Confessions at Midnight

Chapter Three

Carolyn stood near the edge of the dance floor with the dashing pirate. She'd recognized Logan Jennsen by his distinctive American accent the instant he spoke to her, and now she couldn't help but laugh at his disgruntled words and expression about donning a costume.

"Utterly ridiculous," he said, shaking his head and waving his hand to encompass his pirate garb, complete with tall boots, rakish hat, and a long black cape. "Wouldn't be caught dead wearing something like this in America."

"It could be worse," she replied in an undertone, nodding toward a rotund frog passing in front of them.

He tossed back a generous swallow of his champagne. "Good God." He turned toward her, and she felt the weight of his regard. "You, however, are stunning, Lady Wingate. Indeed, seeing you looking so lovely is about the only thing making this soiree bearable."

Carolyn blinked at his use of her name. "Thank you, Mr. Jennsen."

He winced. "I suppose my American accent gave me away?"

She smiled. "I'm afraid so. But I have no such accent. How did you guess my identity? I believed myself quite unrecognizable."

"Oh, you absolutely are. If your sister hadn't told me what you were wearing, I never would have known this exquisite creature was you."

"Because I normally look so unexquisite?" she teased.

"On the contrary, I've never seen you look anything less than stunning. However, you are normally less… uncovered." His gaze skimmed down her gown, which left one entire shoulder bare and hugged her body to her hips before falling in a straight column to the floor. There was no missing the appreciation in his eyes. "Your ensemble is extremely becoming."

Heat flooded her cheeks at his admiring assessment and compliment, followed by a sense of relief that he wouldn't have recognized her. She felt disconcertingly bare in her costume and had no wish for people to know that the normally demure Lady Wingate would don such a revealing outfit. Botheration, she should have dressed as a shepherdess. If she had, surely Mr. Jennsen would not be eyeing her in such a speculative manner. Although she couldn't deny the unexpected fissure of feminine satisfaction at his open admiration.

"Thank you, sir. And although you might not care for masquerades, you make an excellent pirate."

His eyes gleamed behind his mask. "Thank you. Perhaps because I've spent a fair amount of time on ships." He returned his attention to the swirling couples. "Forgive me for not asking you to dance, but I haven't yet learned the intricacies of your English steps. I would only embarrass myself and bruise your toes."

"No need to apologize. Pirates are more renowned for their sea legs than their dance legs."

In truth, she'd been relieved to skip the dance. Despite her determination to move on with her life, she hadn't yet ventured onto a dance floor since Edward's death, and she feared the first time she did so might prove emotionally draining. But she was enjoying Mr. Jennsen's company, as she had at Matthew's house party where she first met him. He was unpretentious, outspoken, and sprang from humble beginnings, as did she.

The first strains of a waltz lifted over the crowd, and Carolyn craned her neck, despairing of ever locating her sister, Emily, or Julianne in the crush.

"You mentioned seeing my sister," she said. "Where was she?"

"I saw her outside, before I entered the house. A carriage bearing the Langston crest arrived just ahead of mine. If not for that, I wouldn't have recognized her, either." He smiled. "Although, the fact that Juliet wore spectacles over her mask was a rather broad clue."

Carolyn laughed. "I suppose so." Given his imposing height, she was about to ask Mr. Jennsen if he might be able to see a costumed Juliet, Ophelia, or an angel when a deep, masculine voice behind her said, "Good evening, my lady."

Although only four words had been spoken, the way her heart tripped over itself and a warm tingle skittered down her spine made her suspect they'd been said by Lord Surbrooke. She'd wondered if they would encounter each other this evening. Indeed, while searching the crowd for her sister and friends, she found herself examining the gentlemen as well, wondering which mask he might be hiding behind.

She turned, and realized that even if she hadn't known his voice, she would have known his eyes. Through a black mask that covered the entire upper half of his face, they gazed at her with the same heated intensity that stole the air from her lungs every time he looked at her. She'd have known his mouth as well. Not only because it was perfectly formed, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the upper, but because of how one corner tilted upward, skewing all that perfection with a hint of lopsidedness that shouldn't have been attractive but was. Annoyingly so.

Her gaze skimmed over his all black highwayman costume. He looked tall and dark and dangerous-as if prepared to abscond with whatever might take his fancy and the consequences be damned. A thrill she couldn't name raced through her.

