"I did not know." Each word was crisply enunciated. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"You have been much on my mind, my dear, since abandoning me last night," he said. "So I asked a few discreetly placed questions and was a little disturbed by what I discovered."

Anger sketched across her face. "As I am a little disturbed to have been run to ground as if I were some sort of prey," she returned. "I apologize, sir, as I hope you do, for what happened last night. However, when a lady abruptly leaves a gentleman under such circ.u.mstances, there are but a few conclusions one can draw."

"Are there indeed?" he murmured. "I could think of only one."

"And yet you followed me here?" she challenged, entirely missing his point. "Followed me into the privacy of my home? That, sir, is unacceptable."

Nash watched her warily for a moment. Even amidst his confusion, he could not help but be aware of her proximity and of her almost palpable allure. She was an unconventional beauty to be sure, with her dark chestnut hair, thin nose, and eyes too widely set-eyes which were focused on him unblinkingly, demanding an answer to her challenge.

"You must pardon me, Miss Neville," he finally said. "I have misjudged the situation."

"It would seem so," she returned. "What on earth possessed you to call upon my brother?"

"I was entering the lion's den, I thought," he answered. "I am not the sort of man who waits for trouble to find me, and I wished to see which way the wind blew."

"Oh, how ridiculous!" she answered. "What did you say?"

"Very little that made sense," Nash confessed.

"I wish you to stay away from him," she commanded. "Rothewell eats dandies like you for breakfast, Lord Nash. Trust me, you do not want to irritate him."

Nash drew in his breath sharply. "I beg your pardon. Did you say dandy-?"

Miss Neville colored. "Well, a fashion plate, then. Or a tulip. Or an exquisite, perhaps?" She stopped and pursed her lips. "I beg your pardon. I meant no insult, and I obviously don't know the proper words. But whatever you are, just stop antagonizing my brother."

Nash stepped closer, and grasped her arm. "And talking about what we were doing on Sharpe's terrace might antagonize him?"

"Good G.o.d!" Her eyes sparked with blue fire. "Surely you did not?"

He set his head to one side and studied her, still gripping her arm quite firmly. "No, I did not," he answered musingly. "Tell me, Miss Neville, what do you think his reaction would have been?"

She jerked her arm away, and stepped back. "I cannot say," she confessed. "Nothing, perhaps. Or perhaps he would have shot you dead where you stood. That is the very trouble with Rothewell, don't you see? One never knows. Kindly go away, Lord Nash. And stay away. I think you will be saving all of us from a vast amount of grief."

He stepped closer, strangely unwilling to let her escape. "Tell me, Miss Neville, why did you kiss me last night?" he asked quietly. "Indeed, what in G.o.d's name were you doing alone on that terrace in the first place?"

"England is a free country," she responded. "I went out for air."

"Miss Neville, you are an unmarried woman," he protested. "Society generally expects-"

"Kindly save your breath," she interjected. "I neither need nor want another lecture about what English society expects. I am unwed, sir, not witless. If I wish a breath of fresh air, I shall have it, and your beau monde will simply have to wrestle with their ridiculous notion of propriety."

Against his will, Nash's mouth began to tug into a grin. "Well, it would appear our discussion here is finished," he said, taking up his cape and gloves. "You are, if I may say so, Miss Neville, a most fascinating woman. I wish to G.o.d you were a willing widow-or even some poor devil's willing wife-but you aren't, are you? And now I'm to suffer for it."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Lord Nash." She looked at him uncertainly. "No one need suffer."

"Alas, there is but one way to avoid that," he murmured. "And it is quite out of the question. Thank you, my dear, for a remarkable evening-two of them, actually."

He heard a sound of relief escape her lips as she turned toward the door. But at the last instant, she caught him by the arm. "Wait, Lord Nash." Her eyes were still wary. "I should like to know-what was your conclusion?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"On the terrace," she reminded him. "You said you could think of but one conclusion to draw. Obviously, it was the wrong one."

"Ah, that!" He smiled faintly. "When I learnt you were unmarried, I supposed that I had been followed onto the terrace and entrapped."

"Entrapped?" It took her a moment to comprehend, then understanding dawned. "Entrapped? Good Lord, what an insult."

