As she dived for the bed, he stripped off his cravat and threw it aside, then yanked his shirt loose so that it hung over his breeches. As he was unfastening his collar button, a fist struck the door and Harford's voice barked, "Open up!"

"Go away," Lucien called back, his voice sharp with irritation. "I'm busy." As he spoke, he used one hand to rumple his hair and the other to twist a pinch of skin on his neck, leaving a red mark that looked like a love bite.

Harford bellowed, "Dammit, Strathmore, let me in!"

"All right, all right," Lucien said testily. "I'm coming." He scanned the bed, where Kit was a long, curving shape under the blankets. She was covered except for a fold of blue silk that hung down one side of the bed. He shoved the telltale fabric under the blanket, then ambled across the room, taking his time.

After snuffing all but one candle and donning an expression of intense exasperation, he opened the door. "Is the house on fire? I can't imagine anything else so important that it can't wait until morning."

In the hall was Roderick Harford, his eyes furious and his clothing disheveled. "I want the woman you have with you!"

Lucien's brows arched. "You can't have her. She's mine, and I'm anxious to get back to what we were doing."

"The teasing bitch tried to rob me! I caught her searching my desk, as bold as brass."

"Oh?" Lucien folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "It can't have been recently, because I've been keeping her busy for the last half hour or so."

"But I just saw her come into this room!"

"Not in here," Lucien said positively. "Your ladybird must have gone through a different door. They all look the same."

Expression belligerent, Harford tried to shove past. "I want to see who's in your bed, and I'm aot leaving uatil I do."

Lucien's arm whipped across the doorway, stopping the other man in his tracks. "I really can't permit that," he said in a voice of dangerous softness.

"I'm not asking your permission, Strathmore!" Again Harford tried to bull his way through.

Lucien grabbed the other man's right arm and yanked it up behind his back. When Harford began thrashing violently, Lucien twisted his wrist to a point on the edge of excruciating pain. "If you insist, I'm afraid that I shall have to call you out," he said coolly. "That would be regrettable-it's damned bad form to kill the brother of one's host."

Brought back to a realization of the circumstances, Harford stopped struggling. Lucien released his wrist, but the other man was not done yet. Furiously he said, "You and that slut are working together, aren't you?"

Lucien's eyes narrowed. "You are beginning to irritate me, Roderick. I am respecting the lady's privacy for reasons that have nothing to do with you."

"Why?"

Lucien rolled his eyes heavenward. "Quite apart from normal gentlemanly behavior, there is the regrettable fact that not all husbands are tolerant of their wives' amusements."

After another silence Harford gave an embarrassed laugh. "A married woman. I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should have. Now kindly seek your felonious female elsewhere. The next door to the left is a servants' stair, isn't it? Perhaps she went that way."

Harford's brow furrowed. "I guess she must have. In dim light and at a distance, it was hard to tell which door she opened." As he turned to go, he added gruffly, "Sorry. I was out of line."

"Apology accepted. Just don't bother me again tonight." Lucien swung the door shut and locked it, then slid the key under the cushion of a nearby chair.

This time, by God, she was not going to get away.

He listened to the sound of Harford's retreating footstep, then the faint creak of the door to the service stairs. With his usual curiosity, Lucien had explored the stairwell soon after he had arrived. Harford would wander for a long tune in the bowels of the house before finally giving up in frustration.

Turning to the bed, he said, "You can come out now."

Expression wary, she pushed back the covers and sat up, surrounded by drifts of bed linen and blue silk. The atmosphere vibrated with complicated emotions: anger, deceit, desperation, and desire. Most of all, desire.

But for Lucien, anger was a damned close second. "So it really was you earlier," he said, his voice low and hard. "I'm glad to know that my instincts were sound. What have you to say for yourself this time?"

She grimaced. "That facing you under these circumstances is in some ways worse than having to deal with Roderick Harford." With a cavalier lack of respect for the expensive silk, she wiped off most of her cosmetics with the hem of her domino. Looking slightly smudged and much younger, she added wryly, "I've provoked him only once."