"Rather than good evening, shouldn't you say, 'Stand and deliver'?" she retorted, proud that she sounded so calm when she suddenly felt anything but.

He made her a formal bow. "Of course. Although by 'Stand and deliver' I actually mean 'May I have this dance?'"

Carolyn hesitated, surprised at how much she wanted to accept his invitation. If this had been any occasion other than a masquerade, she most likely would have refused. She was well aware of Lord Surbrooke's reputation, and had no desire to say or do anything that might lead him to believe she would consider being his next conquest.

Of course, it was quite possible he didn't know who she was. Hadn't Mr. Jennsen stated he never would have recognized her? She gazed into Lord Surbrooke's eyes and detected only heat-not recognition. Surely a man with as many past mistresses as he was purported to have had looked at most women in such a manner. Most likely he was just attracted to her costume. Even more likely, she was the tenth woman he'd gazed upon so warmly and asked to dance this evening.

Still, the idea that they were completely anonymous ignited a strange thrill inside her. If she accepted his invitation for her first dance in the arms of a man who wasn't Edward, she could hide behind her mask.

Before she could reply, a large, warm hand cupped her elbow. "Do you wish to dance with him, or would you prefer he go away?" Mr. Jennsen asked in a low voice close to her ear.

"I appreciate your concern, but I am well acquainted with him and believe I'll accept his invitation," she replied in an undertone. Then her lips twitched as she saw someone approaching. "Prepare yourself, Mr. Pirate. A damsel in distress is sailing toward your port side with a very interested gleam in her eye."

"Indeed? My favorite sort of wench. Do you know who she is?"

As the woman wore the slimmest of masks, Carolyn found her identity easy to discern. "Lady Crawford," she replied to Mr. Jennsen. "She is a widow and very beautiful."

"I'll leave you to your evening then, my lady." He made her a formal bow, nodded to the highwayman, then turned toward the costumed damsel.

Carolyn faced Lord Surbrooke. He was frowning at Mr. Jennsen's back, but quickly shifted his attention to her. Then he extended his elbow. "Shall we?"

She paused, assailed by doubt now that the moment was upon her. Torn between a sudden, nearly overwhelming need to run from the room, to return to the safety and security of her quiet existence, ensconced in her memories, and the equally strong desire to step from the shadows. It's time to move on with your life, her inner voice whispered. You need to move on.

"I don't bite," came the highwayman's amused voice. "At least not very often."

Her gaze settled on his lopsided grin, and for several seconds her lungs ceased to function. She shook herself from her brown study and smiled in return. "You merely pilfer and purloin."

"Only when the occasion calls for it. Tonight the occasion calls for waltzing… I hope." He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against the backs of her gloved fingers. "With the most beautiful woman in the room."

A heated tingle raced up Carolyn's arm, a reaction that simultaneously alarmed, annoyed, and intrigued her. It was ridiculous to feel flattered by the words of such a practiced rogue, yet a tiny, feminine part of her couldn't help but bask in the compliment. Drawing courage from both his open admiration and her anonymity, she inclined her head toward the swirling couples. "The waltz awaits us."

Once her feet touched the dance floor, she barely had time to draw a breath before she found herself drawn into strong arms and swept into the circling tide of dancers. She stumbled slightly, whether from the dance steps she hadn't attempted in so long or the shockingly unfamiliar sensation of being held in a man's arms again, she wasn't certain. But the highwayman held her securely and she regained her footing.

"Don't worry," he said softly, his warm breath brushing by her ear, shooting a pleasurable shiver down her spine. "I won't let you fall."

And with those words he swept her along, turning and spinning. The other dancers, the rest of the room, dissolved into a swirling blur of color that rotated around them. The only thing that remained clear was his masked face. His eyes, intent on hers. She felt utterly surrounded by him. And utterly exhilarated.

His long, strong fingers wrapped around hers, their warmth heating her even through the layers of both their gloves. His other hand, while resting in the exact correct position in the precise proper spot on her lower back, seemed to brand her skin. A breathless sensation seized her, and helpless to do otherwise, she simply allowed herself to be carried away. How could she have forgotten how much she loved dancing?

He led her expertly, effortlessly, and it seemed as if she were floating in the circle of his strong arms, her feet hovering several inches above the floor. A soaring, weightless, almost magical feeling raced through her and a breathless laugh escaped her. Conversation, laughter, and the music buzzed around them, but all of that faded into nothingness. All except him. The way his gaze never left hers. The movement of his muscled shoulder beneath her palm. The brush of his leg against her gown. How his slightly splayed fingers slowly stroked her spine as his palm pressed her just a tiny bit closer with every turn.

