He said something, but she couldn't hear, couldn't do anything but feel. He pulled back and thrust deep, again and again, suddenly moving with the speed she craved. Her pleasure spun upward with each thrust of his driving hips. Harder and harder he moved, faster, and the door thudded with each plunging stroke of him, over and over and over... .

The beat picked up more and more, deeper, stronger, rattling the door hinges. He bent his head again and kept on thrusting, the meter unchanging. It started then, the glimmer that grew and grew with each motion of him within her, that wonderful journey to ecstasy. Higher and higher she rose. He moved deeper and seemed to swell within her. The noise of door hinges, the deep thudding movements faded, and that delicious glimmer grew bright until she screamed into his mouth and pulsed so hard around his shaft that she almost ached with each throb. A moment later she smelled roses.

"Damn, but this is good," he growled in response and pulled her knees higher and sent her over the edge again and again until she could hardly tell one release from another. She opened her eyes and saw pink petals raining down, hundreds of them.

"The roses," he rasped against her lips and circled his hips faster and faster.

The petals lit on his bent head, stuck to the dampness of his neck and back, where his muscles grew taut and bulged with the drive of his motions. Still he rocked inside her until finally he pulled almost out of her and drove inside with a shout of triumph. An instant later his life pulsed into her. Then there was nothing but time, seconds and minutes that went by unnoticed. Her fingers loosened their grip on his damp shoulders. Crushed rose petals drifted down to join the layers on the floor around them. Her heart still sped, and her breath still came in panting gasps, and just as it had before, the air smelled spring-sweet and autumn-musky. She let her head fall back against the door and just breathed.

She felt Alex stir against her, for the first time in many minutes. His hands relaxed their tight grip on her bottom and moved to her hips; then he slid his palms down to her knees and tenderly lifted them from around him, and her legs fell free. He slowly lowered her to the floor, her cheek sliding from his damp shoulder to the center of his chest where his heart pounded a rhythm in her ear that was almost as hard and strong as their joining.

He finally raised his head. She saw his face. He seemed to be clinging to some desperate sense of isolation he found necessary to his being. Let it go, my love, please, she thought. He was quiet for a moment. Then he stared at her mouth with avid hunger in his eyes. He kissed her again, parting her lips and tasting her before he moved his mouth to her ear and told her what she felt like inside and how he wanted to feel that again.

She smiled, but it was hidden by his warm damp neck.

He lowered his head to kiss her.

The door resounded with a firm knock.

The kiss continued.

The next rap was harder.

He pulled back, then whispered against her mouth, "Our rooms must be ready." He righted his clothing and stepped back, then helped her button her bodice and brushed the rose petals off both of them.

"My hairpins." Joy pointed at the rug, which was layered with rose petals.He looked at her through heated eyes and reached out to lift a long hank of her hair. A stray petal fell, drifting down to the floor in the utter silence of the room. Now that he'd given in, it was as if he didn'tcare about anything but the two of them. It was a beginning.The knock sounded again."Yes, yes! In a minute!" He dropped her hair. "Leave the pins and the petals. We'll finish this upstairs."

Grabbing her hand, he jerked open the door and started to pull her along behind him.

Somewhat red-faced, Henson cleared his throat loudly. "Your Grace, the earl of Downe and theViscount Seymour."Joy bumped into Alec as he ground to a halt. He muttered a swearword.Stunned, she glanced up at him and followed his gaze to Neil's embarrassed face. Hers must have flooded just as red.

"Welcome to London," Richard drawled, leaning against one wall of the long entry hall, a knowing lookon his cocky face.Mortified, Joy glanced to Alec for help.He stood as straight as a Highland pine. "How long have you been here?" Richard turned to Neil, whose sheepish stance told her exactly how long they'd been there, and he pulled out his pocket watch and

gave it a cursory glance. "Ten minutes or so. Long enough."No embarrassment showed on Alec's face, only arrogance and displeasure. He turned, blocking herfrom their view. "Go on upstairs."

