Thus spake the coldly calculating mind of a highly experienced rake. His body, unfortunately, was far from cold and didn't want to listen; most of his mind was similarly enthralled with the wonder in his arms.

It took iron will and every ounce of his determination even to think of letting her go, to accept that this interlude filled with burgeoning sensuality and such gloriously heady promise had to come to a close. An unfulfilled close. Even when his mind was finally won over, convincing his lips, tongue, arms and hands to comply was a battle.

He finally succeeded in lifting his head. Drawing in a huge breath, feeling her breasts hot and firm against his expanding chest, he stole just one more minute to revel in the feel of her against him, in the trusting way she leaned into him, the soft huff of her breath against his jaw, the heady temptation of her perfume. And her.

She sighed-a shivery exhalation laden with arousal, her breath caressed his check.

His arms, about to relax, tightened instead; he turned his head, his lips seeking hers, his script forgotten-

She stopped him with a hand on his cheek. "Enough."

For an instant, he teetered on the brink, her injunction at odds with the way she lay, supple and enticing in his arms.

As if she sensed the clash of will and desire, she repeated, "You've had reward enough."

He caught her hand, held it-unsure even in his own mind what he would do next. Then he drew breath, turned her hand, and placed a kiss in her palm. "For now."

He straightened, setting her on her feet, supporting her until she was steady.

Her first movement was to raise her hand and-weakly-flip down her veil. He could now see her outline clearly; transparently dazed, she looked down at her gaping bodice. He reached for her. "Here-let me."

She did. He drew her chemise up, tied the ribbons loosely, then closed her bodice. Her nervousness grew. The instant the last button was secured, she resettled her cloak, then glanced around. "Ah…" She was clearly having trouble reassembling her wits. Drawing in another breath, she waved-weakly still-to the house. "You go back first."

Despite having found her here, he wasn't about to leave her here, alone in the dark. "I'll walk you to the edge of the shrubbery, then I'll go on ahead."

For one instant, he thought she'd argue, but then she nodded. "Very well."

He offered his arm and she took it; pacing slowly, he led her out of the gazebo.

She said nothing as they strolled the winding walks, leaving him to reflect on how at ease in her company he felt, and how, despite the sensual flickering of her nerves, she was confident enough, reassured enough, not to invoke conversation's protective screen. Now he thought of it, she'd yet to make an aimless remark. Meaningless patter was not the countess's style.

They reached the last hedge and she stopped. He scanned her veiled face, then inclined his head. "Until next time."

Turning, he strode across the lawn.

Her pulse still galloping, her head still whirling, Alathea watched her broad-shouldered knight cross to the house, saw him silhouetted by its blazing windows. He went up the terrace steps and in through the open doors without once looking back.

Shrinking back into the darkness, she waited for long minutes while her fevered skin cooled, while her heartbeat steadied, while the exhilaration that had gripped her-the daring, the compulsion, and that frighteningly wild and wanton desire-waned. She tried to think but couldn't. Finally, hugging the shadows, she made her way around to the carriage drive.

Folwell was waiting; she handed him her cloak and veil, and changed her shoes. He slipped away, taking her disguise back to the carriage. Once more herself-at least in appearance-she reentered the house by a side door, then made her way to the withdrawing room.

Luckily, the event wasn't a major ball; the withdrawing room was quiet. Sitting before a table provided with a mirror, she ordered warm water and towel and set about bathing her wrists, temples, and throat, removing all trace of the countess's exotic scent. Then she asked for cold water, dipped in a corner of the towel, and when no other lady was looking, held the cold compress to her swollen lips.

She didn't dare peek, but she was sure he must have marked her. Scalded her, or so it had felt. Thank God nothing showed above her neckline. Just the thought of his mouth on her breasts sent heat rushing to them. She could feel his hands caressing her-she wished they still were.

In the mirror, she met her own eyes. She looked deep for long minutes, then grimaced. Looking down, she dipped the towel into the cold water; after a surreptitious glance around, she reapplied it to her still rosy lips.

She wasn't in the habit of deceiving herself-there was no point pretending that she hadn't known he would claim a reward if he'd uncovered any new facts, and that the likelihood of his having done so had been high. She'd gone to the gazebo knowing her protests would very likely prove too weak to stop him claiming all he wished.

She'd been right about that, but it was too late for regrets. In truth, she wasn't sure she harbored any.

That, however, did not alter the fact that she was now in deep trouble.

He thought they were playing a game-one at which he was an acknowledged expert but which she had never played before. She knew some of the rules, but not all of them; she knew some of the moves, but not enough of them. She'd initiated the charade, but now he'd taken control and was rescripting her role to suit his own needs.

To suit his own desires.

She tried to summon a suitable degree of annoyance; the thought that he desired her wouldn't let annoyance form. The very concept intrigued her, lured her. No serpent had ever been so persuasive; no apple so tempting.

No knight so invincibly demanding.

That last made her sigh-changing direction was impossible. She'd started the charade; she'd have to play her part. Her options were severely limited.

She studied her reflection, then, with her usual deliberation, decided: While alone with him, she wasn't Lady Alathea Morwellan but his mysterious countess. It was the countess he'd kissed and the countess who'd responded.

