep pushing food at me,” she said, even as she lifted the patty from the gilded porcelain plate. Everything delighted the senses. For a girl who had lived upon her brother-in-law’s sufferance for years, and a not-too-prosperous brother-in-law at that, the luxury was overpowering.

“But it’s marvelously entertaining.” He smiled in a manner that made her want to upend her untouched glass of champagne over his tousled head. “You’re so deliciously afraid that each morsel lures you a step nearer to ruin.”

“It takes more than a few scraps to suborn me,” she said stoutly. Before he could deride her unconvincing defiance, she bit into the concoction. “I see why you tolerate Mrs. Bevan’s eccentric manners. What a pity she’s forgotten cutlery.”

Merrick sipped his golden wine. The pleasure on his face reminded her of his expression after kissing her. Devil take him, everything reminded her of his kisses. “What a pity,” he said with spurious regret. “Eating with one’s fingers is so…primitive.”

She blushed. He turned the most innocent words into an invitation to wickedness.

“Speaking of eccentric manners,” he said lightly, raising his glass to Sidonie in a brief toast, “you’re not in a pew listening to the Sunday sermon.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you,” she lied.

He sank his strong white teeth into a patty. “At least take the jacket off.”

She primmed her lips and wished his taste didn’t linger even after the delicacies. Curse him, she’d remember kissing him until her dying day. “As a prelude to taking everything else off?”

Amusement brightened his eyes. “Should the urge strike, don’t mind me.”

In truth, she was overly warm. Her heavy riding jacket prickled over the muslin gown. It might be nonsensical to hide her body when he’d already seen every inch, but after those soul-awakening kisses, she desperately needed defenses. To cool the heat of the air and his gaze, she swallowed some champagne. He rose to fill a plate from the sideboard and top up his wine.

“I’ve had enough,” she said quickly, but Merrick ignored her and filled her glass.

“Try this.” He fell to his knees before her and between thumb and forefinger lifted a small square of nuts and pastry shiny with syrup.

The couch was so low, when he kneeled in front of her they were eye to eye. She retreated against the sofa. “Move away.”

“So nervous, tesoro.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And me on my best behavior. If I promise not to kiss you, will you stop worrying?”

“I—”

He smiled and pressed the pastry between her lips. She struggled to articulate a protest, then shut her eyes on a low moan of approval. “Goodness, what is that?”

“Something I discovered in Greece. I insisted Mrs. Bevan learn how to make it.” Gently he tipped Sidonie’s glass against her lips until she drank.

She opened her eyes. He leaned near, too near.

“Something that good must be sinful.”

“Sidonie, Sidonie, such a little puritan.”

Shakily she took another pastry between her fingers. Eating from his hand made her feel like his lapdog.

“You were in Greece?” She nibbled at the pastry. The spicy sweetness no longer astonished, but it was just as delicious.

“You think polite conversation will keep me in line?”

To her regret, learning about him was more tempting than any bonbon. “One lives in hope.”

Slowly he drew away. “My motto.”

She inhaled, filling lungs starved of air. Her relief evaporated when he lifted one of her feet across his bent knees. “What are you doing?”

His hold turned ruthless before she could jerk free. “Making you comfortable, cara.” A few flicks of skillful fingers and he’d removed her scuffed half-boot.

“That’s not a good idea,” she said, even as he slid the second boot away and set it down on the carpet beside its mate.

From his kneeling position, he regarded her darned cotton stockings with unmistakable disapproval. Stupid to mind, but shame at this evidence of poverty rose like bile. With shaking hands she tugged her skirts down to cover her feet. “I suppose you’re used to painted harlots flaunting themselves in silk and lace.”

His lips twitched. “Painted harlots? Your imagination runs amok.” He inched her skirts up past her ankles.

Lurching forward, she slammed her hand down upon his. She realized her mistake when the heat of his palm radiated over her shin. “Mr. Merrick! You have no right to undress me.”

“Only your stockings, cara. ”

“Permitting the removal of my undergarments exceeds our bargain.” She wriggled free and struggled to stand. The squashy sofa proved appallingly difficult to escape. When finally she rose as clumsily as a drunken bear, it did her no good. Merrick caught her hand and tugged sharply. With an undignified bounce, she collapsed back onto the cushions.

“Do you play the lawyer again, dolcissima?” he asked over her gasp.

“Pretty Italian blandishments don’t disguise ugly intentions.” She hated how priggish she sounded.

She expected more mockery but he merely leaned back on his heels and caught her foot again. He stroked her leg up to the knee and back. “Not ugly, surely.”

