Caleb cursed as a shot of lust slid into his groin and his shaft went achingly hard. He was glad for the shadows on the terrace and annoyed at the heavy bulge straining against the front of his breeches.

Dammit to bloody hell. What was it about her that made her so different from the rest of the women he had known?

Cursing the unwelcome hold she had over him, Caleb walked away from the window. He couldn't afford to think of her and so he turned his attention to the task he had set for himself tonight.

The party was in full swing, guests drinking, gambling, dancing, some sneaking off to assignations in the rooms upstairs. The drawing rooms in this wing of the house echoed with laughter and gaiety, but the opposite wing was mostly dark. The library was there and the study. Both rooms opened onto the garden.

Careful to stay in the shadows, Caleb made his way in that direction.

14.

Gabriella Durant stood next to Elizabeth Sorenson beneath the extravagant cloud-painted ceiling of the Cirrus Room. It hummed with the laughter and conversation of guests, the busy hustle of liveried servants carrying silver trays heavy with hors d'oeuvres and champagne.

Elizabeth's blue eyes latched onto one of the men across the room. "My God-did you invite Charles?" Gowned in white satin glittering with brilliants, Elizabeth stared at her husband as if a ghost had appeared on the opposite side of the drawing room.

"He arrived with Lord Claymont. Dylan said Charles asked if he could come." It was very bad ton, Gabriella knew. A man could come to an affair like this with his mistress, but never his wife.

Years ago, after Charles had abandoned his bride for another woman, Elizabeth had shown her disdain for Society and done exactly as she pleased. She still did. But she rarely appeared at a function where her husband would be present and Charles did his best to avoid his errant wife.

Or at least he had done so in the past.

Lately, Gabriella had noticed, Charles had made an unexpected appearance on several occasions and much of his attention had focused on his beautiful wife.

"Perhaps he has come because you are here."

"Charles?" She laughed and Gabriella didn't miss the bitterness in her voice. "I am the last reason he would be here. Perhaps he has his eye on an actress or an opera singer... Juliette Beauvoir perhaps. I heard he has been without a mistress for some time."

"Now that you mention it, I had heard that as well." Gabriella looked at her friend, whose gaze kept straying across the room toward the lean, sandy-haired man she had married but with whom she no longer shared a bed.

"Have you seen much of Charles lately?" Gabriella asked.

Elizabeth turned. "It's funny you should ask. You know he has been living at Rotham Hall these last several months." It was the earl's estate not far from the city where Elizabeth lived with her sons Peter and Tom. "I told him if he wished to stay with the boys for a while, I would move into the town house, but he said there was plenty of room for all of us."

"Interesting."

"I was surprised, to say the least. I might have moved, but the boys seemed so happy to have the two of us there I decided to stay. I don't imagine he'll remain much longer."

"So the two of you have been spending time together."

She glanced away. "I see him at breakfast on occasion. I make it a point to stay out of his way."

And it probably broke her friend's heart. Gabriella might have cursed Charles Sorenson as she had more than once over the years if she hadn't spotted the earl just then, staring at his wife from across the room, his face wreathed in an expression that could only be described as longing.

Dear God, had the man finally realized what he had thrown away? Was it possible? Charles was older now, less of a rogue than he had been back then. Though Elizabeth's reputation had been in tatters for years, Charles had maintained a facade of respectability. At any rate, a man having a mistress was accepted among the ton. But Charles was risking a blow to that facade by being here tonight with Elizabeth.

Was it really Juliette Beauvoir or some other woman who tempted him? Or could it be his lovely, heartbroken wife?

"Have you seen Vermillion?" Elizabeth asked, drawing her thoughts in another direction.

"The last time I saw her, she was talking to Lord Nash." She turned a searching glance around the room, but her niece wasn't there.

"Perhaps she has returned to the gaming room. I saw her there earlier, in conversation with Lord Andrew."

Gabriella sighed. "More likely she has gone off somewhere by herself. The closer we get to her birthday, the more worried I become." She returned her attention to Elizabeth. "I may have made a mistake, Beth. I don't think she is ready."

"I've been thinking that myself."

"For me it was different. I was enamored of my first lover and at least half dozen other of my admirers. My only difficulty in choosing a protector came in knowing I would have to give up the rest-at least for a time. Most of my liaisons didn't last long, not in the beginning. Since Claymont, I haven't felt the restlessness I felt back then."

"I think he loves you."

"Claymont? Perhaps he does. He says so often enough."

"What about you? Do you love him?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "What would it matter? Dylan is an earl. We live in two different worlds."

Elizabeth gazed toward her sandy-haired husband across the drawing room. "Speak to Vermillion," she said. "Tell her she doesn't have to choose unless she wishes it. She's a woman now. Tell her whatever decision she makes should be her own."

