Sexy As Hell

CHAPTER 1

London, January 1892

OSMOND, BARON LENNOX, was known for his luck at cards. Oz would call it skill, but regardless of the reason, there was no doubt he was on a winning streak tonight. A crowd had slowly gathered round the table as the stakes rose, and Brooks’s members, gamesters to the core, were hazarding wagers on how long Elphinstone would last. Viscount Elphinstone had been losing heavily. While his pиre could afford it, Elphinstone was clearly rankled. He was slumped in his chair, coatless, disheveled, red faced, and looking pugnacious-although that may have been due to the family’s propensity to breed true on their bulldog features.

Elphinstone’s major opponent at the table was lounging back in his chair, his dark eyes amused, a half smile on his handsome face, nonchalance in every lithe contour of his tall, lean frame. Or rather, indifference some might say; Lennox never seemed to care whether he won or lost.

“It ain’t fair, Oz. You always get the good cards,” the young Marquis of Telford groused, staring at his cards with obvious disgust.

Lennox glanced up. “Lady Luck’s been good to me tonight,” he murmured, taking a card from his hand and dropping it on the green baize.

“As usual,” Elphinstone growled.

A servant approached and bent to whisper in Lennox’s ear. The baron nodded without looking up from his cards. “Your turn, Harry. This is my last hand.”

“Nell getting tired of waiting?” Harry Ogilvie waggishly queried.

Oz’s heavy-lidded gaze met his friend’s droll glance for a telling moment. “Are you talking to me, Harry?”

The Earl of Airlie’s youngest son grinned. “Hell no. Slip of the tongue.”

“Someday an irate husband is going to have you horse-whipped, Lennox,” Elphinstone muttered.

“Only if he’s not man enough to call me out,” Oz drawled. The viscount’s wife was a pretty little hussy; could he help it if she was in hot pursuit?

A sudden hush greeted Oz’s soft-spoken challenge.

The eyes of the crowd locked on Elphinstone, wondering if he’d respond, or more to the point, how he’d respond. Lennox was young and wild, his temper as easily provoked as his lust, and while he’d been screwing his way through the ranks of London’s fair beauties the last two years, he’d also had more than his share of duels.

With not so much as a bruise for his exertions.

Elphinstone finally growled something under his breath, his nostrils flaring, his narrowed gaze two pinpricks of anger. Then not inclined to end his life or be maimed, he scanned the breathless crowd. “You won’t see blood tonight on my account,” he spat. Turning back to Oz, he snarled, “I’ll raise you a thousand,” recklessly wagering his father’s money rather than stake his life.

Held breaths were released, a collective sigh of relief wafted round the table; Elphinstone wouldn’t have stood a chance at ten paces. Or even a hundred. Ask Buckley, who’d barely survived his recent ill-advised challenge.

Oz almost felt sorry for Elphinstone, who’d no more meet him on the dueling field than he’d satisfy his wife in bed or even know enough to be decent to her. Almost felt sorry. “I’ll raise you another thousand,” he gently said, the cards he was holding as near perfect as the law of averages allowed. What the hell; the ass doesn’t deserve my pity. “Make that two.”

Five minutes later, much richer and in a hurry, Oz was in the entrance hall and a flunkey was holding out his coat for him. “It’s still raining hard out there, sir.”

“That’s England,” Oz said with a smile, sliding his arms into the sleeves and shrugging into his grey overcoat. “More rain than sun.” Handing the man a sovereign, he turned and strode toward the door. Standing outside under the portico a moment later, he watched the rain pouring down as though the heavens had opened up, felt the wind tugging at his coat skirts, surveyed the distant treetops tossing in the gusts, and was suddenly reminded of Hyderabad during the monsoon season. Christ, he must have drunk more than usual tonight-too many of those old memories were surfacing. Shaking off the unwanted images, he dashed down the stairs and entered his waiting carriage. “Drive like hell, Sam,” he said, dropping into a seat with a smile for his driver who had been taking refuge from the storm inside the conveyance. “I’m late as usual.”

“I’ll get you there right quick.” Sam slipped out the opposite door.

As the well-sprung carriage careened through the streets of London at a flying pace, Oz half dozed, his life of late slightly deficient in sleep. With Nell’s husband in Paris, she’d been consuming a good deal of his time. In addition, he had a shipping business to run, he’d been working at translating a recently purchased rare Urdu manuscript, and of course, Brooks’s was a constant lure to a man who loved to gamble.

