She nodded, aware of relief, but they were now too close, her bodice brushing his coat, her silk-sheathed thighs shushing against his…yet with the press of other couples about them, it was unlikely any would notice. And to the ton, she was still a widow after all.

Tony hesitated, debating, then murmured, “Incidentally, I’ve arranged for some men to keep a watch on your house. They’ll be in the street—you won’t know they’re there, but… just in case you have need, there’ll always be someone watching your front door.”

She stared up at him; he could see her thoughts whirling behind the green-gold of her eyes. First Maggs, now…“Why?”

He had his argument ready. “First the rumor, then the Watch. I want to make sure whoever A. C. is, he gets no chance to do anything more to implicate you. Or your family.”

He felt confident those last words would see her accept his arrangements without further question.

She frowned at him, but proved him right. “If you really think there’s a need…”

Whether there was or not, he would feel much happier knowing that when he journeyed out of the capital, more of his trusted minions had her and her brood under their eye. The three men he’d set to keep a constant watch on the Waverton Street house were one hundred percent reliable; nothing suspicious would escape them.

The music slowed, then ended; they whirled to a halt. Reluctantly releasing her, he tucked her hand in his arm and turned her away from Adriana’s court. “I’ll go down to Southampton tomorrow.”

Looking at him, she nodded, then cast a glance back up the room. “We should—”

“Behave as if we’re lovers.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “What?”

He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes at her; he opened them wide instead. “No one will find anything odd in that—it’s what they’re expecting.” Given he’d laid the appropriate groundwork over the past several weeks.

She frowned. “Yes, but—” Again she glanced back toward Adriana.

“Stop worrying about Adriana. Geoffrey’s beside her, and even if he’s distracted, there’s always Sir Freddie.” He paused. “Has he made an offer yet?”

“Sir Freddie? No, thank heavens.” She turned and settled to stroll by his side.

“Why so relieved? I thought you wanted Adriana to be able to choose among many?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I did. But as you very well know, she’s already made her choice, so Sir Freddie making an offer will simply be an unnecessary complication.”

He grinned, making a mental note to prod Geoffrey when next he had a chance. “Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t been inundated with offers.”

“I daresay I would have been if Adriana hadn’t hinted many of them away.” She shot him a severe glance.

“Strange to tell, she seems to feel that avoiding trying Geoffrey’s temper unnecessarily is a sound idea.”

He looked down at her—and hoped she read the message in his eyes; he concurred with her sister’s judgment and sincerely hoped she herself would exercise similar restraint.

The way she looked away, the hoity angle to which she elevated her nose, suggested she understood him well enough. Hiding an inward grimace at his own susceptibility, he steered her to where his godmother waited, surrounded by a number of her extremely interested friends.

Despite their interest and that shown by any number of the ton’s matrons in the relationship between them, the rest of the evening passed well enough. Through a combination of exemplary scouting and good management, he kept Alicia to himself throughout, avoiding the other gentlemen who, prowling through the crowd and attracted by the faintly exotic, definitely sensual picture she presented in her deep purple gown—something he fully intended to enjoy removing later—continually hove on her horizon.

They indulged in another waltz, after which she insisted on returning to check on Adriana and her court. Instead of permitting her to hang back as she usually did, he led her to join the circle of gentlemen and two other enterprising young ladies gathered about Adriana.

Alicia shot him a suspicious glance, which he met with a bland, wholly deceptive smile, but she consented to do as he wished. Thus protected from further incursions— the gentlemen who looked her way were not the sort to dance attendance among the younger crew—they saw out the end of the evening.

As soon as guests started to leave, Alicia turned to him; he got the impression she was tired, then recalled…hiding a smug smile, he gathered Adriana and Geoffrey; together with Sir Freddie, they joined the exodus. In the foyer downstairs, they parted. Sir Freddie bowed easily over Adriana’s hand, bowed courteously to Alicia, nodded to Tony, and lastly Geoffrey, then left. Geoffrey scowled after him, then turned to farewell Adriana and Alicia.