The heat of his touch penetrated her threadbare stockings and made her toes curl. She’d never considered her feet and ankles particularly sensitive until Merrick launched his gentle exploration. Her skin burned. Her heart raced with a dizzying mixture of fear and excitement. Her hand lifted to unbutton her jacket before she recalled that he’d misinterpret any removal of clothing.

He might be on his knees on the floor, but his assessing gaze held no hint of the supplicant. Instead he challenged her to throw caution to the winds and discover what he knew and what she didn’t. “Take it off.”

“You move too fast, Mr. Merrick.”

His fingers drew another elaborate pattern from ankle to knee. “We have a mere week, Miss Forsythe. Time’s wingéd chariot and all that.”

Suddenly the relentless push and pull he practiced upon her was unendurable. Merrick lured her to deny everything she believed in return for the sheer pleasure of his touch. And for the sake of that half-smile tilting his mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please stop.” She hardly recognized the choked voice. “For pity’s sake, please stop.”

He frowned and lifted his hand. “Sidonie, I won’t take it further.”

“You say that but you don’t mean it.” Hurriedly she shoved her skirt down. “And I fall for your tricks like the veriest moonling.”

In helpless frustration, Jonas stared up at Sidonie from where he kneeled. Every second in her company stoked his arousal. He wasn’t fool enough to imagine the fascination one-sided. She might say no, but her cheeks flushed with excitement and he couldn’t forget how only hours ago she’d kissed him. Now that her backbone lost its forbidding rigidity, she reclined against the sofa like an odalisque. An odalisque in a superfine hacking jacket.

She should look ludicrous. What she looked was irresistible.

He gritted his teeth and struggled for self-control. The urge to trail his fingers up those slender legs to the treasure at their apex beat like a tattoo. But with every step she took toward surrender, her uncertainty grew. If he pushed her too far, she’d run. Roberta or no Roberta.

The promise of the greater prize made him set her foot down. Immediately she lifted her legs and curled them under her, out of reach.

“You know I mean to seduce you.”

“I know,” she said in a raw voice, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. He tried to tell himself he was too old and cynical to find the childish gesture touching. “I’ve always rather despised people who allowed passion to lead them astray.”

He shifted to lean against the sofa, his shoulders resting near her bent knees. “Now you find passion is a ruthless master.”

Her delicate scent wafted out to torment him. He couldn’t sit this close without touching her. He twisted, leaning an elbow on the couch, and caught her hand. To his surprise, she didn’t jerk away.

“Fit punishment for assuming myself immune.” Her voice lowered. “Every man I’ve known has been contemptible. My father was weak and greedy and unable to countenance a contrary opinion. He was incapable of kindness or affection. While he didn’t hit my mother, his tyranny turned her into a cypher until she just faded away and died when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry.” He was. The Forsythe women had appalling luck with the men in their lives. And it wasn’t as if Sidonie’s entanglement with Jonas Merrick would do her any good.

“My father never ceased to blame my mother for only producing two useless girl children.”

The picture of an unhappy family life that she painted was vivid, if heartbreaking. “Hardly your fault.”

Sidonie shrugged with a carelessness Jonas didn’t believe. “The only time he ever expressed an instant of satisfaction with either of his children was when William offered for Roberta. A lord for mere Miss Forsythe? Even a shabby, slightly questionable lord counted as a triumph. Our family wasn’t influential and while Roberta’s portion was respectable, she was hardly an heiress.”

“The uncertainty about my birth blighted William’s marital prospects.” Jonas didn’t hide his satisfaction. After all, William had blighted most of his prospects.

“William courted Roberta as a last resort. His original ambitions were much higher. But no magnate would waste a daughter upon a man who might be disinherited any time.”

“Not that he has been disinherited.”

“No.”

He waited for her to continue, but she remained quiet. Curious, Jonas glanced up. She stared down into her lap and her lush mouth twisted with unhappiness. He wondered why. Last night she’d been ready enough to call him a bastard to his face. This namby-pamby reaction to his scandalous origins seemed uncharacteristic. “No need to step carefully. I’m accustomed to being socially unacceptable. I’ve had years to come to terms with illegitimacy.”

Did she guess he lied? Because of course he did. His bastardy was a wound that never healed. When she finally looked up, Sidonie’s brown eyes didn’t betray derision. Instead they were veiled as he’d never seen them.

“It…it can’t have been easy when you were raised as the heir,” she said hesitantly, and to his surprise her grip on his hand tightened as if she extended comfort.

“Ancient history, tesoro. What use raking up old ashes?” His gaze fastened on her lips, soft, so soft. “Are you sure you won’t let me kiss you?”

“I must be wise.”

“Wisdom is an overrated virtue, amore mio.”

She cast him an unimpressed look. “You’re no expert on virtue.”

“Virtue is my foe. I’ve devoted great study to it.”