Once Lord Howe returned from Paris next week, Nell would be less persistent in her demands. He smiled faintly. Not that he was complaining. She had a real talent for acrobatics.

As the carriage drew to a halt before a small hotel, newly opened by a gentleman’s gentleman who had recently retired with a tidy sum, Lennox came fully awake, shoved open the carriage door, and stepped out into the downpour. “Don’t wait, Sam,” he shouted and ran for the entrance.

A doorman threw open the door at his approach. Swiftly crossing the threshold, Oz came to a stop in a small foyer. He smiled at the proprietor behind the counter. “Evening, Fremont. Damn wet out there.” He shook the raindrops from his ruffled hair.

“Seasonal weather I’m afraid, sir. Would you like a servant to run you a hot bath or bring up a hot toddy?”

“Perhaps later. Which room?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

Nell had chosen Blackwood’s Hotel in Soho Square for its seclusion, and they’d been coming here with great frequency the past fortnight. Taking the stairs at a run, he considered his apology. He couldn’t say the game was too exciting to leave; he’d have to think of another excuse.

He strode down the hallway, glancing at the passing brass number plates until he arrived at the requisite room. He opened the door and walked in.

“You’re late.”

A soft, breathy tone, with a touch of impatience. Knowing well what stoked Nell’s impatience-the randy tart liked it morning, noon, and night-he answered in a suitably apologetic tone. “Forgive me, darling, but one of my ship captains arrived just as I was leaving the house.” Christ, it was dark. Why was just a single wall sconce in the far corner lit? Was Nell in a romantic frame of mind? But then he saw her toss back the covers and pat the bed beside her, and rather than question the degree of darkness, he quickly shed his wet coat, his two rings, and stripped off his clothes.

“I like your new perfume,” he murmured as he climbed into bed. Dropping back against the pillows, he pulled her close. “Are you cold, darling?” She was wearing a nightgown.

“No.”

“In that case, we can dispense with this.” Pushing the silk fabric up over her hips with a sweep of his hand, he rolled over her, settled smoothly between her legs, and set out to apologize to Nell in the way she liked best.

A door to the left of the bed suddenly burst open, a gaggle of people trooped in, the bedchamber was suddenly flooded with light, and a portly man in the lead pointed at the bed. “There!” he cried. “You are all witnesses to the countess’s base and lewd moral turpitude!”

Lennox stared at the woman beneath him. Not red-haired Nell. A blonde. “What the hell is going on?” he growled.

As if in answer, the spokesman declared with an oratorical flourish to the cluster of people crowded round the bed, “If required, you will testify in court as to exactly what you have seen here tonight-to whit… a clear-cut case of moral turpitude and venery! Thank you, that will be all,” he crisply added, dismissing the motley crew with a wave of his hand.

His eyes like ice, Lennox surveyed the female under him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said with soft malevolence. Obviously he’d been gulled for someone’s monetary gain.

“Nor need we be,” the lady cooly replied. “You may go now. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Lennox didn’t move other than to turn his head toward the only other man remaining in the room. “Get out or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” He always carried a pistol-a habit from India.

Isolde Perceval, Countess of Wraxell in her own right, lying prone beneath the very large man, nodded at her barrister. Not that he was likely to put his life at risk for her, but should he be considering anything foolish, she rather thought she would prefer to deal with this hired actor herself.

As Mr. Malmsey shut the door behind him and quiet prevailed, Isolde gazed up at the man who’d come to rest between her legs with a casualness that bespoke a certain acquaintance with dalliance. “I thought Malmsey explained what was required of you,” she said. “But if you’d like an additional payment, kindly get off me and I’ll be happy to fetch my purse and pay you whatever you wish.”

Oz’s brows rose. “Is this some farce?”

“Far from it. With your cooperation, of course. As Mr. Malmsey no doubt pointed out, your silence is required.”

Silence about what? Through a minor alcoholic haze, Oz speculated on how he’d landed in this bizarre scenario. “What room number is this?”

“Thirteen.”

Then where was Nell? Still waiting somewhere. Merde. “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” His expression was grim. “If you wish my silence, I suggest you comply.”

“There’s no need for belligerence. I’m not going anywhere.”

