"… unusual-looking chit. Not exactly pretty, is she?"

"… admit anyone these days. A Cit's widow, 'pon rep!"

Bainbridge's ears pricked up. Kit. They had to be talking about Kit. His heart accelerated a bit as he came to the doorway of the ballroom.

He had no trouble spotting her amid the multitude. Bathed in light from the five chandeliers, she glowed like a sun-kissed pearl. He made his way toward her, his heart clenched in his chest. Dear God, she was beautiful. Rather than the drab frocks she'd worn before, she was now dressed in an exquisite creation of deep peach silk shot through with gold threads. Bands of intricate, raised-gold embroidery trimmed the sleeves, hem, waist, and the temptingly rounded neckline. The cut of the gown emphasized the length of her neck and the slender span of her waist. Strands of pearl-trimmed ribbon decorated her upswept hair, and an exotic necklace of gold and pearls adorned her throat. Gold bracelets jingled on her wrists as she cooled herself with a carved sandalwood fan. He swallowed hard as a wave of heat swept over him.

But as he drew nearer, he noticed a large number of men gathered around her, and that quickly cooled his blazing desire. He recognized a few, for their reputations preceded them: Sir Henry Castleton, a dissipated roué who had buried two wives already and was apparently in the market for a third. Lord Tarlton, who was at least fifty if he was day, and who had just last month lost a fortune at White's hazard table. Lord Edward Mitton, who had squandered his inheritance by the time he was twenty and had sponged off his dwindling circle of friends ever since. Viscount Langley, an inveterate gamester who had won and lost fortunes on the flip of a card.

Some of the others did not seem so objectionable, like Lieutenant the Honorable Wilfred Oddingley-Smythe, an infantry officer who had been wounded at Salamanca, and Sir Percival Debenham, whose only failing was his youth-the boy was barely old enough to shave, much less court a widow six years his senior.

None of them should prove to be much trouble… except Langley, perhaps. Kit had just turned her head and laughed at something the viscount had said. Hearing that throaty laugh and knowing it was meant for someone else made Bainbridge grit his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Time to get her away from this gallery of rogues.

He elbowed his way into Kit's circle of admirers. She turned; their gazes met. Her green eyes widened.

"Hello, Kit," said Bainbridge.

Kit's breath froze in her lungs. Oh, sweet heaven-he was here.

Here, and more devastatingly handsome than ever in his elegant black and white evening dress. A diamond twinkled at her from the intricate folds of his snowy cravat, its hard glitter matching that of the marquess's eyes. A shiver cascaded down the length of her spine.

"Lord Bainbridge," she replied, her voice high and breathy. "What brings you to Bath?"

He inclined his head to her, a slight smile on his lips. "I think you know."

"Bainbridge!" exclaimed Lord Langley with a bit too much jovial enthusiasm. "How odd that we should see you here. I thought Bath would be too dull for your taste."

"That only proves how little you know me," Bainbridge murmured in reply.

From the alcove above, the musicians started up with an allemande. The marquess turned to her. "May I have this dance, Mrs. Mallory?"

Kit's heart leaped into her throat, but before she could reply Lord Langley reached out and took her gloved hand.

"You must get in line, Bainbridge," the viscount stated. "The lady has promised this dance to me."

Bainbridge looked to her. "Kit?"

Though her pulse pounded in her ears, she managed to lift her chin and stare haughtily back at him. How dare he march in here and expect her to jump at his command! She favored the viscount with a cool smile. "You are quite right, Lord Langley. This is indeed your dance."

The satisfaction of watching the marquess's face darken with anger dissipated as soon as the viscount guided her out onto the dance floor.

"Are you well, Mrs. Mallory?" Langley asked in low tones.

"Yes, my lord. Fit as a fiddle. Why do you ask?"

He raised one golden brown brow. "Because, dear lady, you have gone quite pale."

Kit raised a gloved hand to her cheek. "I have?"

"If you prefer to sit out this dance, I would gladly fetch you a glass of lemonade."

She flashed him a grateful look. "No, my lord, but I do appreciate your offer."

Langley glanced over his shoulder. "If I may hazard a guess without being thought impertinent, might I conclude that Lord Bainbridge is the source of your distress?"

Her jaw tightened. "You might."

"Should I call him out?"

Kit stared at him, only to notice the teasing glint in his slate blue eyes. "No violence on my behalf, my lord, I beg you."

