"I suppose it's possible."

"More than possible I'd say. He wouldn't want someone who'd stand up to him. It seems I owe you more than I realize."

"You don't owe me anything, Catherine."

"That wasn't our arrangement."

"As you said at the ball, we've become friends of a sort. So as a friend, I shall rid you of the problem of Avendale."

An hour later, as Catherine brushed her hair following her bath, she admitted to herself that she'd enjoyed their late-night repast in the kitchen, relaxing as the minutes progressed, not so much because of the wine-she'd drunk more than she'd intended-but because of Claybourne's ability to distract her from what they would soon face. They'd spoken of inconsequential things: the rain that had started to fall while they ate, the finely crafted furniture that he'd been told had been in the family for three generations, the portraits painted by the most famous of artists. He promised to show her the grounds the next day.

"There'll be time," he said.

She was grateful that she'd come, that she had this little bit of time with him-alone. Just the two of them.

She kept thinking about Frannie's comment that Catherine was the better choice to accompany him and her urging Catherine to take care of him. She didn't doubt that Claybourne loved Frannie, but she did question whether or not Frannie loved him as deeply as he deserved-as deeply as Catherine did.

Setting the brush down, she realized that she'd never have an opportunity like this again. Once they confronted Avendale or he confronted them, once the matter was resolved, they'd return to London. Their bargain would be at an end, and Claybourne would become nothing more than a name handwritten on an invitation to her b.a.l.l.s.

After circling the dance floor in Claybourne's arms, Catherine knew her reputation was undoubtedly ruined-even if no one ever discovered that she'd traveled alone with him.

He'd told her that first night that the price she'd pay for waltzing with the devil was residing in h.e.l.l. Well, she'd waltzed with him and if h.e.l.l was coming, she wanted a good deal more than a waltz.

He was sleeping in the room next to hers. So close. So very close.

Yet she knew, with absolutely no doubt, that he'd not come to her. That he'd not take advantage of her nearness. He was a scoundrel and a gentleman.

He was the man she'd quite simply fallen madly in love with. And if she could have only one night with him, she would make it enough to last her lifetime.

Luke stood at the window in his bedchamber, staring out at the night. He'd bathed earlier and now wore nothing except a silk robe. He'd hoped the warm bath would bring slumber, but he never slept well here. To make matters worse, he couldn't stop thinking about Catherine being in the next room. What had possessed him to give in to her demands and allow her to accompany him?

He didn't think she'd be in danger. He felt quite confident that he could handle Avendale. But it had been reckless to bring her. Even more so when he considered the truth of it: he wanted her near.

She'd brought him into this situation and should face it with him.

Oh, if only his reasons were that selfless. But no, they were completely selfish. Once he saw to Avendale, Luke's portion of their arrangement would be completed and Catherine would become little more than someone he saw occasionally at a ball-if he and Frannie attended b.a.l.l.s. He'd not force her if she remained reluctant. So perhaps Catherine would no longer be in his life at all.

He was taken aback by the despair that particular thought brought.

He couldn't deny that he cared for her. He enjoyed her company. He admired her courage, her loyalty to her friend. He admired the manner in which she carried burdens with no complaint. He admired the slope of her throat, the plumpness of her lips- Groaning, he dug his fingers into the edge of the window. He'd hurl himself through it before he dishonored Frannie by taking another woman to his bed now that he'd asked her to marry him. But Frannie was not yet his wife. She was not even his betrothed. She was simply the woman he adored, the one he'd always envisioned spending his life with. He pressed his forehead to the outer corner of the window. Was adoration love?

He'd known her more years than he'd known Catherine, yet at that precise moment he couldn't remember the shape of Frannie's lips. The hue. Were they a dark red or pink? Catherine's were the red of an apple, freshly fallen from a tree.

It made no sense that Catherine occupied so much of his mind when Frannie was the one he wanted as his wife.

But G.o.d help him, Catherine was the one he desired.

And not only physically. She was the one he looked forward to talking to each evening. She was the one whose smile made his heart beat a little faster. She was the one he wanted to explore-not only every curve of her body but every facet of her mind. She fascinated, tempted, and beguiled him as he'd never before been fascinated, tempted, or beguiled. He told himself it was because she was new while Frannie was familiar-yet Catherine didn't feel new. She never had. From the first moment he'd spotted her at that ball all those years ago, when he'd gazed into her eyes, he'd thought that if he still possessed all his soul it would have found its mate in hers. But his soul was but a remnant, and in very short order it would be gone completely.

He wasn't even certain that he could ask Frannie to marry him then. Like Catherine, she deserved a better man than one who could so easily give the devil his due.

The door clicked open, and before he turned he knew who'd come into his room. He should have ordered her out. He should have leapt through the window.

Instead he stayed as he was and began praying that he would have the strength to resist what he feared she was about to offer.

On silent bare feet, Catherine crossed the room to where Claybourne stood before the window. "I couldn't sleep. I thought perhaps you couldn't either. Are you watching for Avendale?"

"No, simply watching the rain. I've never slept well here, never been comfortable. I tend to suffer numerous head pains."

