"Why are you here?" he asked.

Lysette blinked. "Beg your pardon?"

"You do not wish to be here."

"What gives you that impression?"

"I have been watching you squirm for the last ten minutes."

A laugh escaped her. "Why not approach me?"

"Answer my question first."

"I felt compelled to come."

His dark eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. She grinned, beginning to enjoy his examining perusals. He was confused by his fascination with her, and she suspected he did not enjoy it.

"I have no notion of why I am here," he murmured.

"Should we leave?" she suggested, wondering if her assignment could be so easily won. Perhaps Desjardins was correct about Mr. James.

"What would we do?" There was danger in his voice, warning.

"You assume I meant for us to leave together."

A flush spread across the crests of his cheekbones. "What is the comte to you?"

"Is this an inquisition?" she drawled.

"A lover?"

Lysette stiffened. "You are too bold." She turned away, her heart racing with the mad hope that he would chase her.

She was not disappointed.

The clicking of his heels upon marble was impatient, reckless. He caught her arm and tugged her back, yanking her behind the fern, rather than beside it. When she gaped at him, his lips tightened into a thin white line.

"Why did he go to so much trouble to pair us here?"

Lysette's brows rose. "Perhaps he thinks I am in need of a man-of-affairs since my husband passed."

James's eyes burned with an inner fire. "I am not for sale."

"What an odd thing to say." The beat of her heart leaped into a mad rhythm. Nothing in Desjardins's notes could have prepared her for Edward James.

"Nevertheless, it is true," he said briskly. His hands flexed around her forearms, kneading.

"What a relief to have dismissed that misapprehension," she whispered, her voice husky from the heat of the air around them.

"I have a different theory," James rumbled. "One more suited to this venue."

"Do I wish to hear it?" Becoming short of breath, she stepped back, half afraid he would restrain her. There was an air of frustration and determination about him that seemed to brook no refusal. But her fears were groundless. The moment she pulled away, he released her.

"I am not what you want me to be."

Lysette forced her lips to curve in a careless smile. "This grows more intriguing by the moment."

"I do not provide stud service," he snapped.

"Well," she swallowed hard, "that is probably wise, considering your charm leaves much to be desired. You might starve to death if that were your occupation."

The glittering of his dark eyes should have alerted her. But frankly, she had not even considered him capable of grabbing her and kissing her senseless. When he did-arching her back over his forearms, mantling her body with his larger one- she lay motionless for too long, shocked by the feel of his firm mouth on hers. Though his approach had been rough, his kiss was not. It was as perfect and deliberate as his clothing.

Then, shock solidified into fear. Her lungs seized, cutting off her air. She struggled and pushed at his shoulders. Then bit his lower lip.

James released her with a curse, nostrils flaring, mouth bleeding. He radiated lust and the need to dominate, two things that were highly dangerous when mixed, as she knew all too well.

Lysette struck him full on his cheek.

"If you ever lay a hand on me again," she bit out, "I will sever it."

The blow turned his head not at all, though a reddened imprint betrayed the force of the hit and his spectacles were askew. She set off at a near run, crossing the ballroom in a diagonal direction toward the door, pushing through those who stood in her way.

This time, no footsteps followed her and she burst out to the gallery with a gasp of relief. She turned on her heel and moved toward the front foyer, determined to send a footman in search of a hackney. The hallway was dimly lit on purpose, another affectation to lend to the sensual atmosphere. She relished the near-darkness, finding comfort in the anonymity it afforded.

"Lysette."

She paused at the sound of her name. It was said in a murmur, but it was audible even over her labored breathing.

Spinning, she faced Desjardins as he exited the ballroom, his thin frame backlit with the light of the ballroom's chandeliers.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. You had better find someone else to woo Mr. James. Someone who prefers boorish manners and lack of finesse."

To her chagrin, the comte threw his head back and laughed. "Ma petite," he said, approaching her with a wide smile, "you are a delight."

When he reached her, he linked his arm with hers. "You are far too agitated. You should take a moment to collect yourself while I will order the carriage brought around."

