Yet her words were belied by the irresistible impulse to touch. Her hands softened their resistance and moved down his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles beneath his elegantly tailored clothing. She brushed aside his coat and ran her palms down his ribs and narrow waist, her hands open and hungry.

He didn't mock her weakness, merely smiled into her eyes with quiet triumph as he stroked her leg again. This time the direction was upward and the movement raised her voluminous skirts to expose her anklet. His gaze went to the shining gold. "This does a splendid job of drawing attention to your lovely legs," he said as he followed the circle of gold links around her ankle with a fingertip.

She inhaled sharply, her toes curling into the velvet and her fingers into his ribs. "The anklet belongs to the Gypsy maiden. The plain Jane who is the real me would never be so bold."

"Plain Jane?" His glance was quizzical and a little mocking. "A gold chain can be removed, but this"-he lifted her skirts higher to reveal the butterfly tattoo above her right knee-"exists only to drive men mad. And it has maddened me."

He leaned forward and traced the image with his tongue, his warm breath whispering along her inner thigh. Her eyes widened and her lower body tensed with craving. "Lucien," she gasped. "Oh, God, Lucien…"

The restraint that he had shown dissolved in an instant. He stretched out alongside her, his taut body molding her soft curves. As he kissed her with fierce carnality, his hand moved upward between her thighs, burning across sublimely sensitive skin to the hem of the short drawers she wore when doing her provocative dancing. A warm, broad palm drifted over the light fabric. Fingertips found the open seam and probed through soft curls into moist, heated feminine folds. Sliding deep, profoundly intimate. Sweet, drugging torment.

She whimpered helplessly as passion raged through her, making a mockery of morals and judgment. She could not bear this tumult, this wildness, could not bear it…

Release, when it came, was shattering. She cried out, the sound smothering in the depths of his mouth as he drew her essence into himself. He was absorbing her, yet at the same time making her more fully herself by unlocking hidden desires.

She came to her senses slowly, her lower body pulsing with aftershocks of fulfillment. She was physically sated as never before, and the process had drawn her to Lucien in a way she could not have imagined before this evening.

That recognition was followed by furious self-reproach. Dear God, how could she have been so mad? She could not afford to lose herself in him. Even if she didn't have a desperate mission to fulfill, it would be the height of idiocy to allow a rake to become master of her soul. She had been criminally weak to allow such intimacy.

And the intimacy was about to become greater. He caught her hand and drew it to the ridge of hard male flesh that pressed against her thigh. Through the layers of fabric that separated them, she felt a hot, insistent throbbing.

Cautiously she squeezed. He groaned and rocked against her hand, his eyes closed and his breathing rough. There was deep satisfaction in pleasuring him, and in seeing that he was as defenseless as she had been a few moments before. Dimly, she sensed that this mutual vulnerability was a crucial element of the lovers' bond.

Her musings ended when he started to undo the buttons of his breeches. He wanted to complete their union, and she yearned for that with matching intensity. She longed to enfold him, to make him part of herself, to cause him to lose himself in ecstasy.

But she dared not. She dared not.

Her racing mind sought and found the necessary excuse. She whispered, "Not yet. I… I must take precautions."

His dazed eyes opened, golden with passion. "I'll take care." His feather-light fingertips brushed her temple. "I would never harm you."

His tenderness was as potent a weapon as desire. Breathlessly, she wriggled away before her resolution crumbled again. "It will be better if you don't have to withdraw," she promised when he stretched out his hand to draw her back.

He laughed a little and his hand dropped. "Obviously you know that that is an almost irresistible argument."

Hating herself, she got to her feet and touched his tangled hair. He looked less intimidating than usual-no longer Lucifer but Apollo, born of the sun.

Regret pierced her, yet her wicked, lying tongue continued, "I'll only be a minute… I have what I need with me, and there's a retiring room just down the hall." Hastily, she tugged her disarranged clothing into some semblance of order.

His smile was a caress. "Hurry back, Lady Jane."