"Where?" she whispered. She had no idea where their rooms were, but was almost willing to chancegetting lost again just so she could get away.

"Fifth door on the right. I'll join you later."Richard said something about his use of the word "join" that made Alec's hand tense on hers. Shesucked in a breath. He released her hand. "Go."

She hurried up the stairs. Just as she made the first landing, she heard the earl's sardonic voice."That's fifty pounds you owe me, Seymour. That was definitely a door banger."

Chapter 19.

The morning of the hiring fair dawned crisp and cold and icy. The ice prevented the physician from arriving at Belmore House until almost noon-the ice and the measles epidemic. He departed an hour later, leaving instructions for poor Carstairs and two of the maids-the ones who could cook-to remain in bed until the spots faded. Since the duke had left even earlier, fate had given the new duchess her first duty.

Wedged between Fishmongers' Hall and the Wharf House was a small and drafty brown brick building where a straggly group of misfits stood upon a platform, each holding a sign proclaiming his or her occupation. Amid the prospective employers stood the duchess of Belmore, her chin high, her small shoulders back, and her green-gloved finger pointing at a black man at the end of the line.

A bewigged Henson leaned toward Joy and said, "Begging Your Grace's pardon, but I don't believe that... uh... one"-he took a second look, frowning for a moment before he continued-"is exactly what His Grace has in mind."

"You don't?" Joy eyed the huge man who dwarfed the scruffy and pitiful men and women standing on a platform before them. She tapped a finger against her lips. Except for the one man, the prospects did not look promising. If the truth be told, most of them were frightening. The men appeared hard-edged and dirty, and many looked at her as though they were intent on mayhem and murder. There were only two women, both slovenly, and they had eyed poor Henson with the same ferity with which Beezle eyed his hair.

She felt a gentle tug on her skirt and turned to her maid.

The girl looked at her in wide-eyed horror. "Oh, ma'am, you cannot hire that man! He's... he's-"

"The sign he's holding states he can cook," Joy said, trying to judge exactly how tall the man actually was. Despite the short black beard that framed his wide lips and covered his chin, the man was clean, and there was something about him that belied his massive size, something that said he wouldn't harm a soul.

Polly leaned over and whispered, "He looks like a pirate, ma'am, a huge black pirate. I read a book about pirates, and they're cruel. They drink rum and make people walk the plank-even womenfolk. And they kidnap orphans, they do."

Joy had to agree that the billowing white shirt, black breeches, and high black boots made him look dangerous, but she sensed this man had a good heart. "There haven't been any pirates in England for years, Polly. It's just the big gold earring that makes him look like one."

"But, ma'am, what about his hair?"

"Different, isn't it?" She raised a finger to her lips again and inspected him. "I don't think I've ever seen a man with a braid that long."

"But the rest of his head is bald."

"Quite possibly he's been with Her Grace's pet weasel." Henson eyed the man's shiny head, then fingered his own white periwig.

"I am so sorry about your hair, Henson."

"Quite all right, madam. I have always preferred a wig. Gives the livery more distinction."

Joy had wanted to conjure up some more hair for Henson, but Alec had loudly forbidden it. She turned toward Polly. "Didn't you tell me that at Belmore Park the cook was always complaining about not being able to reach the tall shelves? This cook won't have that problem. Besides, he's the only one whose sign says he can cook. So we have no choice." Joy turned to Henson. "Do any of the others claim they can cook?"

"I believe Her Grace is correct." Henson tugged on the curled queue of his wig.

"And look!" Joy pointed. "See there? He's even got his own chicken. Do you suppose it's dead?"

A choked gasp came from her maid.

"Don't those look like chicken feathers to you, Polly?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I don't see a chicken-just the feathers, I do."

"There, you see. Let's go speak with him before someone else snaps him up."