Her humor raised his anger another notch. "Perhaps you should have taken your chances with him. You asked for my help, but it comes at a price. And this time, my deceitful lady, I am flat out of gullibility."

Her expression became grave. "Given what you've endured from me, that's hardly surprising."

During the long silence that followed, he saw a shimmer of changing emotions in her eyes: regret, doubt, longing, and finally determination. Her hands locked in her lap. "I know that payment is long overdue," she said quietly. "Once you wanted me in your bed. If that's still true-well, I'm here."

Once again she astonished him, this time by her sheer, arrow-straight directness. He drew an unsteady breath. Though he disliked the implication that her offer was rooted in obligation rather than desire, there was no question of his refusing. Gentlemanly compunctions were a feeble consideration when set against the passion smoldering in his veins. "You had better mean it," he said tightly, "because this time you won't be allowed to change your mind or cry for mercy."

"If anyone cries for mercy, it won't be me, Lucien." She stretched out a slim, strong hand. "I've had enough of lies. It's time for some honesty."

He knew with absolute certainty that this time she would not run away. Yet she looked brittle, her eyes still haunted by the aftermath of her encounter with Harford.

Lucien frowned. Fear made a poor bedmate. He wanted her to be as hungry, as vulnerable, as he was. That meant he must control himself while bringing her to a fervor that matched his own. But restraint would not be easy.

In the silence that stretched tautly between them, the lilting music below was clearly audible. Of course, he thought with relief; dancing would re-create the enchantment that had bound them together earlier. He reached out and clasped her hand. "Dance with me, my lady."

After a startled blink, she slid her beautiful long legs over the edge of the mattress and kicked off her slippers. She released his hand, then curtsied gracefully, as if they had just been introduced. "It will be my pleasure, Lord Strathmore."

"Though we have not been properly introduced," he said with matching formality, "I believe that you are Lady Kit Travers?"

She straightened, a smile lurking in her eyes. "I knew it was only a matter of time until you learned who I am. Jane is one of my middle names, though."

"I've thought of you by a hundred names-Lady Jane-Lady Nemesis-Lady Quicksilver. But Kit is better, crisp and unconventional, like you." He tugged off her blond wig. Then he loosened her hair into a silky cloud, each gentle, circular stroke of his fingertips a caress.

"Mm-m-m." She gave a slow smile. "That feels lovely. No wonder cats like having their heads scratched."

She was still wearing her kidskin gloves, so he lifted her left hand and peeled the glove off. Then he kissed the fragile skin of her inner wrist. Her fingers curled, and her quickening blood pulsed warmly against his lips.

When he did the same with her right hand, her fingertips fluttered across his cheek. "Lucifer, light-bearer," she murmured. "Bright son of the morning."

"Now much fallen from heaven, I fear." He placed one hand in the small of her back. Her spine was vibrant with supple strength. Intertwining the fingers of his free hand with hers, he swept her into the pattern of the waltz. "But I have a glimpse of paradise before me now."

She colored and dropped her eyes. In the candlelight, her hair was a cinnamon-tinted halo. With more space than on a crowded dance floor, they could move freely to the rhythms of the music, their bodies speaking directly to one another. The crimson-patterned carpet was lushly sensual beneath their stockinged feet as they glided across the chamber.

Though her dancing was adept, as befitted a professional, at first there was a stiffness in her movements, as if her mind and body were not quite in tune with the music. But as they circled the open area of the room, the music began to work its magic and the strain faded from her muscles and her face.

Their partnership became fluid harmony. He was intensely, physically aware of the lithe feminine body beneath the blue domino. The reverse was also true, for each of his movements produced a matching response in her, a dynamic, constantly shifting balance between male and female.

As they came to the end of the room, he untied the ribbons of her domino with one hand. The silk billowed outward on the turn and floated obliquely down until it crumpled into the angle between wall and floor. Her bare shoulders glowed like warm cream. His mouth went dry. Not yet. Not… yet.

Her eyes had drifted shut so that she was following his lead purely through touch and movement. She was thistle-light in his arms. He found it oddly moving that she was placing herself entirely in his hands, at least for the moment.