"Are you suffering now?"

"Not yet."

"But you will."

"Most likely."

She gazed out the window as well, finding it much easier to speak looking outside rather than directly at him. "I suspect I'll never marry," she said quietly.

"Indeed?"

"I know I'm strong willed, outspoken, and that men prefer a biddable woman when it comes to a wife. I'm not very skilled at being biddable."

"Indeed?"

She heard humor laced through his voice.

"If you're not going to converse don't be patronizing."

"My apologies. There is little I can expound on when the truth is spoken."

He was going to make this difficult or perhaps he was simply too dense to follow where she was leading with this. She twisted her head to look at him and discovered he was watching her, his eyes smoldering as they had that night at the first ball he'd ever attended. He wanted her. She knew it as surely as she knew that she wanted him.

He had the appearance of a gentleman but he was a scoundrel at heart, and she was depending on that aspect of his character now, hoping beyond hope that it'd not let her down.

"I don't wish to die without knowing what it is to lie with a man-"

"You're not going to die," he ground out, his voice fairly seething, and she realized that he thought she was referring to her imminent demise when they faced Avendale.

Although she realized it was a very real possibility and made her decision to come to his room seem all the more right. "I'm not expecting an early death," she a.s.sured him. "I know you'll see to Avendale. I'm talking years from now, and I'm talking tonight. I want my first time to be with a man of pa.s.sion. I know you love Frannie, but you are not, as yet, officially betrothed, so I thought perhaps you would..." She lowered her gaze. "I care for you. I don't want to be alone tonight."

He placed his knuckles beneath her chin and tilted her head back until he could hold her gaze. "I can't have you in my bed without having you, Catherine. I'm not a saint."

"I don't want a saint. I've always been of the opinion that if a woman were going to stray from the righteous path and seek out wickedness, she would be far more satisfied lying in bed with the devil."

His fingers unfurled and he cradled her face. "Be certain, Catherine, because once this is done, it can't be undone."

Very slowly, very deliberately, she unb.u.t.toned her dressing gown and slid it off her shoulders, very much aware of it slithering along her bare body and pooling on the floor, very much aware of his breathing turning ragged, his eyes darkening with desire.

Reaching out, he cradled her face between his large hands. She knew the strength they held, knew the comfort they could deliver. His thumbs circled her cheeks, stroked the corners of her mouth, while his gaze never left hers, as though he were measuring her readiness, as though her standing there bare-a.s.sed was not proof enough.

"I don't know if I've ever known a woman as beautiful as you, Lady Catherine Mabry. You humble me by coming to me tonight."

"Do you have to talk so much?"

He grinned at her, a warm grin, filled with understanding. "I don't have to speak at all."

Then he lowered his mouth to hers, and any semblance of civility between them was washed away as his tongue plundered. There was a rumble deep in his chest, a growl that required from her an answering moan. He moved his hands to the back of her head, sc.r.a.ped his fingers along her scalp, threaded them through her unbound hair, angling her head so he could kiss her more deeply, as though he would devour her, as though he could never have enough her.

Lord knew she'd never have enough of him. She closed the small gap that separated his body from hers, her hands seeking and finding the knotted sash of his robe, her fingers frantically working it loose until the sash fell away and the robe parted. Without thought, without shame, she pressed her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his bared chest. The warmth of him, the velvetiness of his skin felt so marvelous. Her nipples hardened into tight little buds that pulled at the core of her womanhood. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, running her hands up and down his broad back.

All the while, his mouth clung to hers.

His muscles rippled beneath her fingers as he shrugged out of the robe. Now nothing separated them. She was aware of his heat burning against her belly. Hard. Hot. Growing damp.

He tore his mouth from hers. "I shall spill my seed all over you before I ever get you to bed."

"Is that a good thing?"

"It will be," he rasped. "I have no doubt it will be."

He lifted her into his arms and began carrying her to the bed. She ran her hands over his shoulders, his chest. She wanted to know how he came to have every scar that she pressed her lips to, ran her tongue over. He had only the lightest smattering of hair in the center of his chest, and she wove her fingers through it. She kissed his neck, damp with sweat, nibbled on his earlobe, heard him growl, and bit lightly. His growl deepened.

He laid her on the bed. The covers had already been turned down. The sheet was cool against her back. She was hot, so very hot. The rain continued to patter against the pane, so they couldn't open the window. There was no hope for it. Tonight she'd burn in h.e.l.l, and she'd never wanted anything more.

She scooted over so he could join her, but instead he sat on the foot of the bed where he ran his hands over her ankles, her calves. He kissed her toes, her knees, the inside of her thighs, her stomach, stretching his body over her before rising up above her and gazing down on her. She thought she should feel shame at the way he looked at her so blatantly, but all she felt was joy because she could see that he found her pleasing.

"You're so beautiful," he rasped. "More so than I imagined."

"You've thought about me?"

He gave her a deliciously wicked and sensuous smile. "Oh, yes, Catherine. That night at the first ball, I imagined you just like this, spread out over my bed in all your naked glory. And you have haunted me ever since."