His clean scent invaded her senses, a pleasing combination of fresh linen and spicy soap that filled her with the unsettling, overwhelming desire to lean closer. To bury her face against his neck and breathe deeply.

Except that breathing deeply was proving a problem. Erratic puffs of air that coincided with her equally erratic heartbeat escaped her parted lips. A sense of pure elation, combined with a heady, heated awareness of him, infused her. She felt more alive than she had in three long years.

Lord Surbrooke drew her to a stop near the edge of the dance floor, and to her chagrin she realized that the song had ended. How was it possible she hadn't noticed? For several long seconds they both remained still, as if frozen in a posed, motionless dance, their gazes locked. The heat of his hands singed her and she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only stare. And feel… the sensation of him holding her. Her hand nestled in his. His palm resting against her back. His body close to hers.

The sound of polite applause broke through the trance into which she'd fallen, and he slowly released her. Snapping from her stupor, she dragged her gaze from Lord Surbrooke's to join in the clapping for the musicians.

"Would you care for a drink, lovely goddess?" his low, compelling voice asked close to her ear. "Or perhaps a turn around the terrace for some fresh air?"

Fresh air sounded not only very welcome but essential, although she suspected his presence would do nothing to help her breathlessness. The desire to go onto the terrace with him was so tempting it both stunned and unnerved her. Yet, why shouldn't she? They wouldn't be alone-surely other couples had ventured outdoors.

"Some fresh air sounds delightful," she murmured.

He extended his arm, and although she placed her fingertips very properly on the curve of his elbow, somehow nothing about this felt proper. Which was utterly ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with her talking to Lord Surbrooke. Dancing with him. Taking a bit of air with him. He was a… friend.

Still, an undercurrent of tension, of excitement, filled her, one she couldn't recall ever before experiencing. No doubt because of their costumes and the masks that hid their identities. She'd only attended one masquerade ball before tonight and it had been years ago, shortly after her wedding. So surely these unprecedented heated flutterings were merely the result of this new experience. Of course, it might also be because in Memoirs of a Mistress the author described a steamy encounter with her lover at a masque. An encounter that began with a waltz. One during which the author had felt a heightened sense of freedom due to her anonymity…

She pressed her lips together and frowned. Botheration, she never should have read that book. You never should have read it half a dozen times, her inner voice chastised.

Oh, very well, half a dozen times. At least. The blasted book had filled her head with questions she'd never be able to answer. And with sensual images that not only invaded her dreams but flashed through her mind with appalling frequency, suffusing her with an edgy, prickly sensation that made her clothing feel too tight and her skin feel as if it were about to burst, like an overripened fruit.

Exactly the way she felt right now.

She stole a quick glance at Lord Surbrooke. He appeared perfectly calm and collected, which served as a splash of cold water to her overheated skin. Clearly whatever was ailing her was affecting only her.

The instant they stepped outside, the chilly breeze slapped her to her senses. He led her to a quiet, shadowed corner of the terrace surrounded by a grouping of potted palms in huge porcelain vases. Several couples strolled around the small fenced garden, and a trio of gentlemen stood at the other end of the terrace. Otherwise they were alone, no doubt because of the unseasonably cool air, hinted with the scent of rain.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked.

Dear God, ensconced with him in the privacy provided by the potted palms, she felt as if she stood in the midst of a roaring fire. She nodded, then her gaze searched his. "Do… do you know who I am?"

His gaze slowly skimmed over her, lingering on the bare expanse of her shoulders and the curves she knew her ivory gown highlighted-skin and curves that her normal modest mode of dress never would have revealed. That openly admiring look, which still held no hint of recognition, reignited the heat the breeze had momentarily cooled. When their eyes once again met, he murmured, "You are Aphrodite, goddess of desire."

She relaxed a bit. He clearly didn't know who she was, for the way he'd said "desire," in that husky, gruff voice, was a tone Lord Surbrooke had never used with Lady Wingate. Yet her relaxation was short-lived as that desire-filled timbre pulsed a confusing tension through her, part of which warned her to leave the terrace at once. To return to the party and continue searching for her sister and friends. But another part-the part held enthralled by the darkly alluring highwayman and the protection of her anonymity-refused to move.