Not her.

There'd been no harm done; none would be done.

She lowered the towel. He'd seemed to find her kisses-and the rest of her-quite satisfactory as a reward. She'd sensed his hunger-his appetite; she was certain that was not something he would fabricate. Their interaction was in no way harming him, and while it might be unsettling-even eye-opening-it wasn't hurting her.

And the fact that her kisses were enough to satisfy one of the ton's most exacting lovers was an invisible feather she'd proudly wear in her spinster cap-the cap she'd wear for the rest of her life.

Refocusing on the mirror, she critically surveyed her face and lips. Almost normal.

Her lips twisted wryly. Impossible to play the hypocrite and pretend that she hadn't enjoyed it-that she hadn't felt a thrill, an excitement beyond anything she'd previously known. In those long minutes when he'd held her in his arms, claiming her, she'd felt a woman whole for the first time in her life.

Indeed, he made her feel like a woman other than herself-or did he simply make her feel things she shouldn't, compulsions she'd had no idea she could experience. She was twenty-nine, on the shelf, very definitely an old maid. In his arms, she hadn't felt old at all-she'd felt alive.

Driven by necessity, she'd set aside all hope of ever knowing what it was to be a woman with a man. She'd had her longings, but she'd locked them away, telling herself they could never be fulfilled. And they never could be-not all of them, not now. But if, in protecting her family again as she was, the chance was offered to experience just a little of what she'd had to forgo, wasn't that merely justice?

And if she knew she was playing with fire? Tempting fate beyond the bounds of all sanity?

Setting down the towel, she stared into her eyes, then she stood and turned toward the door.

She couldn't turn her back on her family, which meant she couldn't walk away from Gabriel.

Whether she wished it or not, she was trapped in her charade.

Chapter 5

Heathcote Montague's office looked down on a small courtyard tucked away behind buildings a stone's throw from the Bank of England. Standing before the window, Gabriel stared down at the cobbles, his mind fixed on the countess.

Who was she? Had she been a guest at Osbaldestone House, lips curving with secret laughter as she waltzed past him? Or, knowing he, together with all the Cynsters, would be there, had she slipped in uninvited, waited in the garden until their meeting, then slipped away through the shadows again? If so, she'd taken a considerable risk-who knows whom she might inadvertently have met. He didn't like her taking risks-that was one point he fully intended to make clear.

But only after he'd made love to her-after he'd had his fill of her feminine delights and pleasured her into oblivion.

He had a strong suspicion she didn't even know what sexual oblivion was. But she would-just as soon as he had her alone again. After last night, that much was certain-he'd already had his fill of restless nights.

"Hmm. Nothing here."

It took him a moment to return to the present, then he turned.

Heathcote Montague, perennially neat, precise but self-effacing, set the three notes he'd just received to one side of his desk and looked up. "I've heard back from nearly everyone. None of us, nor any of our clients, have been approached. Precisely what one would expect if the Central East Africa Gold Company is another of Crowley's crooked schemes."

"Us" referred to the select band of "men of business" who handled the financial affairs and investments of the wealthiest families in England.

"I think"-deserting the window, Gabriel started to pace-"given it is Crowley behind it and he's avoiding all knowledgeable investors, then we can reasonably conclude the scheme's a fraud. Furthermore, if the amounts involved are comparable to that on the promissory note I saw, this scheme's going to cause considerable financial distress if it runs its course."

"Indeed." Montague leaned back. "But you know the law's view as well as I. The authorities won't step in until fraud is apparent-'

"By which time it's always too late." Gabriel faced Montague. "I want to shut this scheme down, quickly and cleanly."

"That's going to be difficult with promissory notes." Montague held his gaze. "I assume you don't want this note you saw executed."

"No."

Montague grimaced. "After last time, Crowley's not going to explain his plans to you."

"Not that he explained them to me last time." Gabriel returned to the window. He and Ranald Crowley had a short but not sweet past history. One of Crowley's first ventures, floated in the City, had sounded very neat, looked very tempting. It had been poised to draw in a large number of the ton, until he had been asked for his opinion. He'd considered the proposal, asked a few pertinent but not obvious questions, to which there were no good answers, and the pigeons had taken flight. The incident had closed many doors for Crowley.

"You're probably," Montague observed, "one of Crowley's least favorite people."

"Which means I can't appear or show my hand in any way in this case. And nor can you."

"The mere mention of the name Cynster will be enough to raise his hackles."

"And his suspicions. If he's as cunning as his reputation paints him, he'll know all about me by now."

"True, but we're going need details of the specific proposal made to investors to secure their promissory notes in order to prove fraud."

"So we need a trustworthy sheep."

Montague blinked. "A sheep?"

Gabriel met his gaze. "Someone who can believably line up to be fleeced."

"Serena!"

Together with Serena, seated beside her, Alathea turned to see Lady Celia Cynster waving from her barouche drawn up beside the carriageway.

Waving in reply, Serena spoke to their coachman. "Here, Jacobs-as close as you can."

Spine poker straight, Jacobs angled their carriage onto the verge three carriages from Celia's. By the time Alathea, Mary, and Alice had stepped down to the grass, Celia and her girls were upon them.