He lowered his mouth to hers, his tongue meeting no resistance, because she wanted to taste him as much as he wanted to taste her. Whiskey was ripe upon his tongue, a flavor that intoxicated her, reminded her of the night when she'd almost lost him. Desperation fueled her pa.s.sion, desperation to know him in every way that a woman could know a man.

Luke didn't know if he'd ever lain with a woman as enthusiastic as Catherine. She touched him everywhere as though she couldn't get enough of him. Not only with her hands, but with her mouth, her lips, her tongue. She kissed each of his scars with tenderness, then ran her tongue over his chest as though she were a cat and he were the milk to be lapped from the bowl. She was by turns, bold and shy, looking to him for approval, her lovely blue eyes darkening with desire when he granted it.

She was everything a man could wish for in a lover.

Claybourne was everything a woman could wish for in a lover, Catherine thought as he skimmed his hands along her body. By turns, he was considerate and gentle, rough and demanding.

She'd grumbled at him for talking so much, and he'd told her that he didn't have to speak at all, but he did. Near her ear, he urged her boldness on with a raspy voice that more often than not sounded as though he were strangling.

Touch him there and there and there.

Hold him tightly. Stroke him slowly.

And when her fingers faltered, he laid his hand over hers, guiding her motions, his gaze holding hers, daring her not to look away, daring her to see the smoldering pa.s.sion and to know what she was capable of doing to him. She was capable of driving him to madness. He was not a quiet lover and each sound he made was music to her ears, enticed her into giving him more so that she might receive more.

A fine sheen of sweat coated his throat. Sweat belonged to laborers, not gentlemen, but she kissed his throat anyway, felt his pulse jump beneath her lips. Felt her own pulse leap when he buried his fingers in her hair and blanketed her mouth with his own.

She didn't know what she'd expected. Something quick, painful, but still somehow exquisite. But this was more than she'd ever imagined. Beautiful in its intensity, frightening because she didn't know how she'd live without it when it went away.

He touched her everywhere, intimately, with his fingers, his mouth as though he cherished every inch of her, as though she could possibly mean as much to him as he did to her.

He moved back down to her feet, and this time when he kissed his way up her body, he managed to wedge himself firmly between her thighs.

"I wish I could do this without hurting you," he rasped.

She eased her back off the bed and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, before falling back to the pillow. "You'll only hurt me if we don't finish what we've begun."

She felt him pushing, seeking entry, felt her body welcoming him, watched the concentration on his face, almost blurted out that she loved him- And then the pain came, sharp and quick, and he groaned so loudly that she thought it had hurt him as well, but when he opened his eyes, there was naught there but supreme satisfaction.

"You're so tight," he gasped, "so hot. Marvelous."

He kissed her then, his tongue darting and swirling as his hips thrust and circled. She couldn't deny that she felt discomfort, but it gave way to sensations that rippled through her in undulating waves of pleasure.

Their bodies slick, grew slicker. Their flesh hot grew hotter.

He grabbed her hands, intertwined their fingers, held them in place on either side of her head as he pumped his body into hers, his deep feral groans echoing around them.

"Oh, Lord!" She'd never known sensations such as this, thought she might fall apart as he ground his hips against hers.

Then the cataclysm came, wondrous in its intensity, as she tightened around him, mewling sounds echoing around her. She was vaguely aware of his body shuddering, hers pulsing around him. They were both breathing harshly when he kissed the curve of her shoulder and rolled off her. She barely had time to feel bereft at his leaving, before he slid his arm around her and drew her up against his side, guiding her head to the crook of his shoulder, the perfect place to listen to the wild thudding of his heart. And listen to it she did, felt it as well, with her hand touching his chest.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Perfect." Breathless, languid, tingling all over, but perfect.

He laughed, a deep rich sound of pure satisfaction. "Good."

His breathing began to even out. She tilted her face up slightly, saw his closed eyes, and realized he'd gone to sleep. If she didn't feel so lethargic herself, she might have been disappointed that their night together was already over.

Instead, she pressed a kiss to his chest and joined him in slumber.

Luke awoke with a start. Usually he didn't sleep when he came to the estate because the dreams were so disturbing. He was always being chased, trying to hide- But it wasn't a dream that woke him this time.

He looked down on the woman sprawled halfway over his body, her small hand curled in the center of his chest. If he'd not encountered her maidenhead, he'd have thought she was as experienced as any courtesan. But then he wasn't surprised that she hadn't been timid. Not his Catherine.

His Catherine. She wasn't his. At least not beyond their time at Heatherwood.

True to the brand that marked him as a thief, he was stealing moments with her, moments that didn't rightfully belong to him. He should have resisted her, but he had no regrets. He'd have always wondered. And now he knew. In all things, she was incredible.

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him. "I was right. A devil is better than a saint."

He rolled until she was on her back, and he was on his side. "How do you know? You've never had a saint."

"But I can't imagine that he could bring me as much pleasure." She took his hand and pressed a kiss to the scar that marred the inside of his thumb. "I hate that they did this to you."