To add to her temptation was the fact that this anonymous interlude might afford her the opportunity to learn more about him. In spite of their numerous conversations during the course of Matthew's house party, all she actually knew of Lord Surbrooke was that he was intelligent and witty, impeccably polite, unfailingly charming, and always perfectly groomed. He'd never given her the slightest hint as to what caused the shadows that lurked in his eyes. Yet she knew they were there, and her curiosity was well and truly piqued. Now, if she could only recall how to breathe, she could perhaps discover his secrets.

After clearing her throat to locate her voice, she said, "Actually, I am Galatea."

He nodded slowly, his gaze trailing over her. "Galatea… the ivory statue of Aphrodite carved by Pygmalion because of his desire for her. But why are you not Aphrodite herself?"

"In truth, I thought costuming myself as such a bit too… immodest. I'd actually planned to be a shepherdess. My sister somehow managed to convince me to wear this instead." She gave a short laugh. "I believe she coshed me over the head while I slept."

"Whatever she did, she should be roundly applauded for her efforts. You are… exquisite. More so than Aphrodite herself."

His low voice spread over her like warm honey. Still, she couldn't help but tease, "Says a thief whose vision is impaired by darkness."

"I'm not really a thief. And my eyesight is perfect. As for Aphrodite, she is a woman to be envied. She had only one divine duty-to make love and inspire others to do so as well."

His words, spoken in that deep, hypnotic timbre, combined with his steady regard, spiraled heat through her and robbed her of speech. And reaffirmed her conclusion that he didn't know who she was. Never once during all the conversations she'd shared with Lord Surbrooke had he ever spoken to her-Carolyn-of anything so suggestive. Nor had he employed that husky, intimate tone. Nor could she imagine him doing so. She wasn't the dazzling sort of woman to incite a man's passions, at least not a man in his position, who could have any woman he wanted, and according to rumor, did.

Emboldened by his words and her secret identity, she said, "Aphrodite was desired by all and had her choice of lovers."

"Yes. One of her favorites was Ares." He lifted his hand, and she noticed he'd removed his black gloves. Reaching out, he touched a single fingertip to her bare shoulder. Her breath caught at the whisper of contact then ceased altogether when he slowly dragged his finger along her collarbone. "Makes me wish I'd dressed as the god of war rather than a highwayman."

He lowered his hand to his side, and she had to press her lips together to contain the unexpected groan of protest that rose in her throat at the sudden absence of his touch. She braced her knees, stunned at how they'd weakened at that brief, feathery caress.

She swallowed to find her voice. "Aphrodite caught Ares with another lover."

"He was a fool. Any man lucky enough to have you wouldn't want any other."

"You mean Aphrodite."

"You are Aphrodite."

"Actually, I'm Galatea," she reminded him.

"Ah, yes. The statute Pygmalion fell so in love with was so lifelike he often laid his hand upon it to assure himself whether his creation were alive or not." He reached out and curled his warm fingers around her bare upper arm, just above where her long satin ivory glove ended. "Unlike Galatea, you are very much real."

Her common sense coughed to life and demanded she move away from him, but her feet refused to obey. Instead she absorbed the stunning sensation of his touch. The shocking intimacy when he slipped one finger beneath the edge of her glove. Heat gushed through her, rendering her mute.

"He showered her with gifts, you know," he said, his glittering eyes studying her.

Carolyn managed a nod. "Yes. Brightly colored shells and fresh picked flowers."

"Also jewels. Rings and necklaces. Strings of pearls."

"I'd much prefer the shells and a flower."

"Than jewels?" There was no missing the surprise in his voice. His fingers slipped from her arm, and she had to clench her hand to keep from snatching his and setting it back on her skin. "Surely you jest. All women love jewels."

He sounded so positive, she couldn't help but laugh. "Jewels are lovely, yes, but to me they lack imagination and are impersonal. Anyone can visit the jeweler and select a bauble. To me, a gift's value is in how much thought went into selecting it as opposed to how much it cost."

"I see," he said, although he still sounded surprised. "So what would you have wanted Pygmalion to bring you?"

She considered, then said, "Something that reminded him of me."

He smiled. "Perhaps diamonds and pearls did so."

She shook her head. "Something more… personal. I'd prefer flowers he picked from his own garden. A book from his own collection that he'd enjoyed. A letter or poem he'd written expressly for me."