He lifted one shoulder. "It is a constant threat to a man in my position."

She glowered at him. "You flatter yourself, Lord Nash. Were I a man, I might just call you out for such an affront and put a period to both you and your self-absorbed concerns."

"I begin to wonder you don't do it anyway," he said honestly. "Are you a very good shot?"

"Yes, but a tad out of practice," she said. "I'd likely miss your heart and hit your bowels, so it would be a long, painful, and putrefying death."

He winced. "Then I have been saved from a terrible fate indeed," he said, bowing to her. "You are a rare beauty, my dear, but not worth dying for-slowly or otherwise. I give you good evening, Miss Neville. And I wish you joy of your unwed state. Long may it continue."

Xanthia watched Lord Nash suspiciously, but his regret did indeed seem sincere. She gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment, then escorted her unexpected visitor to the door. Nash set his hand on the bra.s.s doork.n.o.b, but on impulse, Xanthia covered it with her own. "Will you answer one last question for me?"

He looked down his hawkish, arrogant nose, and lifted one eyebrow. "I cannot say," he answered. "Will it result in further threats to my life or my manhood?"

She ignored that, for she could see that he was struggling mightily to suppress a grin. "Could I ask you-or what I meant was-" She paused to lick her lips uncertainly. "Is it possible that you might be able to forget that...that last night ever happened?"

The crook in his eyebrow went up another notch. "Oh, not in a million years," he murmured, leaning just a little nearer. "I shall take the memory of that lush, sensuous mouth of yours to the grave, my dear. And then there is the perfect turn of your fine, firm derriere beneath my hand, and the almost searing heat of your-"

"I did not mean it quite literally," she interjected.

"Ah," he said, his eyes drifting down her length. "But you will not mind if I occasionally fantasize, Miss Neville, about what might have been? Here in London, the nights can be cold and lonely."

"Lord Nash, please." Xanthia felt the heat rise to her face. "I exhibited an unfathomable lack of judgment, and I wish you would not remind me of it."

"But if I cannot forget it, why should you?" His voice flowed over her like warm velvet. "Indeed, Miss Neville, you have cut me to the quick. I had hoped that there was some small remnant of that little interlude which you, too, might wish to cling to."

Xanthia tried to look grave. "Never mind that," she said. "All I am saying, sir, is that...well, I am going to be out in society a little more than I had expected. I beg you to never, ever mention what happened to anyone else."

He drew back a pace. "Good Lord, Miss Neville!" he answered. "What manner of man do you think me?"

She bit her lip, and glanced up at him. "A gentleman, I hope?"

"A gentleman, indeed," he murmured. "I should sooner have my fingernails ripped out by a French inquisitionist than share such an intimate and treasured memory."

Xanthia looked away. "Thank you," she said. "I do not ask this lightly-and not even for myself."

He shocked her then by touching her gently under the chin and drawing her face back to his. "If not for yourself," he asked quietly, "then for whom do you ask it?"

She lowered her gaze, and he dropped his hand. "For Lord and Lady Sharpe," she managed to say. "I must chaperone Lady Louisa through the remainder of her season. I shall even have to appear at Almack's. I fear my cousin's health has taken a fragile turn, and she cannot attend to it."

"Good Lord! Almack's?" His black eyes danced with laughter. "And you shall go?"

Her gaze snapped back to his. "You doubtless find that humorous," she returned. "But I have little choice in the matter. And you may believe me when I say there are a thousand things I should rather be doing than rubbing elbows with the ton."

He held her eyes for a long moment, some nameless emotion sketching over his features. "Well, then," he finally said. "Perhaps we are destined to meet again after all, Miss Neville."

"Oh, I doubt it." She managed a teasing smile. "You do not look the Almack's type to me. I should lay odds they won't even let you in the front door."

Again, he lifted one elegant shoulder. "One never knows," he murmured. "What sort of odds are you offering?"

Xanthia laughed. "Oh, just a straight wager," she said. "I must have a spare twenty-pound note lying about the house somewhere."

Nash smiled tightly. "Tempting, Miss Neville, but I think the take would have to be a good deal richer to get me into that sort of gaming h.e.l.l," he said. "Too many men have lost their most valuable a.s.set inside Almack's lofty portals."

