"Are you a virgin then?"

"Do I look like a virgin?" she coolly replied, blunt like he.

"You look like you probably seduced your first tutor."

"Or he me," she said in that same neutral voice. "Was it a housemaid for youyour first time?" she blandly inquired. "I expect your looks had them all giddy to sleep with the duke's son."

"And you wouldn't be giddy."

"I haven't been giddy for a very long time, my Lord Crewe."

"Your husband's going to have to find someone else. You know that, of course."

"You don't know my husband. He won't be finding anyone else."

"He can't force me."

"Actually, that's my job."

"You're wasting your time."

"We'll see about that, I suppose. A note has been sent to your family so no one will expect you in your usual haunts the next month. My husband is very thorough, you see… and very determined."

"Fuck you," the marquis brusquely said.

"Now there's a sensible young man," she purred.

In a very short time, they turned off the main road onto a country lane, and moments later, the vehicle passed through an imposing gateway that offered a splendid view of a Capability Brown landscape, manicured to perfection so it had the look of a Lorrain painting.

Why didn't he recognize the estate? he wondered; there were only so many gardens by the Brown dynasty in England. This one had apparently escaped his notice.

"The Spanish royal family originally owned this," she said, perhaps interpreting his reflective look or perhaps simply being courteous. "A cadet branch, I believe. It passed to the Hapsburgs in one of the royal marriages. I think you'll find the stables excellent."

"Will we be riding?"

"Of course. You're my husband's guest."

"He's here?" Was the man a voyeur, too.

"Of course not. He has no interest in mein this… other than the end result."

"There won't be any end result. Let me make that perfectly clear. I insist on sending your husband a strongly worded protest. And once he understands how useless his ploy, I'll bid youadieu and hope our paths never meet again."

"I understand," she calmly said, as though consoling a recalcitrant child. "It's all quite barbaric. I suggested he adopt one of his nephews. His sisters breed like rabbits, but he insists on the fiction this child is his. I'm so very sorry," she added in a dulcet murmur. "But please, feel free to send your objections to him."

The country home had been begun in Elizabethan times, the old redbrick and Gothic-arched windows covered with ancient ivies. As each successive generation added to the original structure, one architectural style overlay another, but the sprawling whole still looked as though it were wedded to the land, the grand scope of English history written on its exterior. They entered by the most recent Gothic-revival portico into a small secondary entrance hall gleaming with hand-rubbed paneling and massive silver pieces from India. No servants appeared, their escort two of the quasi-military troop that had flanked the carriage from London. Hugh was shown into a large bedroom suite on the main floor, the view of the rolling lawns falling away to a sylvan lake put there by Capability Brown like a perfect jewel in the green countryside.

"Pierce will be up shortly," the lady said, standing in the doorway.

Hugh swung around from the windows. "You've thought of everything," he drawled. "My compliments to your husband's thoroughness."

"Since Pierce served as your batman in India, my husband considered him appropriate for valeting you in this rather rustic abode. The staff is minimal for obvious reasons."

"While the mounted troop is large."

"Exactly. We dress for dinner despite the rural setting. You'll find your clothes in the dressing room." Although the marquis's brows rose at her last statement, she went on as though she were hostess under ordinary circumstances. "We keep country hours here; dinner is at eight." Moving back into the hall, she allowed the guard to swing the door shut.

It was locked, of course, but he had to check, and returning to the windows overlooking the lake, the Marquis of Crewe surveyed the countryside and pondered the startling circumstances of his captivity.

Pierce arrived shortly with servants carrying water for a bath, and once the staff were dismissed, the two men exchanged stories of their abductions. Pierce had been stopped in the mews behind Dalsany House, where the lane was narrow and out of sight of traffic. Both the tiger and groom had been taken as well. "I don't know for certain where they are, but I was most kindly treated considering. Why are we here?"

"Apparently I'm to stand stud to this nameless lady."

"A command performance," Pierce said with a sly smile. "You should manage."

"I dislike being coerced."

"If it's the lady I seen in the corridor with red hair and a right comely shape, sair, she'll make the coercion sweet enough I don't doubt."

"Her husband's a brute."

"Not likely that should matter none. Seems lots o' ladies you bed have husbands like that. They like you the better for it."

"Don't be so bloody reasonable, Pierce. This is fucking irritating to have some Balkan satrap decide I'm to produce his heir. Damn his impertinence. I'll bed whom I please."

"If'n it's just the coercion, sair, hell, there's men who pay for that in them fine brothels."

"I'm not one of them."

"I know, but she's a fine piece for all your temper. How can it mattera night or two with this'un after all the years of fucking, sair."

Another logical insight, Hugh thought with disgust, and had he not been glutted and weary of the concept, he could have been logical, too. "How many guards do they have?"

"It looks like forty or so; only a small troop followed you here. The rest were in place when I arrived. It won't be easy if'n you're thinking of escape." The small, wiry, sandy-haired man had served in Hugh's regiment in India and decided he preferred the position of batman to the marquis than the brutal life in the Army. He knew combat firsthand and was the very best man to have beside you in a tough fight.

"Are you allowed any freedom of movement?"

"Not without a guard at my side, sair. It's a right tight camp they've set up here."

"Do what you can in tracking their schedule. I don't intend to stay any longer than necessary."