"Somehow I doubt that will be a problem," Henson said, but Joy was already moving forward, leaving her two servants no choice but to follow. She reached the platform and turned back just in time to see Polly genuflect, mutter something, and cross herself.

"I didn't know you were Catholic," she said when Polly joined her.

"I'm surely not, ma'am, but from the likes of him I'd say the Lord's Prayer isn't enough." She leaned closer to Joy and whispered, "What do you suppose he does with those feathers?"

Joy shrugged, then looked up at the man. Judging from the lack of lines in his face skin, she was positive he wasn't old, and he certainly looked able-bodied. He was even broader and taller than Alec. A yard-long braid dangled like a tail from high on his shiny black head. In addition to his pirate clothes, he wore a wide thick belt studded with metal. Small beaded gourds, a hank of hair, and a clump of feathers swung from one side of the belt. If she hadn't known that the world's last genie was tightly corked in a bottle somewhere in North America, she'd have guessed this man was he.

"Her Grace, the duchess of Belmore," Henson said to the agent who stood next to the platform. "She would like to speak with that one." He nodded toward the black giant.

Joy shook out her skirt, raised her chin so as to look appropriately duchessy, and tried to make her mouth haughty, but it was difficult to purse one's lips when one's neck was so strained. Somehow she didn't feel like a duchess at all; she felt like a trout surfacing for flies.

The agent called out a number, and the man nodded, then stepped forward, the gourds rattling at his side.

Joy craned her head back to look up at him, and her attempts at haughtiness, lip pursing, and nose elevating were lost to the sheer wonder she felt when she took in his size. One deep breath and she

found her voice. "The sign says you can cook."The man nodded, pinning Joy with a stare that was serious but held no malice. "I cook with the shipBlack Magic five year." His voice was as deep as a barrel and heavily accented.

"Where are you from?""The Caribbees.""You need to address the duchess as Your Grace," Henson informed the man.The pirate turned his black eyes toward Henson, then looked back at her. He smiled then, showing his white teeth. "The Caribbees, You Grace."Joy knew then and there she would hire this man. His smile was real. "What are you called?""Kallaloo. John Kallaloo.""Well, Mr. John Kallaloo, what can you cook?""You Grace, call me Hungan John. Hungan John can cook anyting." He stood even taller, his face as proud as Alec's. "You Grace like langosta... lobster? Crab? Cocido de rinones?"She nodded, sure that the duke and the ton would like lobster and crab. "What is cocido de rinones?""You say kidney stew."Polly chanted a prayer to Mary, the mother of God.Joy nodded. It sounded good to her, and she remembered the English liked kidneys."Hungan John Kallaloo cook You Grace the best. No mon, no womon, cook better. You see." He swelled his chest out a bit, which was something to see, considering its size to begin with.

She thought him perfect for Belmore House. He had as much pride and self-assurance as her husband."I'd like to hire you. Would you like to cook for Belmore House?"Polly let out a wee squeak of protest, but nothing changed on Henson's face, ever the loyal and imperturbable servant.

"You'll have to excuse my maid," Joy said. She leaned closer and whispered behind one gloved hand,"She thinks you look like a pirate."He pinned poor wee Polly with his black-eyed stare and slowly bent his head closer and closer to the maid, who was frozen in fear. He closed in until he was but a few feet from her horrified face. "Boo!"Polly screeched, her panicked fingers digging into the arms of both Henson and her mistress.Hungan John's laughter, as deep and thundering as the fabled Scottish battle drums, echoed in the hall- a wonderful sound. Still grinning, he looked right at Polly, who was still clutching Joy's arm, then took acirclet of white chicken feathers from his thick belt. He hung it around Polly's neck. "Fetish necklace.Keep away the pirates, little girl." Then he patted Polly's head. He turned his gray gaze back to Joy, and the grin faded from his dark face. Very quietly, he said, "Magic."