Gabriella nodded. Once again, she scanned the room for her niece, but Vermillion wasn't there.

Closing the terrace door softly behind him, Caleb stepped into the darkened study. He slid the draperies closed behind him and went in search of illumination. A brass lamp sat on a Hepplewhite table. Lifting the chimney, he struck flint to tinder and lit the wick, and a soft yellow glow filled the room.

Caleb held up the lamp to survey his surroundings, found himself in a large, wood-paneled, book-lined room. A burgundy leather sofa and chairs clustered before the marble-manteled hearth. A rosewood desk sat in front of the windows, a comfortable leather chair resting on the polished wooden floor behind it. A crystal inkwell and a white plumed pen in a silver holder sat on a felt ink blotter on the desktop.

He didn't waste time, just carried the lamp to the desk, sat down in the chair, and began to pull open the drawers. Estate ledgers took up most of the bottom one. He drew out the heavy leather volume, cracked it open and scanned the pages, but didn't see anything of interest.

The second drawer was devoted to Parklands' Thoroughbred racing operation. Each horse the stable owned had been entered into a leather ledger but the handwriting was different from the other he had seen, the letters smaller, well formed, and precise. He imagined the writing must be Lee's and closed the book, refusing to let his mind be distracted by thoughts of her.

Instead he studied the contents of the rest of the drawers, then searched the desk for some sort of lever that might conceal a hiding place of some kind. Finding nothing, his frustration mounted. He was closing the top drawer, still seated in the chair, when the ornate door swung open and light spilled into the study.

He had been certain he would hear footfalls against the marble floor of the hall, but these had been light, the merest shuffle of small, feminine feet encased in butter-soft kidskin, and he had not noticed. Caleb silently cursed as Lee walked into the room and firmly closed the door.

"What are you doing in here?"

She was looking at him as if she had discovered a thief, which in a way, she had.

"I suppose I could ask that question of you, but it is, after all, your house. You have a right to be in here."

"That's right. And you don't."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps I needed a respite from the party."

"You were going through the desk." She walked toward him, her spine straight and anger snapping in her eyes. "What were you looking for, Caleb? What else haven't you told me?"

He thought of lying, but he had lied to her too many times already. And he trusted her. It was a good thing because the moment she had stepped into the room, he'd had no other choice.

"Lock the door. What I'm going to tell you can't go anywhere other than this room."

She hesitated for a moment, then went over and turned the key in the lock as he wished he had done. The narrow skirt of her topaz gown brushed her hips as she walked back to where he stood beside the desk.

"First I want you to know that by telling you this, I am disobeying orders."

"And why, pray tell, would you do that?"

He sighed, raked a hand through his hair, wished she wouldn't keep looking at him that way. "Because I've lied to you enough. Because, in the time I've known you, I've come to trust you. And because I could use your help."

Her features didn't soften. "Go on."

"There's a spy at Parklands. I'm here to catch him." Or her, but he didn't say that. Instead he told her what they had discovered so far, explained that General Wellesley believed that the casualties in Spain would have been considerably reduced if certain information hadn't reached the enemy-information that seemed to have come from Parklands.

"That's absurd. I don't believe a word of it-not for a moment. This is just another one of your lies."

"I'm through lying, Lee. If I could have told you the truth before, I would have done it. I shouldn't be telling you this now."

Her eyes looked troubled and such a deep shade of aqua he could have gotten lost in them. "If it's true, who do you think is responsible?" She glanced down at the desk, realized why he had been going through the drawers. "If you're confiding this information to me, then you don't think I am the traitor." Her head came up. "Tell me you don't believe the traitor is Aunt Gabby."

He wished he could. He wished he knew a lot more than he did. "I don't know who it is. That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Is Major Sutton also here for that reason?"

"Yes." But he hadn't told the major his intention to visit the study. He didn't like the man. In some strange way, he didn't trust him.

"My aunt is a loyal Englishwoman. She would never betray her country."

"Then help me prove it. Help me find out who is."

She said nothing for the longest time. "Is that the reason you wanted to talk to me tonight?"

"No. The matter I wish to discuss is personal."

She turned away before he could say anything more in that regard and he thought maybe it was better that he didn't. Not yet. She didn't trust him. Not anymore. She wasn't ready to hear what he had to say. Perhaps she never would be.

He watched her walk, stiff-backed to the door, then stop and turn. "Don't bother coming to my room. The door will be locked." She left the study as silently as she had entered. Though he never heard a sound, he knew she had escaped down the hall.

It was late. Lee couldn't sleep. The night was overly warm and though a breeze blew in through the open windows, the sheets felt warm and sticky against her skin. The gilded clock on the mantel chimed four. Downstairs, the last of the guests had finally succumbed to fatigue and wearily climbed the stairs to their beds. Not all of them slept alone.