"I must admit I never thought I'd hear a woman say she'd prefer a letter over diamonds. Not only are you exquisite, you're-"

"A candidate for Bedlam?" she teased. "Extremely odd?"

His teeth flashed, straight and white, accompanied by a low, deep chuckle. "I was going to say extremely rare. A breath of fresh air."

His gaze lowered to her mouth. Her lips tingled under his regard and involuntarily parted. A muscle ticked in his jaw and the air around them seemed to suddenly crackle with tension.

His gaze returned to hers, and even the dim light couldn't disguise the heat glittering in his eyes. "Speaking of letters," he said, "have you heard of this latest rage of ladies receiving notes that state only a time and place?"

Carolyn's brows shot upward. Clearly Lord Surbrooke had heard of the practice. An image flashed through her mind, of him and a woman who, dear God, looked exactly like her, engaged in a tryst, their bare limbs entwined-

She briefly squeezed her eyes shut to banish the unsettling picture then said, "I've heard of these notes, yes."

"Have you ever received one?"

"No. Have you ever sent one?"

"No, although I find the idea intriguing. Tell me, if you were to receive such a missive, would you go?"

She opened her mouth to emphatically state of course not, but to her surprise and chagrin found the words would not come. Instead she found herself saying, "I… I'm not certain."

And with a dismaying, unsettling clarity, she realized that she truly wasn't certain. Yet how could that be? It was as if she'd donned her goddess costume and become a different person. A person who would consider a secret rendezvous with an unknown admirer. What on earth was happening to her? And why would it be happening with this man? This charming, practiced, nobleman who was like so many of his peers-interested only in his own pleasures.

Botheration, clearly the Memoirs were to blame for filling her mind with these ridiculous thoughts and disturbing images. As soon as she returned home she'd toss the book into the fireplace and be rid of it.

Raising her chin, she asked, "Would you go?"

Instead of immediately answering yes as she would have expected, he considered for several seconds before replying, "I suppose it would depend on who sent me the note."

"But the entire point is that you don't know."

He shook his head. "I think you'd have at least an inkling of the sender's identity. A clue as to who desired you that much." He reached out and lightly clasped her hands. The heat of his palms seeped through her gloves, and she found herself wishing that no barrier separated their skin. "A desire that strong surely could not go unnoticed."

A reply… she needed to think of something, anything, to say, but instead all she could focus on was the word he'd just spoken, which kept reverberating through her mind.

Desire.

Before she could recover her usual aplomb, he said softly, "To answer your question, if you sent me such a note, I would go."

Silence engulfed them. Seconds passed, pulses of time that felt to her thick with tension and an almost painful awareness of him. Of everything about him. His commanding height. The breadth of his shoulders. The compelling intensity of his gaze. His scent, which seemed to intoxicate her. His touch against her hands.

His gaze flicked to her throat then returned to hers. Heat and mischief gleamed in his eyes. "I see you are not wearing any expensive baubles. That presents a bit of dilemma for a highwayman such as myself."

She swallowed and managed to dredge up her voice, no easy task with his fingers still wrapped warmly around hers. "You would steal from me?"

"I must live up to my costume, I'm afraid."

"You said you weren't a thief."

"Normally I'm not. But in this case I fear it cannot be helped." He glanced down at his black attire and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Here I am, all dressed up in my mask and cape, yet without a diamond in sight."

Amused in spite of herself, Carolyn said, "I must confess, I'm not overly fond of diamonds."

"I must confess that's something I've never heard any woman say." He flashed a wicked grin. "You realize we've just exchanged midnight confessions. And you know what they say about those."

"I'm afraid I don't."

He leaned a bit closer and her pulse jumped. "They say that they're dangerous-but in the very best of ways."

Carolyn suddenly realized that this interlude was a perfect example of "dangerous in the very best of ways."

"The women in the ballroom are adorned with more baubles than you could possibly carry away," she pointed out.

"I've no interest in any woman other than you, my lady."

His words whispered over her, heating her, exciting her. In a way that both distressed and secret!) thrilled her.

"I have no jewels," she whispered.

"You are the jewel. Still, in the absence of any diamonds or pearls, I am forced to improvise and will therefore steal…" He took a step closer, then another, until only a mere ribbon of space separated them."… a kiss."

Before she could react, before she could so much as blink or draw a breath, he bent his head. And slowly brushed his lips over hers.