"Ah." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Very well, Mrs. Mallory. But I shall do my best to see that he does not distress you again this evening."

Kit did not have a chance to reply, for the dance had begun, and soon she and the viscount were too caught up in the figures to hold much of a conversation. Although Lord Langley proved to be a diverting dance partner, she could not shake the feeling that Bainbridge's eyes lingered on her wherever she went.

When the allemande ended, Sir Percy claimed her for a country dance, and Lord Tarlton for the reel after that. But when Sir Henry Castleton tried to solicit her hand, she pleaded fatigue and begged to sit out the dance. The baronet appeared displeased, but did not press the issue, for which Kit was infinitely grateful. She did not like the older man; he did not bother to disguise his leering glances, and his clammy, reptilian touch never failed to make her shudder.

It was rather like being part of a circus, only she was one of the performers; she wasn't sure if she liked the sensation. On one hand, being watched and admired was rather flattering, but as the dowager had said in her letter, not all the attention was entirely welcome.

Like that of Lord Bainbridge.

The crowd in the Assembly Rooms had noticed the marquess's presence by now; the air hummed with murmured speculation. Kit guessed that a man of Lord Bainbridge's stature-and rakish reputation-was rarely seen in Bath. He stood at the edge of the room, elegant as ever, seemingly oblivious to the whispered furor around him, and equally unaware of the longing looks sent his way by several young ladies.

As Kit returned to her chair, she saw his head swivel in her direction. Her lips thinned. So much for hoping to stay unnoticed.

Lord Langley appeared at her elbow. "May I be of some assistance, Mrs. Mallory?" he asked softly.

Kit tried to smile. "No, thank you, my lord. I have to face this sooner or later; I cannot run forever."

"I shall not be far, if you have need of me," he said, bowing over her hand.

"Will you excuse us a moment, Langley?" inquired the marquess. His words were polite, but Kit heard the quiet length of steel running through them.

"Of course, my lord," Langley drawled. "But I shall not let you monopolize her for long. Would you care for a glass of lemonade, Mrs. Mallory?"

The viscount was giving her an opportunity for a gracious exit, should she need it. She nodded. "Yes, thank you."

"Then I shall return shortly." Langley shot the marquess a warning look, then vanished into the crowd.

Kit snapped open her sandalwood fan and fanned herself at what she hoped was a leisurely pace. Her whole body felt as though it would shake apart at any moment. Fortunately, her long skirts hid her quaking limbs.

"What do you think you are doing, my lord?" she demanded.

A muscle twitched at his temple. "You know why I'm here, Kit."

"I do not," she countered. "Perhaps you should enlighten me."

He sighed. "Kit, I came here to apologize. I never meant to hurt you, and I think you know that."

Several people nearby turned their heads, their expressions full of unseemly curiosity. Kit felt her face redden. "This is neither the time nor the place for such a private discussion, sir."

The musicians launched into a stately minuet; Bainbridge seized her hand and began to lead her onto the dance floor. "Then this should allow us some privacy."

"What? How dare you!" Kit hissed, hoping no one would overhear.

The marquess gave her one of his roguish, heart-stopping smiles. "I dare, sweet Kit, because you leave me no other choice."

A formal court dance of the previous century, the minuet was excruciating under the best of circumstances. Tonight, Kit found it to be nothing less than torture. Though separated by layers of kidskin, she could still feel the warmth of his hand upon hers. And his eyes… Those dark, seductive orbs seemed to follow every move she made.

"Very well, my lord, I accept your apology," she murmured as they passed through a set of figures. "Now you can return to London with a clear conscience, if you indeed possess such a thing."

The marquess's eyes narrowed. "I do not plan to return to London, Kit."

She feigned innocence. "Oh? Do you intend to stay and take the waters, then? I have heard they are quite beneficial to one's health."

Irritation flashed over his face. "I am not leaving here without you."

She uttered a rather unladylike snort. "Then I fear you will be in Bath a very long time, sir, because I have no intention of going anywhere, especially with you."

"Then I will wait."

She stumbled; he caught her against him. Her silk-clad thigh and hip made contact with his, and a jolt of electricity surged through her. Heat flooded her face. She drew back to keep a more decorous distance between them.

"You see?" he said with an infuriatingly smug smile. "You cannot deny the attraction between us."