You had to give her credit. The lady wasn’t easily rattled, although having organized this performance-with witnesses to boot-bespoke a certain audacity on her part. He slid off her and rose from the bed. Lifting his overcoat from the chair on which he’d dropped it, he slipped it on, buttoned it, then exited the room and made his way downstairs to speak to the proprietor.

Isolde debated dressing, but should he return quickly, she ran the risk of being caught in some degree of nudity, and with a forward fellow like this actor, she was safer where she was. Her purse was within reach. Furthermore, there was no doubt in her mind that they could reach a monetary agreement. Malmsey had already paid him for his night’s work, but the life of an actor was one of financial insecurity. So she’d simply ask him what he required to forget that he’d been here and she’d pay it.

Downstairs, Oz was offering the proprietor of Blackwood’s Hotel a rueful smile. “A slight problem has arisen, Fremont. Room thirteen is occupied by an unknown person.”

“My apologies, sir.” The trim, dapper man quickly flipped through the guest ledger and a moment later glanced up with a genuinely pained expression. “My most profuse apologies, my lord. I should have said room twenty-three.” His face was beet red. “I most humbly beg your pardon.”

“Rest easy, Fremont,” Oz replied good-naturedly. “No great damage has been done. Although, if you’d be so kind as to inform the lady in room twenty-three that I’m unable to meet her tonight, I’d appreciate it. Tell her that a business matter of some importance has delayed me.”

“Naturally, sir, as you wish, sir.” Relieved he wouldn’t meet with the baron’s wrath, the proprietor deferentially added, “Would you like me to express your regrets to the lady?”

“I would, thank you. And see that she has a carriage waiting for her.”

“Yes, sir. Consider it done.” Fremont gave no indication that he knew Lennox was nude beneath his coat. The baron was a very generous man, his gratuities commensurate with his fortune. Not to mention his forgiving nature tonight was a profound relief.

Oz turned to leave, then swung back. “You don’t happen to know the name of the lady in room thirteen?”

“A Mrs. Smith, sir,” Fremont answered, one brow lifting at the obvious fraud.

“Ah-I see. Thank you.”

Not prone to self-reflection after an evening of drink, he gave no more thought to the lady’s pretense. Taking the stairs at a run, he returned to room thirteen, slipped inside, and shut and locked the door behind him. There she was-right where he’d left her. That she’d not taken the opportunity to run suggested this situation was critical in some way. Interesting… as was the lovely lady. Shedding his coat, he walked to the light switch by the connecting door, flicked off the intolerably bright overhead fixture, and moving toward the bed, turned on another wall sconce.

A touch of apprehension appeared in Isolde’s eyes. Even in worldly London, even with an actor from the free and easy world of the theater she’d not expected such shamelessness. “What are you doing?” Seated against the headboard, she jerked the covers up to her chin.

“Coming to make a bargain with you.” While he was not entirely sure what had motivated his reply, the persuasive influence of a beautiful woman, opportunity, and considerable liquor couldn’t be discounted. Not to mention that on closer inspection, her charms were even more impressive.

“Kindly do so once you’re dressed.”

“You’re not in a position to give orders,” Oz gently noted, thinking he really must have drunk too much tonight that the alarm in the lady’s eyes was so perversely satisfying. Prompted by his thoughts, he looked around the room. “Is there any liquor here?”

“No.”

But he spied a tray with decanters on a table in the corner. He walked without haste to the table and poured himself a brandy. Returning to the bed, he raised his glass to her. “See-you were mistaken. Would you like some?”

“No, I would not,” Isolde replied in quelling accents. “Kindly inform me of this bargain of yours so we may both be on our way.”

Since his intentions weren’t entirely clear or rather of a chrysalis nature, he climbed back into bed, took a seat beside her, and said, “First tell me why I’m here-because clearly the man Malmsey hired is not.” Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank half the brandy.

Good God, he isn’t the actor! “I have no idea on either score,” she tersely said, rattled by this unexpected turn of events. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here annoying me and some anonymous actor would have long since left.”

“An actor?” Oz grinned. “Did the poor man know what he was getting into?”

“I’m sure he did. He was well paid for his role.”

“Apparently he was,” Oz drolly noted, “considering he didn’t show up for his performance.”

“Obviously, there was some mistake. But,” Isolde mockingly added, “since you performed well, all turned out in the end.”

“If I agree to accommodate you.” The word perform was triggering rather explicit images.

“You already have.”

“Not completely.” This lady along with her story piqued his interest. Or maybe he’d become bored with Nell.