On the outside, her body went perfectly still. But on the inside… inside, it felt as if everything shifted and changed speed. Her stomach swooped downward, her heart stumbled then quickened its pace. Her blood seemed to thicken, yet somehow run faster through her veins. And her pulse… she felt it everywhere. In her temples. At the base of her throat. The folds between her thighs.

He lifted his head and their gazes met. No trace of amusement remained in his eyes. Instead they seemed to burn like twin braziers, igniting an ache, a yearning in her she hadn't felt in so long she barely recognized it.

He studied her for several seconds, then, with a low growling sound, he yanked her into his arms and slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips parted, whether from desire or surprise or both, and everything instantly faded into insignificance-except him.

Heat seemed to pump from his body. He was so incredibly, lusciously warm. Wrapped in his strong arms was like being enveloped in a fire-warmed blanket. His clean, masculine scent filled her senses, weakening her knees with a delightful sensation of light-headedness, one that encouraged her to skim her hands up his broad chest, to wind her arms around his neck and hold on tight.

And thank goodness she did because the first bold stroke of his tongue against hers turned her bones to porridge. A groan rose in her throat, half shock, half heated desire, and she pressed herself closer, absorbing every nuance of his passionate onslaught.

The darkly delicious taste of his mouth. The strength of his one arm that kept her firmly anchored against him-most welcome, as she otherwise would have slithered to the flagstones. The heat of his other hand as it slowly ran up and down her back, as if trying to learn every inch of her. The solid wall of his chest flattening her breasts. The unmistakable jut of his arousal pressing against her abdomen.

Desire, so long forgotten, sizzled through her, a bolt of lightning that ignited her skin. She opened her mouth wider beneath his, mating her tongue with his, desperate to know more of his taste, his touch. Her fingers tunneled through the hair at his nape and she cursed the gloves that prevented her from feeling the thick, silky texture.

And then, as suddenly as it began, he lifted his head, ending their kiss. This time there was no stopping her moan of protest. With a great effort she dragged her eyes open.

He stared at her, his breaths as rapid and erratic as her own, his eyes as glazed as she knew hers must be.

Lifting one hand, he gently cupped her face. "I knew it would be like that," he said in an unsteady whisper.

His voice penetrated the sensual fog engulfing her, and the reality of where she was-who she was-smacked her like a cold, wet rag. With a gasp she stepped back, out of his grasp. Her shaking find gers flew to her mouth, whether to wipe away Lord Surbrooke's kiss or to seal it to her lips, she didn't know.

Dear God, what had come over her? What had she done?

I'll tell you what you've done. Her inner voice dripped with condemnation. You've tarnished Edward's memory.

A cry of distress rose in her throat and she clamped her lips together to contain it. She desperately tried to recall the tender wonder of Edward's kiss, but it remained elusive and out of reach. How could she, when the taste of another man remained on her lips? When she still felt the imprint of his hard body pressed against her? When her mind, her senses, were still too inundated with the tempestuous, passionate kiss she'd just shared with-

A man who wasn't her husband.

A plethora of emotions, led by confusion, guilt, and shame, bombarded her, followed by the overwhelming need to escape. "I… I must go," she said, sounding as stricken as she felt.

"Wait." He reached for her, but she shook her head and backed away.

"No. I… please, let me leave."

Without waiting for his response, she darted around him and swiftly made her way back into the party, where she was immediately swallowed by the crowd. She didn't pause to search for her sister or friends, but hurried to the foyer, where she requested her carriage. The five minute wait felt like an eternity, one she spent in a nearby shadowed alcove with her hands pressed to her churning midriff.

The instant she was ensconced in the dark interior of her carriage, she covered her face with her hands, and the sob she'd managed to swallow until then broke from her throat.

What had she done? How could have allowed that to happen?

Everything inside her cried out and reached for the memory of Edward she carried in her heart, of his gentle smile and tender touch, of the sweet love they'd shared. But the beloved memories proved elusive. Instead, all she could envision was a devilish highwayman with intense eyes and a captivating mouth who had weakened her knees. Despite her determination to move on with her life, she hadn't anticipated anything like this. Hadn't expected this overwhelming flood of unexpected passion.

Yet there was no denying it, and again she cursed her reading of the Memoirs, which had set on this ruinous sensual path. So the question remained: What did she intend to do about it?