Tony exchanged a nod and a glance. Geoffrey returned both, an acknowledgment that Tony would see both ladies safe home.

When he accompanied them to their carriage, Alicia shot him a wary frown. He ignored it, handed first Adriana, then her up, and followed.

Adriana accepted his presence without the slightest question. Alicia glanced at him, then gave her attention to the facades they rolled past. He leaned back, content to feel her soft warmth beside him, perfectly aware of what was going through her mind.

When the carriage rocked to a halt in Waverton Street, he stepped down, and handed both sisters down. He shut the carriage door; the carriage lurched, then rumbled off. He turned to find Alicia standing on the pavement, eyeing him uncertainly. Suppressing a smile, he took her arm and guided her up the steps. Adriana had already knocked; Maggs opened the door, and she swept in. He steered Alicia in her wake.

“Good night.” Adriana headed for the stairs with barely a backward glance.

Maggs shot the bolts on the front door, then bowed to them both and took himself off.

Alicia watched him go and wished she knew what would happen next. She shouldn’t encourage any illicit interlude; she steeled herself to bid Tony good night. Determinedly ignoring the twitching of her senses, the skittering anticipation afflicting her nerves, she tensed to swing about—

His long fingers slid around her wrist. “Come into the drawing room.”

She turned, tried to read his face, but he was already moving, drawing her with him. He opened the door; leaving it ajar, he led her into the dimness beyond the shaft of light shed by the candle left burning in the hall.

Halting, he faced her, smoothly drew her into his arms—and kissed her.

Stormed her senses.

She was kissing him back, fully participating in an increasingly heated exchange before she caught her mental breath. Even when she did, it was impossible to draw back, to pull away from the engagement and the spiraling escalation of hunger and need it fueled.

Whose hunger, whose need, she couldn’t have said; they were both greedy, ravenous, both wanting.

Her hands were sunk in his hair, holding him to her as their tongues dueled, as their lips feasted. One of his hands had closed about her breast, kneading, leaving it swollen and aching; the other was wrapped about one globe of her bottom, crushing the silk as he held her to him.

He rocked against her, deliberately evocative; heat pulsed within her—she heard a soft moan.

Holding her tight, her body molded to his, he broke from the kiss, raised his head, but not far. With an effort she lifted her heavy lids, and found his black gaze on her eyes.

“There’s no reason to step back.”

She knew he didn’t mean from their kiss.

His gaze fell to her lips, then returned to her eyes.

“And don’t think to deny this.”

She couldn’t; given what was so manifestly flaring between them…he was right—there was no point.

He bent his head again. She was lifting her lips to meet his when she heard his soft murmur, “Or me.”

She set her hand to his cheek as he took her mouth again; he was all heat and fire, tempting and familiar. This, she accepted, was the way it would be; if he wanted her, she was willing.

A minute later, he broke from the kiss to murmur, his voice dark and gravelly, “Upstairs.”

He turned her. His hand remained on her bottom as he guided her into the hall, then up the stairs to her bedchamber; her skin didn’t cool in the least.

Then they were in her room, and he closed the door. She’d halted in the middle of the floor, the candle in her hand. The flame wavered, but was enough to shed a golden pool of light into the general gloom.

He glanced at her, then at her dressing table; he waved. “Put it down there.”

She moved to do so. Leaning over the stool, she set the candlestick down on the polished top, straightened—and saw in the mirror that he’d followed her.

His hands slid around her waist. He shifted her slightly so that she stood directly in front of the three-paneled mirror with its wide central panel flanked by two narrower wings. The rectangular stool stood before her knees. She glanced down at it, then looked up as his hands slid farther and gripped, anchoring her as he stepped closer, trapping her before him.

She caught her breath as, in the shadowy mirror, she watched his dark head bend beside hers; releasing her waist, one hand rose, gliding upward over the purple silk, now deep as the midnight sky, to close possessively over one breast. His other hand splayed down, covering her stomach, pressing in, gently kneading, pressing her hips back against his hard thighs.

Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder at his face; inches away, she saw his teeth gleam in a fleeting smile.