“If it’s money you want,” she said with a touch of impatience, “just say so and we can stop playing games.”

Oz lifted his glass to her. “I haven’t even begun playing, Countess,” he silkily murmured.

“I find your innuendo shameless and irritating,” Isolde snapped, bristling with indignation, her ready temper on the rise. The man was equally shameless in his nudity; he didn’t even attempt to cover himself.

“Now, now,” Oz murmured, fascinated by her willful personality, “there’s no reason we can’t be friends. Where are you from?” He hadn’t seen her before, and if she was indeed a countess, he would have met her-and more to the point, wouldn’t have forgotten so splendid a woman. She had the face of an enchantress-sensual blue eyes dark with storm clouds, a fine straight nose, soft, cherry red lips that fairly begged to be kissed, and a stubborn little chin that was infinitely fascinating to a man who knew far too many willing females. A glorious halo of pale hair framed her features, and even with their brief bodily contact, her voluptuousness was conspicuous.

“I have no intention of being your friend, nor need you know where I’m from.” She must extricate herself from this unexpected and potentially disastrous predicament-and quickly. Her plans didn’t include someone who might talk out of turn. Everything depended on a nameless lover who couldn’t be found and cross-examined.

“Then perhaps,” Oz drawled, “I should tell Mr. Malmsey that I don’t choose to cooperate with this scheme and if he persists I’ll sue him for every penny he has.”

“You’re the one who barged in,” she argued, more calmly now. This man would eventually name his price; everyone did.

“And you were the one who said I was late.” His lazy smile was full of grace. “Surely I’d have been remiss to keep a lady waiting.”

“How very smooth you are. But impertinent, sir.”

“While you’re quite beautiful,” he softly countered. “Although I expect you already know that. Tell me, is this little drama perpetrated to give your husband cause for divorce? If so, I don’t understand why your lover is willing to expose you to all the prurient interest and scandal on your own. Where’s the scoundrel’s backbone?”

“So you would assume responsibility if your lover were exposed in court?”

“Certainly. Any honorable man would.”

“Why then would an honorable man toy with another man’s wife?”

Oz’s dark brows shot up. “You can’t be serious. Or perhaps you live in a cave. Although, if you do,” he cheekily murmured, surveying the portion of her nightgown visible above the covers, “you have a fashionable modiste in there with you. That’s quality silk you’re wearing.” Anyone in the India trade knew silk.

“Who are you?” she asked, suddenly curious about a man acquainted with grades of silk.

Perhaps she did live in a cave; he was well-known for a variety of reasons, some of them actually acceptable. “You tell me first.”

She watched him drain the rest of his drink, wondered in passing why her alarm had seemingly disappeared, and wondered as well where he came from with his deeply bronzed skin. “Are you drunk?” Would he remember any of this? How much should she divulge? And how honorable would he be if she related her tale?

He hesitated a fraction of a second. “I’m probably not completely sober.”

“Are you dangerous?” Even as she spoke, she realized how useless the question if indeed he was.

He shot her a look. “To you? Hardly.”

“I’m relieved.”

He smiled. “I’m relieved you’re relieved. Now tell me your name.”

“Isolde Perceval.”

“From where-the ends of the earth? I haven’t seen you in society.”

“I avoid society.”

“Apparently.” He dipped his head. “Osmond Lennox. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

“Now that the courtesies have been observed,” she said, “kindly tell me what you want, so we may end this charade and go our separate ways.”

“You.”

Her eyes flared wide. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” There, certainty-his plans no longer moot-although wealthy noblemen were as a rule unrestrained in their whims. “Think of it as recompense,” he said with a small smile, “for the shock to my system. When your witnesses barged in I thought someone was seeking vengeance for my many sins. Or about to horsewhip me.”

“Well, no one was seeking revenge. You’re quite unharmed. And what you ask is naturally out of the question.”

“Surely you can’t claim to be a virgin.”

“I hardly think that’s any of your business.”

“You’re right of course,” he drawled. Although, if she’d been a virgin, she would have been quick to say so. Also, a divorce case with witnesses was about adultery. She couldn’t possibly be a virgin. “Since you prefer not discussing virginity, at least explain how you plan to use your obviously hired witnesses?”

She chewed on her bottom lip.

“While you’re deciding on your reply, excuse me while I get myself another drink. It’s been a very odd night”-he grinned-“at least so far.”