Xanthia lifted her eyebrows. "What sort of a.s.set?"

Lord Nash flashed his wolfish grin. "Their priceless bachelorhood," he answered. "Now I bid you good evening, my dear, until we meet again. I believe I can find my own way out."

Amidst a tempest of emotions, Xanthia bathed and dressed for dinner. What a shock it had been to find Nash-Lord Nash-casually reclined in her brother's best chair and looking very much at home. Today he had seemed so very dark and tall-and altogether more man than she had remembered. In all the rush of Xanthia's workday, and in all the consternation over Pamela's health, she had somehow forced away the memory of last night's foolhardy escapade.

Well, that was not wholly true, she admitted, studying herself in the dressing mirror as she fastened her second earbob. The memory of Lord Nash's touch had lingered, hovering in the back of her mind, and engendering vague feelings of embarra.s.sment-interspersed with more than a few stabs of regret. And upon seeing him again, once the initial shock was past, the regret had cut like a keen blade. In the light of day, it was obvious just how striking a gentleman he was.

He was not handsome, no. Not in the English way. But he was elegance personified; lean and dark, like a cat prowling through a moonlit wood. There was an air of intrigue about the man which made one yearn to know him better in every sense of the word. Today Lord Nash had worn his heavy, too-long hair swept off his high forehead like a mane of sable. His cloak, an almost old-fashioned bit of elegance, had looked to be made of the most supple, finely draped wool imaginable, and his dark gray coat had molded beautifully to the width of his shoulders.

His face, too, was remarkable. Those hard planes and angles held a severity and a certain majesty which she had not noticed the previous evening. And his eyes-oh, G.o.d, those obsidian eyes! They were almost exotic in appearance, and set at just a hint of an angle, as if the blood of a Mongol horde coursed through his veins.

All of it left Xanthia wondering. What if she had not left him standing on the balcony last night? What if she had been daring enough to act on her fantasies? What if she had simply given him her name and accepted his bold invitation into his bed?

He would have refused her, that was what would have happened. Once Lord Nash had learned she was unwed, he would have backed away as surely as if she had just burst into flames. He had the air of a man who had been singed before.

On a sigh, Xanthia straightened up from the mirror and looked herself straight in the eye. Forget him, she told herself. It will never happen. Not with Nash, and not with any other man. Well, not unless she wanted Gareth-and Gareth wanted far more than Xanthia was prepared to give.

With Gareth there had once been pa.s.sion, yes. And a sincere friendship, too. But Xanthia understood too well that a woman, once she married, became nothing but her husband's property. It was not that she believed Gareth would have wrested control of Neville Shipping from her, but merely that he would have had the legal right to do so. And it would have been her choice to give him that power over her and all that she had worked for. She loved him. But she did not love him enough for that.

In the dining room, she and Kieran pa.s.sed the first two courses of dinner catching up on the day's post. Kieran was not a man given to casual conversation, but there was a little news from home in the form of a letter from a neighboring plantation, and one of Kieran's tenants in Barbados had written to ask a rather convoluted question about water rights. Mundane business, to be sure, but it was the essence of their life together.

Kieran and Luke, and eventually Martinique, whom Luke had adopted, were all the real family Xanthia had ever known. And they were all she needed. Suddenly, however, in the midst of pa.s.sing a platter of b.u.t.tered parsnips down the table, Xanthia was struck with a vision of her hand on Pamela's gently rounding belly. She must have faltered, for Kieran grabbed the dish and drew it from her grasp. "All right, Zee?" he murmured, casting her a curious glance.

Xanthia forced a smile. "The dish was a little heavy."

Kieran motioned for more wine, then sent the footmen from the room. Xanthia knew the pointed questions were about to begin, but she rarely feared her brother's wrath. Indeed, she understood him better than anyone-which was to say not very well, and yet well enough to grasp the one truth which eluded almost everyone. Each blunt and heavy-handed thing the great Baron Rothewell did was motivated by a bone-deep sense of duty; a duty he had been neither born to nor trained for. A duty which he had brought upon himself-or so he believed.