He watched her struggle to summon some crushing remark and decided to rescue her. “How did you sneak away from Barstowe Hall?”

“Roberta’s help.”

“Even so, surely some guardian must barricade the garden gate against swains vying to glimpse the fair Sidonie.”

“William has been my guardian since my father died six years ago,” she said flatly.

All desire to smile left Jonas. Instead, a sickening suspicion set his gut heaving. “Good God, don’t tell me the blackguard hits you, too?”

“Jonas, you’re hurting my hand.”

“I’m a clumsy dog,” he muttered, loosening his grip. “If he hit you, I’ll vivisect the worm.”

“William has never hit me.” She stroked his cheek, the first time she’d willingly touched him. In her eyes, he saw a softness he couldn’t remember before, even when he’d kissed her.

“Why should you be safe?” Yet as he stared into the beautiful face that conveyed strength as well as allure, he guessed why. Jonas was long past crediting his foul cousin with anything like shame. But under Sidonie’s clear gaze, perhaps even William retrieved some vestige of honor.

“We mostly live apart.” She paused and her earlier inexplicable discomfort returned. “I run Barstowe Hall with the pittance he sends. And there’s always written work for a bluestocking like me. Lately, I’ve catalogued William’s library.” She spoke reluctantly, although Jonas couldn’t imagine why. The subject was hardly controversial. She was as jumpy talking about her life with William and Roberta as she was when Jonas touched her. Almost.

“Anything interesting?”

She avoided his eyes. “Your father took all the valuable books before his death, as you well know.”

Her existence sounded like drudgery. And lonely. But he made himself smile. “So what prompted my cousin’s sudden bibliophilia?”

“He’s selling what’s left, of course. Surely you know how close to the wind he’s sailing. The last of Roberta’s dowry went earlier this year in some scheme for South Seas emerald mining.”

“My cousin never had the touch in business.”

She cast him a disapproving look. “No need to sound so smug. You know he’s reckless to compete with you.”

“If he’d cut his coat to fit his cloth when he inherited, he could have lived perfectly comfortably at Barstowe Hall.” Jonas was deliberately disingenuous. William was a heaving mass of jealousy, conceit, and bluster. He’d never accept life as a quiet country squire while his bastard cousin turned the world on its ear. “The man’s his own worst enemy.”

“I’d feel no compunction gloating over William’s disasters if my sister and nephews weren’t plunged into penury with him.”

“What about your penury? You’re damned quick to care about the fate of Roberta and her brats.”

She raised her chin. “In two months, I turn twenty-five. William’s guardianship ends and I’ll receive an allowance from my father’s will. It’s not much—a plutocrat like you would scoff—but it will establish me away from my brother-in-law’s tantrums. I have plans for a useful future. I intend to set up a house of my own and teach indigent girls to read so they can make their way in the world.”

The idea of Sidonie slaving her life away as a spinster schoolmistress struck him as a tragic waste, but he knew better than to say so. He’d caught the militant light in her eye when she mentioned the unappealing scheme. “I’m surprised William hasn’t married you off. Especially if you already have a dowry.”

“I meant it when I said I’d never wed.” Whatever she saw in his smile, it discomfited her enough to make her try to shift away. He didn’t let her go. He began to suffer the alarming fantasy that he’d never let her go.

“Not all husbands are like William. Or like your father.”

Her expression turned bleak. “It’s pure luck, though, isn’t it? The law gives a husband ownership of his wife. I value my judgment too dearly to sacrifice it to another’s. And there’s no escape—the contract binds until death. A married woman is little better than a slave.”

“Not an opinion popular at Almack’s.”

She shrugged. “For six years, I’ve lived as William’s pensioner and watched him brag and bully. Even though my sister’s dowry was all that kept clothes on his back. Unmarried, I’m at the mercy of nobody’s mistakes but my own.”

“Don’t you want children?”

“Not at the cost of freedom.”

He frowned. “Such a solitary path you map. What about love?”

“Love?” She spat the word as though it tasted sour. “You surprise me, Merrick. I doubted you’d acknowledge the concept.”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?”

He waited for some derisive comment, but she remained silent. Perhaps because of that silence, he lifted the veil on the bitter truth he never mentioned. Ever. “I’m not a fool. I’ve seen devotion. My father loved my mother till the day he died. His heart broke when he lost her. And his heart broke anew every time the world called her ‘whore’.”

Damn it, he’d said too much. Revealed too much. He knew it the moment he saw Sidonie’s face whiten with distress. All his life he’d survived by standing alone, relying on nobody but himself. Yet these uncharacteristic confidences placed him even further under Sidonie’s spell.

He needed to remember that isolation offered safety, whatever the appeal of pansy eyes and soft female compassion.

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