Her breathing fractured. His fingers firmed and she gasped.

He took her lips again, too hungry, too needy, even while his senses feasted. She'd never been touched, not as he was touching her, caressing her until she whimpered and clung. Her flesh was warm, her nipples tight buds as she gave herself up to his touch. She was a sensual innocent, as generous with her body as she had been with her lips, every bit as instinctively giving. The hot mounds of her breasts were a sensual delight far too tempting to ignore.

She murmured incoherently when he drew his lips from hers, nudging her head back so he could trace the line of her throat, remembering just in time not to mark her. The sweet flesh filling his hand beckoned; he lowered his head and heard her stifled cry.

It was a warning, one he was too experienced not to heed. He was driving too fast, pushing her relentlessly along a path she'd never trod. So he slowed, introducing her to each sensation, letting her assimilate the glory of each before moving on to the next. Only when she was fully prepared did he draw one aching peak into his mouth. Her fingers sank into his shoulders; she arched in his arms, but not to pull away. She was hot and malleable under his hands, the very essence of sensual woman in the night.

She was fascinating, a houri, a woman of endless temptation-he basked in her warmth, feasted on her bounty, secure in the knowledge that she would eventually be his. Not tonight, but soon. Very soon.

When, at last, he lifted his head, she pressed herself to him, her body afire, helpless in her need. He took the lips she offered, glorying in her eagerness. He sent his hands roaming over her hips, over the smooth swells of her derriere, tracing the hemispheres, then artfully caressing until she shifted her hips sensuously against his, searching instinctively for ease.

He gave her none-not tonight. She might be wondrously responsive, gloriously giving, but tonight would be too far, too fast. She was sensually naive, definitely untutored, even if she could not be precisely innocent. Having known only a much older husband who had clearly failed to appreciate her, that was obviously the case. She was following his lead blind; he knew it. He, however, knew precisely what they were about, knew very well how the timing went, how the play should pan out. And even though he'd restructured the script and advanced her lessons to the point where her ultimate surrender was imminent, that time was not yet.

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.