Their elder brother's untimely death had scared them both deeply, for in one horrifying instant, the brave trio of orphans had become but two. And neither she nor Kieran had been prepared for it. So she forgave Kieran his meddling and his barking, and bore it with as much fort.i.tude as she could muster.

Kieran was circling the wine around the bowl of his gla.s.s and staring into it almost blindly. "I wish to hear all about this Nash fellow, my dear," he said. "I gather you met him at Pamela's?"

Xanthia lowered her eyes. "In pa.s.sing."

"Well, you must have made quite an impression, Zee," he went on. "You realize, of course, that Gareth Lloyd's heart will be broken if you marry your Lord Dark-and-Dangerous?"

Xanthia stopped nudging her peas from one side of the plate to the other. "I beg your pardon?" she said. "If I what?"

Kieran eyed her from across the table. "If you marry Nash."

Xanthia's eyes felt as round as her dinner plate. "What in heaven's name gave you such a notion?"

"Perhaps it was the fact that the man asked permission to court you," Kieran returned. "What, did he not come to the point?"

Xanthia was aghast. "He certainly did not."

"Good." Kieran took up his knife and deftly sliced the leg off his roast chicken. "I hoped he had cast aside the notion."

"Surely-" Xanthia's voice hit an oddly sharp note. "Surely, Kieran, you cannot be serious about this?"

"He asked permission to court you," said Kieran more firmly. "And I put him off. I suggested he find someone younger, and more biddable. Besides, he clearly knows next to nothing about you, Zee, so-" Suddenly, he halted. "I hope, my dear, that I have not misinterpreted your feelings for the fellow?"

Xanthia shook her head. "No."

No. The answer was definitely no. And now the only feeling Xanthia was suffering was the slightest sense of light-headedness. Lord Nash must be perfectly mad. Had he really believed he had somehow tainted Xanthia's precious virtue? With just a kiss?

But it had not been just a kiss, had it? At the mere memory, a faint tug of desire went twisting through her, ratcheting up her breath. Xanthia closed her eyes. Good Lord, if she allowed herself to think of it, even for an instant, she could still feel that sweet, languorous yearning which his mouth and his touch had aroused. It made one think of candlelight, and of soft linen sheets, and of...

No. It was not just a kiss. And Nash was right. Had it been Lady Louisa whom he had so flagrantly caressed on the terrace last night, Sharpe would have had him leg-shackled before noon. And he would have deserved it, for Louisa was obviously an innocent. But Xanthia was not-and therein lay all the difference. She marveled that Nash had not noticed it. Perhaps he had. Perhaps that was why he had begun to fear the snap of a parson's mousetrap.

Kieran was looking at her strangely.

Xanthia took up her fork and forced a bemused expression. "Lord Dark-and-Dangerous," she murmured. "Why do you call him that?"

Kieran forked up another bite of chicken. "I find a malevolent sort of air about the man," he said after thoughtfully chewing it. "He isn't English, either. Or perhaps I should say English is not his first language. Did you notice?"

Xanthia's eyes widened. "You may be right," she answered. "I have rubbed elbows with sailors so long, I pay scant heed to a faint accent."

Kieran looked introspective. "Well, wherever he is from, I am not sure I care for his effrontery," he remarked. "I believe I shall ask Sharpe about the man's character."

"Oh, pray do not." Xanthia frowned at her brother. "Indeed, I forbid it."

"You forbid it?" Kieran shot a dark look across the table, then relented. "Well, suit yourself, Zee. It's your wedding, not mine."

"It isn't anyone's wedding," she insisted.

"And you did not answer my question about Gareth, my dear," he went on. "I hope I need not remind you that Gareth is still our dear friend. Indeed, he is all but family to us both."

"What are you trying to say, Kieran?" she demanded.

"Just do not hurt him, Zee, any more than is absolutely necessary," said her brother quietly. "If you do not mean to have him, then tell him plainly."

Xanthia dropped her fork. "I have told him plainly," she said. "I have been telling him for about half a decade now, Kieran. Kindly hush about Gareth. I have something far more important to discuss."

"Have at it, my dear," said her brother, his tone instantly lightening. "But for G.o.d's sake, do not speak to me of Neville Shipping, or of what you and Gareth have been about all day. I should rather hear an alphabetical recitation of the Westminster tax rolls."