She should have averted her eyes, but she couldn’t help watching him as he walked away from the bed in all his nude splendor. Not that she’d ever been overly concerned with the shibboleths of society. Truth be told, he was quite beautiful in face and form-with an unmistakable brute virility beneath his charming manner. He’d threatened to shoot poor Malmsey and seemed quite capable of doing so. She’d have to pay her barrister an extra premium for that fearsome threat.

As he returned to the bed with his refilled glass, Oz was pleased to see that the lady was no longer clutching the bedclothes to her bosom. “Now,” he began pleasantly, taking his place beside her once again, “I think I deserve some minimum explanation.” He held her gaze for a moment. “Particularly if this goes to court and I happen to be involved.”

“It shouldn’t go to court.”

“Shouldn’t or won’t?”

She made a small moue. Frederick had threatened a breach of promise suit among other extortion demands.

“That’s what I thought. So is this about your marriage?”

“No.”

He shot her a sharp look. “No?”

“I’m not married.”

“But you were.” She’d been designated a countess by the barrister.

“No.”

He softly sighed. “I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on, so you might as well tell me. I can stay here as long as Fremont keeps bringing up liquor.”

“You know the proprietor?”

“Yes, Mrs. Smith,” he replied cheekily.

“He shouldn’t have disclosed that.”

“I pay him well.”

“For his silence about your assignations.”

He nodded.

“So you’re a lothario,” she said with distaste.

“No, I’m a man. Now-an explanation.”

His voice had taken on an edge.

“Very well, if you must know-”

“I must,” he brusquely interposed.

“Then I’ll tell you. I’m a countess in my own right, but as you know in situations such as mine, I simply hold the title as steward for the next male in line to inherit should I die childless. In my case, a cousin has decided he doesn’t wish to wait-I might outlive him, you see, or marry and have children. So he intends to marry me to gain access to my funds.”

“What of a marriage settlement?” They were written to protect family fortunes.

“First, I loathe my cousin and wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on the face of the earth. Secondly, Frederick’s pursuit has been persistent and very determined since his gambling losses have mounted. I expect coercion would be involved with a marriage settlement. He’s completely unscrupulous.”

“Have you no one to protect you?”

“Naturally, I could hire guards, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that. My plan, in which you recently participated, is to so completely ruin my reputation that even Frederick will be forestalled at least in his marriage plans. What other tactics he might employ to make claim on my property Malmsey can handle in court.” Her voice took on a derisive tone. “I doubt he’d be personally moved by this scandal, but fortunately for me he has a domineering mother who prides herself on virtue and decorum.”

“In the scramble for a fortune, people have been known to overlook even the most egregious scandals,” Oz drily said. “How can you be sure your scheme will serve?” He really meant, How can you be so naive?

“I can’t be, of course. Not completely.” She smiled for the first time. “Yet you’ve not met Lady Compton.”

“Actually, I’ve had the misfortune,” he replied with a grimace. “My condolences on your prospective mother-in-law.”

“Bite your tongue,” she retorted. “If all goes well, I shan’t be saddled with her or her despicable son. My little drama, as you call it, will be published in all the scandal sheets tomorrow-without naming my partner, of course, only myself. You are quite safe, you see. Now, if you wish payment, I’d be more than happy to pay you. Money,” she quickly added.

“I don’t need money.” As heir to the largest banking fortune in India he could buy a good share of the world if he wished. And he retracted his naive assessment. The scandal sheets could ruin a lady. Although someone with large gambling debts might overlook even that degree of infamy.

She shifted slightly under his gaze. “Surely you wouldn’t take advantage of a woman.”

“I doubt I’d have to.”

Her brows arched. “Is that unimpeachable certainty usually effective?”

He smiled. “Always.”

“Such arrogance.” She glanced at his crotch. “And yet-I see no visible signs of your interest.”

“I was raised in India. I’m capable of controlling my, er, impulses.” He grinned. “Although, if you’d like to see interest”-he swept his hand downward-“observe.”

The transformation was not only instant but also profound. Wide-eyed, she took in the provocative sight.

“Is that better?” he said, his voice velvet soft.

She slowly wrenched her gaze from the flaunting display, his enormous erection stretching from crotch to navel, his blood pulsing wildly through the tracery of tumescent veins standing out in high relief on his resplendent length. “You’re definitely a flashy fellow,” she said, meeting his amused gaze, fully aware as well of the soft tremors beginning to flutter through her vagina. “Still, I think I’ll restrain myself.”