She bent forward and kissed him. "I will," she said huskily. "I… I hate leaving you, even for an instant." And that, at least, was the truth.

He settled back on the chaise and rested one arm across his closed eyes. Though he gave the impression of being relaxed, his body was still taut, unfulfilled.

She would never see him so trusting again. Even if they did met in the future under less troubled circumstances, he would never forgive her for what she was about to do.

Before remorse could totally unravel her resolve, she darted across the room, retrieving her slippers and sliding her feet into them as she went. She hesitated when she saw the cloak and wig that hung on wooden pegs by the door. She was going to have to walk home, and she would need the cloak to prevent freezing and to cover her absurd, conspicuous Gypsy costume. The wig couldn't be abandoned, either. Silently she lifted both items, then slipped out the door.

The corridor was empty, so she tugged the wig on and hastily shoved her hair under it. Then she wrapped the cloak around her so thoroughly that no one would recognize her.

Almost no one-she ran into the maitre d'hotel as she was on the verge of exiting through a side door. His eyes sharpened at the sight of her dishevelment and solitary state, but he was too discreet to comment. "I hope my lady enjoyed her dinner?"

Donning her most patrician manner, she inclined her head and said in French, "The food was superb, monsieur. As always."

A pleased light in his eyes, he swung the door for her.

Before stepping out, curiosity prompted her to say, "Lord Strathmore mentioned that he had once done you a small service."

The Frenchman's professional manner fell away. He said intensely, "It was not small, mademoiselle. He brought my family safely out of France. For that, my life is his for the asking."

It was one more shock in a night that had already had too many. As she set out for the nearest of her abodes, she silently cursed the earl for his complexity. Though she suspected that he had done many things that would not bear close examination, it was entirely believable that he could act with generosity and heroism. But how the devil had he managed to rescue people from France when the Continent had been closed to the English for most of the last two decades? Perhaps he augmented his income with smuggling or something equally villainous.

Despite the intimacy they had just shared, he was still a man of mystery. And mysteries were dangerous.

Images of Jane haunted Lucien as he awaited her return. Her lithe limbs, her mesmerizing diversity, the soft, smoky-sweet sensuality of her responses. She intrigued him as no woman ever had, and he ached to possess her. Perhaps in the intensity of mating he would finally touch her quicksilver soul.

He wondered about the fact that she carried the means of contraception with her. With most women he would have assumed that was a sign of promiscuity, but in the case of Jane it might only mean that she was too intelligent to let herself be caught unprepared. Yet he could not rule out the possibility he was fooling himself because he didn't want to think that tonight was merely one more casual episode in the life of a free-spirited actress. He was reluctant to analyze his own feelings, but they were most assuredly not casual.

His fingers drummed restlessly on the chaise as he wandered how long she would be. It had been several minutes. Ten, perhaps? Certainly five. It seemed longer. He never should have let her out of his sight.

Never should have let her out of his sight____________________

His eyes snapped open, and with sudden, shattering certainty, he knew that she was not coming back. The selfish little trollop had taken her satisfaction, left him to burn. Christ have mercy, how could he have been so stupid? What was it about this one female that could consistently beguile a mind usually notable for wariness? He had never been violent with a woman, but if Jane were present, there was a very real possibility that he would make an exception.

If she had been present, he wouldn't be feeling violent-at least, not in that way.

Bloody hell. He swung to his feet, furiously grabbed the edge of the dinner table, and hurled it to the floor. The dinnerware hit with a satisfying crash of splintering crockery and jangling silver. His mouth twisted as he watched wine splash across the oriental carpet. This would undoubtedly prove to be the most expensive dinner of his life, in every possible way.

There was a discreet tap on the door, followed by the maitre d'hotel's voice. "Is everything all right, my lord?"

Grimly, Lucien straightened his clothing and his expression. He'd be damned if he would let anyone guess what that little witch had done to him.

As he crossed the room, his anger flared again when he saw that she had stolen his cloak and repossessed her wig. The cold-blooded, scheming, light-fingered…