He knew. Joy's breath caught in her throat. Somehow, some way, this man knew what she was. Shereturned his look.He smiled then. "Good magic, You Grace."They stood there exchanging knowing looks, judging and liking what was there."Mr. Kallaloo will be perfect," she said to Henson."There's a wagon outside behind Her Grace's conveyance," Henson told the new cook. "Gather your things and load them into the waggon. We'll leave shortly."Hungan John paused. "You Grace need more servants?"Joy nodded."You need a butler?""Why, yes we do. Do you know someone?""Old mon called Forbes. He was a butler for fifty year. Master die. Old mon tossed out.""There now, Henson. Hungan John has found our butler for us."Henson straightened his wig and eyed the platform. "They all appear ready to slice our throats, Your Grace. Which one is Forbes?"Hungan John pointed behind him.Standing near a dingy curtain was a small white-haired man with bright red cheeks and thin lips. His blue satin coat was tattered and dusty, and his breeches looked to be as ancient as he was. His dingy white silk stockings were ripped and snagged, and one sagged around his ankles like elephant skin. He wore unmatched shoes-one black satin with a tarnished buckle, the other brown kid with a slightly higher heel-and they appeared to be on the wrong feet. His wire-rimmed spectacles were as thick as thumbs and magnified his pale blue eyes.

The poor wee man had no home. It didn't matter to Joy that he looked as old as the Tower of London. He seemed to need them even more than they needed a butler. Doing her best imitation of a duchess, Joy threw back her shoulders, raised her chin, and looked at the agent. In a voice she hoped was as commanding as Alec's she said, "We'll take Forbes, too."

Alec strode up the front steps of Belmore House, only to find the door locked. He pounded on the door. Nothing. He pounded again. Nothing. His face a mask of aggravation, he turned back around, but his carriage had just disappeared around the corner of the house.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, pacing back and forth on the steps. "Blasted weather. No servants, no footmen, no butler. Forced to eat cabbage for supper last night-cabbage!" He shivered at the memory of the vile stuff. He stepped back and looked upward, searching for some sign of life inside. Nothing.

Frost edged the windows, and the London air was freezing cold and damp and seeped right through even the many capes of his greatcoat.

"Damn, it's cold." He knocked again. "Where the hell is everyone?" He slammed his fist against the door.The bolts clicked and the door cracked open. One ancient, wrinkled, and suspicious blue eye peeredout at him from behind thick spectacles. "Who be ye?" came a shout as loud as a battle cry.

"I am-"

"Eh?"

"I said I am-"

"Speak up, there!" the old man shouted. "Can't hear ye when ye mutter!"

"I said," Alec shouted back, "I am His Grace-"

"What's wrong with yer face?"

"Not my face, you idiot! His Grace!"

"He's not here!"

The door slammed shut.

The Belmore crest on the door stared back at Alec. He waited, counting, for the door to reopen.

Nothing. He pounded on the door again. It opened a couple of inches."I... am... the duke... of Belmore, and-""The duke don't need yer ham!"The door slammed shut.Alec stared at the door, then took great pleasure in making a tight fist and clouting it. After the fifth bang the lock clicked. The door cracked again."Be gone with ye or ye'll have to face the duke himself!""I am the bloody duke!" Alec bellowed, his fists so tightly knotted his whole body shook.A gasp sounded from behind him, and he spun around to see the horrified faces of his neighbors, Lord and Lady Hamersley, staring up at him. Taking a deep breath, he collected his wits and tipped his hat.

"Good evening, Lady Jane. Hamersley."They nodded, whispered something to each other, and hurried toward their home across the square as ifrunning from a raving lunatic.

Seething, Alec turned around and took a step toward the entrance.

The door slammed closed again.

He saw nothing but a red haze. He spun around and strode down the stairs and along the carriage path toward the back of the house. His boots crunched in the snow with every sharp, angry step. He jerked the kitchen door open and ground to a halt.

Blackbeard was in his kitchen. Blackbeard.