“At least keep me company for a short while.” His voice was well mannered, his gaze amicable. “Thanks to you, I seem to have missed my assignation. Surely, that’s not too much to ask.” He recognized the look of longing in a woman’s eyes. He knew as well that her taut nipples pressing through the silk of her gown had something to do with his erection and her desires-restrained as they might be. Only temporarily restrained if he had his way. “Would you like a drink? Fremont set out a nice assortment of liquor.”

The smallest of hesitations.

“Why not,” she said, thinking to humor him and better gain her ends.

“Then I’ll be right back, ma’am.” He glanced at her over his shoulder as he slipped off the bed. “Correction… miss.” He casually strolled away as if he wasn’t nude and blatantly aroused, she wasn’t a stranger, and they’d be sharing nothing more than a game of whist when he returned. “You have a choice,” he offered, standing at the liquor tray a moment later. “Sherry, cognac, brandy, or hock.”

“Cognac. Just a little.”

“How are you getting home?” he asked as he poured her drink. “Could I drive you somewhere?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, trying not to stare at his enormous erection. “I believe Malmsey is waiting for me.”

He nodded toward the door through which the surprise party had entered. “Waiting in there?” He preferred not being monitored.

She shook her head. “Downstairs.”

Good. “So does Malmsey know Fremont as well?” he queried, moving back to the bed.

“I’m not sure. He might.”

At least he does now. Fortunately, Fremont was the soul of discretion; Miss Perceval’s intrigue was safe. Not that it should matter to him one way or the other, yet she shouldn’t have to suffer the unwanted machinations of her cousin. Nor should she be required to resort to such drastic measures to retain control of her title and wealth. “Would you like me to call out Compton?” he abruptly asked, handing her a glass. “I could see that he never bothers you again.” While dueling was illegal, it was privately practiced.

The casual certainty in his voice gave her pause and quite inappropriately, pleasure as well. “While I appreciate the offer,” she more prudently replied, “I don’t think it would serve.”

“It would serve perfectly. He’d be dead-not a great loss if you ask me; the man cheats at cards. Your reputation would remain unscathed and”-he grinned as he settled back on the bed and rested against the pillows-“you might be inclined to thank me in some agreeable way.”

She laughed. “I admit there’s a certain appeal to your plan, but, no, I couldn’t be party to something so crass.” If he could urbanely disregard his erection, she should be able to as well.

“As if his wanting to marry you for your money isn’t crass.”

She smiled. “So bloodthirsty, Lennox. Is it your Indian upbringing?”

“Hell no. Dueling is a European foolishness wrapped up in a mantle of honor. In India if you want someone murdered, you hire assassins or a poisoner and have the job quietly done.” He shrugged dismissively. “It’s different here.”

“My goodness. You quite alarm me.”

“No I don’t. Not unless by alarm you mean something else entirely.”

“Such as?”

“Your nipples,” he said, nodding at her breasts; he didn’t mention her veiled glances at his erection. “They’ve been signaling your aspirations for some time now.”

“Aspirations don’t necessarily equate with actions.”

His lashes lowered faintly. “In our case, why not? We’re alone. I’m thoroughly aroused, as you can see,” he politely said as if she hadn’t noticed several times already. “I can tell that you’re not exactly indifferent to me. What’s the point in denying ourselves?”

“So blunt, Lennox,” she sardonically observed. “No sonnets or odes to charm a lady?”

“Ah Love! Could you and I with Fate conspire. To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire. Would not we shatter it to bits. And then remold it to our heart’s desire. I could also recite it in the original Persian if you like.” He smiled. “Is that better now? Or would you like more verses to entice you?”

“I’m not sure I wish to be enticed.”

“Why not? Making love is one of life’s great pleasures.”

“Or sorrows.”

He could have asked, but he didn’t want to know. Even while he understood the merits of asking in terms of facilitating a seduction, he didn’t. There was something about her, a kind of intrepid heroine willing to stand up for her rights no matter the consequences that reminded him of things he’d rather forget. Right and wrong had nothing to do with the reality of the world, he’d discovered. You could be moral to the core and right as rain and no one cared.

He had his own sorrows when it came to love.

All he wanted tonight was sex.

And if not with Nell, Miss Perceval would do.