Lee tried not to think about that. She tried not to think about Caleb and finding him there in the study. It was only by chance that she had. Her destination had been the library. She needed a moment, just a little time away from the laughter and gaiety that seemed to grate on her nerves. But when she reached the tall ornate doors and heard the moans and giggles coming from the opposite side, she continued down the hall to the study instead.

She hadn't expected to find Caleb there, searching through Parklands' private records, hadn't thought to catch him in another of his lies.

Lee punched her pillow and tried to get comfortable, but her nightgown wrapped around her legs and the cotton fabric stuck to her skin. She sat up in bed, defiantly pulled the garment off over her head, and tossed it across the room. She pulled the ribbon from the end of her braid and raked her fingers through her hair, let the breeze through the open balcony doors flow over her naked skin. Moonlight slanted in, giving the room a soft glow.

Her restlessness increased, became nearly unbearable. Wrapping the sheet around her, she slid out of the bed and started toward the balcony. A noise behind the filmy curtains drew her attention to the door and she paused. The curtains fluttered. She should have been surprised to see Caleb walk into the room but somehow she wasn't.

She pulled the sheet a little tighter around her and wondered if he had watched her undress. "Do you ever take no for an answer?"

"Not very often." He was wearing dark brown breeches and a white lawn shirt, rather like the clothes he had worn as a groom, but the tall black Hessians were those of a soldier.

"I told you I'm not one of your men. I don't have to obey your commands."

"But you will keep silent about the things I told you in the study."

If he was telling the truth, men's lives were at stake. "I wouldn't want to see any more of our soldiers die unnecessarily. I won't repeat what you said."

He took a step toward her, but she took a step away. "Why are you here? Do you have another lie you wish to confess?"

Caleb shook his head. "I'm through lying. I told you that before."

"Then tell me why you've come." His eyes ran over her. She could feel the heat in them and little prickles ran over her skin.

"Why did you take off your clothes?"

Heat infused her cheeks. He had been watching. "Because it's a hot night and I thought I was alone."

"Or perhaps because it's a hot night and you were alone and you hoped that I would come. Perhaps you wanted the same thing I find myself wanting right now."

He took a step toward her. She turned to flee but one of his boots pinned the bottom of the sheet to the floor. To escape she would have to abandon the sheet and she refused to do that.

Instead she turned to face him. "Get out of my room, Caleb."

"Not yet. There's something I need to know before I leave."

He moved in that silent way he had and suddenly he was standing so close she could see the black centers of his eyes. He caught her waist and pulled her even closer. The protest she was about to make died in her throat as his mouth crushed down over hers.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was fierce and demanding, ruthlessly possessive, and it made her hot all over. He kissed her until her knees felt weak, until her fingers curled into the front of his shirt and she was trembling, making little mewling sounds in her throat and whimpering his name.

"God, I've missed you." He kissed her throat, kissed her naked shoulder, shoved the sheet down and kissed her naked breasts. She swayed toward him as his mouth closed over a nipple and he sucked hard on the end. She didn't resist when he stripped away the sheet and ran his hands over her body, down over her hips. A hard thigh wedged between her legs and she moaned when he lifted her a little, rocked her against him, forced her to ride him.

She was wet. So hot and wet. She needed to touch him, feel the heat of his skin, the hardness of his chest. She tugged his shirt free of his breeches and he dragged it off over his head and tossed it away, then returned to kissing her again. His hands moved lower, cupping her bottom, his fingers sliding between the globes, lower, parting the folds of her sex and stroking her there. Heat and need washed over her, making her tremble, making her slick and hot and desperate to feel him inside her.

She didn't protest when he lifted her up and carried her over to the bed, settled her on the edge of the deep feather mattress.

He didn't take time to get rid of his clothes, just opened the front of his breeches and freed himself, guided his hardness to the entrance of her passage, and drove himself home.

His head fell back and for a moment he paused. "Sweet God, I've never known a woman who could make me feel the way you do." The softly spoken words sent a fine tremor through her. Caleb kissed her again, as wildly as before, and she clung to his neck. He filled her completely, eased out, then drove hard inside, gripped her hips and began a rhythmic thrusting that had her arching up from the bed.

The heat in the room increased. Skin met skin, slick and damp, until their bodies glistened with perspiration and the blood in her veins began to burn.

"Caleb," she whispered, her fingers digging into the muscles across his shoulders. "Dear God, Caleb!"

He kissed her deeply, his mouth absorbing her soft little cries of pleasure. The beating of sweat-slick flesh matched the rhythm of his relentless thrusts, and her nails scored the skin on his back. When her climax hit, it came swift and hard. Pleasure washed over her, thick and fierce and sweeter than ever before.