"I'll try, sair, but I'm not allowed much movement. See what the lady has to say at dinner. If she doesn't wish to be here, either, she might be able to help. She goes about without a guard."

When Crewe entered the dining room at eight, his escort fell back, and with the silence that seemed habitual with them, they shut the doors behind him. The marquis stood motionless, taking in the large dimensions of the dining room, his gaze sweeping over the allegorical mural of Apollo driving his sun chariot above his head, coming to rest on his hostess yards away down the length of a mahogany table. She looked very small in the cavernous room.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, strolling toward her, his evening shoes sinking into the plush nap of a Tabriz carpet custom-made for the chamber.

"Call me Juliana."

"You don't have a name then. Why don't I call you Delilah?"

"It would be very much easier for us both if you simply did what you apparently do so well," she replied, ignoring his discourtesy. "The record of your female conquests is formidable. What do they call youThe Rajah?for the number of women in your personal harem. Do they take a number? How do you arrange to satisfy them all?"

"I see I was vetted."

"Most carefully. My husband has memorized theAlmanack de Gotha; your bloodlines are pure enough even for a descendant of Charlemagne. Do sit down. You'll find the menu to your liking."

"Your husband's spies are competent," he noted, taking his seat at the place setting beside her. "You have my favorite champagne."

"My husband's security system is extensive. And more than competent. Keep it in mind, my lord," she gently said, nodding minutely in the direction of the large standing portrait of a Hapsburg in Elizabethan hunting dress. At which point, a procession of serving men flowed through a hidden door in the linen-fold paneling, carrying an array of silver platters and dishes filled with the marquis's preferred foods. Each roast and fish, soup and vegetable, dainty and sweet were arranged French style down the long table, and as silently as the servants had appeared, they disappeared through the concealed door.

"I thought we might have an informal dinner tonightwithout staff. I hope you don't mind."

"And if I did?" he softly inquired, pouring his champagne goblet full, his sidelong glance sardonic.

"I told the prince you'd be difficult."

"Impossible, actually. Tell him that."

"I wish it were so simple, my lord. Marko unfortunately has no understanding of dissent." She rose from her chair, her pearl-embroidered gold net gown rustling faintly as she moved toward the splendid display of food. "Please help yourself," she remarked, as if immune to her companion's umbrage, spooning a serving of trout and morels on her plate. "You must be hungry after your recent days of debauch."

Surprise registered for a flashing moment in his eyes.

"One of the women was in my husband's employ," she explained, looking up from a decorative lobster aspic, the spoon in her hand suspended above the elaborate jellied mold, her breasts mounded high above her low décolletage equally lush. "Clarissa gave you high marks," she added, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"This isn't going anywhere," the marquis curtly said, resisting the magnificent display of feminine pulchritude, lifting his glass to his mouth and emptying it down his throat. "No matter how damned urbane you are." He reached for the bottle again, refilled his glass, and, raising it to his lips, glared at her over the rim. "I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last woman on the face of the earth." After which pithy statement, he drained the glass, pushed his chair away from the table and rose to his full commanding height.

He was outrageously beautiful, she thought, all bristling resentment and affront, tall, powerful, dark as sinthe contrast to her despised husband so striking, she almost felt compelled to thank Marko for his good judgment. Although certainly, if her husband had any expertise, it was in the appraisal of young, good-looking men.

Turning from the table, the marquis stalked toward the door through which he'd entered only to be stopped midway by the appearance of four guardsmen stepping from behind a large ivory screen shielded by the ubiquitous palms, which were de rigueur in every Edwardian interior.

They stood directly in his path, men as tall as he, armored in crimson leather jacks like some Byzantine praetorian guard, their swords drawn.

"They have orders to only detain you so you needn't fear the sharp blades," the lady remarked. "If you're sensible, you'll rejoin me for dinner. They have instructions to tie you in your chair and feed you if necessary. Not my orders," she calmly added, cutting her fish. "And if it were possible to apologize enough for this distasteful situation, I wouldmost profusely. But I learned long ago not to ignore my husband's commands and I suggest you do the same. There are a dozen more guards in the adjoining room."

Hot-tempered or not, he couldn't take on sixteen men. And, cursing, he turned to retrace his steps.

"For your information," she quietly said as he sat down again, "the estate is well secured, too. Or did Pierce tell you?"

"And how areyou guarded?"

She seemed to stiffen slightly, but her smile when she spoke was so genial, he questioned his observation. However, her reply was pitched low, her words barely audible. "I'm guarded always. Please, have something to eat, my lord," she went on in a normal tone. "You'll enjoy the roast beef."

And dinner proceeded as if they were actors on a stage. He ate in a minimal way, drank two bottles, responded to the lady's conversational gambits in a desultory fashion, and, in general, planned revenge on his unknown adversary. The marquis had been born and bred a golden child, gifted with all of nature's bounty: beauty of face and form; wealth beyond measure; the bluest of blood and lineage; intelligence rarely found in those of his class; the enterprise to work as hard as he played. And he intended to find his way out of this snare, no matter how many guards were in place.

But he didn't understand the price of failure when the despotic Prince Marko of Badia was displeased. Men died at his orders, the bastinado his discipline of choicehis principality remote from the civilized world when it suited him.