Lysette stood unmoving. She could not believe Desjardins was not insisting she return to the ballroom.

"Come now," he said, linking arms with her and leading her back down the darkened hallway toward the retiring rooms. "You know my carriage is far more comfortable- and cleaner-than a hackney."

There was no protest she could make to that. As it was, she had failed to satisfy his request for her help. Inhaling sharply, she nodded her agreement and disengaged to continue on without him. Her nerves were stretched taut, and when her rapid stride threatened to overtake a couple ahead of her, she slipped into an alcove, reluctant to witness another amorous pairing.

As they disappeared into a private room, Lysette briefly admired the beauty of the woman's pure white gown, which glimmered in the low lighting. The modest cut along with the feminine bows was just the sort of design she favored. The male half of the couple was dressed in dark colors, his body blending into the surrounding shadows. Lysette admired the woman's daring in retreating alone with a large man. Lord knew she could not have done it. A mere kiss had sent her fleeing.

When she was once again alone, she withdrew from concealment and slipped into a retiring room, eager to restore her bearings and return to the safety of her house.

Desjardins watched Lysette walk away and laughed silently. He did not believe he had ever seen her so flustered. And Mr. James… Who knew the staid exterior restrained such passion? Of course, that was why the comte enjoyed spying. There were so many things people would do in private that they would never do in public.

Sadly, Depardue had ensured that Lysette would never appreciate the amorous attentions of a man. Certainly not attentions with the fervency James had displayed in the ballroom.

But there was a solution. Lysette felt a deep sense of obligation when someone did her a kindness. Every unsavory act she had committed for him over the last two years had been because he'd taken her away from Depardue and his men. If he could orchestrate a way for James to rescue Lysette from some hazard or another, she would be grateful to the man and forgive him many of his foibles. However, it would have to be a grave matter in order to make the attachment deep enough to facilitate sex.

Since the stakes involved with corrupting James included Desjardins's own viability, the comte considered it suitably worthy of his next drastic action.

He moved down the hallway to the retiring rooms. On the wall behind him, a turned-down oil lamp cast barely enough glow to act as a beacon. He glanced both ways to ensure he was alone, then he spilled the oil down the wall to pool between the stained wood trim and the edge of the burgundy and gold runner. He set the corner of his kerchief ablaze and dropped it in the direct path of the spreading puddle.

Desjardins was whistling as he walked away, inwardly applauding his own genius. He jumped when the oil caught fire, the sudden whoosh of combustion loud in the stillness of the hallway. He hurried toward the ballroom to find James, his pathway lit by the orange glow of flames behind him.

Simon did not understand how one moment Lysette was standing across the room and the other she was sprawled between his legs, her mouth moving with checked hunger beneath his. He did not comprehend why she was so very different tonight or why that alteration had such a potent impact on him.

He only knew that he was hard and aching, his heartbeat thundering, his skin damp with sweat. He wanted her, with the innate need one felt for food and water.

"Why now?" he asked, nibbling his way to her ear.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and bared her throat. He pressed his open mouth to the tender skin and sucked gently.

In response, she writhed against his throbbing cock, inciting his lust to greater heights. "Mr. Quinn…"

He chuckled, enjoying the game. "Who knew you burned so hotly beneath all that ice?"

"Kiss me again," she begged, her throaty voice inspiring thoughts of her twisting and arching beneath him in his bed, the kiss she pleaded for being bestowed to more intimate lips.

"We must leave, before I lift your skirts and take you here."

If his desire had been even a modicum less, he would fuck her right here, right now, and clear his mind enough to take her home. As it was, he was familiar with the need that rode him so hard. Rare as it was, it was still recognizable.

Once he started, he would be at her all night.

"No-"

He suckled her lower lip to stem any protest and her lush body rested more fully against his. "Then let us retire to a more private venue, Lysette. Before lust rules my better sense."

She stiffened against him, apparently becoming aware of how impatient he was. She pulled back with a frown, her eyes wide and glittering in the near darkness. Her mouth opened to speak, then her head swiveled to the side, her gaze locking on the door.