Charlotte poured another drink. It would not do to get foxed. It was a family curse. Both the Fallon parents had drowned their financial sorrows in a bottle, then drowned in reality when they had the drunken idea to go for one last midnight sail before their beloved boat was repossessed. Charlotte had disposed of their crumbling manor house, paid off their debts, and moved as far inland as she could. She had been scrupulous about sharing the pitiful proceeds with her sister. Judging from the contents stuffed in her trunk and stored in the country, Deborah had never needed a farthing. Her gentlemen had been generous from the start.

Charlotte sighed. Her sister had not been so very indiscriminate. She’d had only four lovers in ten years, each of whom had showered her with jewels, money, and clothing. Deb had not been able to wheedle anyone out of a house yet-save for poor Arthur. Charlotte should turn tail and go right back home. A note on the pillow would do as well as any stuttering excuse she could give Sir Michael for her sister’s behavior.

She returned to Deb’s bedroom to regroup, shoving a plaster Cupid away to set her drink by the bedside. Lord, but she was tired. The flying trip to town when she imagined her sister dying-or worse!-had sapped every bit of strength she had. And then to discover what Deborah planned-well, it quite took one’s breath away.

She lay in the Cupid-infested room, nervously bunching the scarlet satin coverlet between her fingers. She would not unpack her own trunk but to pull out her tattered night rail and robe later. She could not move in and assume her sister’s life. She didn’t even want to consume her dinner. But an hour later, fresh-faced Irene was at the door informing her that supper was on the table. Charlotte imagined it tasted delicious, but was too distracted to tell. Despite her earlier pledge, she gulped a great deal of wine in order that she might actually fall asleep in her sister’s bed. Woozy and warm, she allowed Irene to help her undress and bathe, then crawled under the covers, closing her eyes to the grinning statues. How Deborah had borne them for six weeks was a wonder.

She slept as if dead, having the most delightful tipsy dream somewhere past midnight. But when morning came and she found her nightgown hanging from a fat angel’s head and a naked man with his lips planted firmly around her left nipple, she knew her dream was now a nightmare.


Bay had done his duty. When news of his grandmother’s illness had arrived, he’d left immediately for Bayard Court, his oceanfront boyhood home. Grace Bayard had raised him, and he owed her everything. She’d been a little bit of a thing, but her tongue and wits were sharp, and she’d done her damnedest to set him on the proper path. It was not her fault that he had strayed more than a time or two. She had wanted to see him settled again and a father, and perhaps one day he would be. But at present he had the divine Deborah Fallon waiting for him in his little house in Jane Street, the most exclusive enclave of kept women in London. Deb was the third mistress he’d set up there. The first, Angelique Dubois, had not been much of an angel of any kind or even French, despite her name. His last lover, Helena Colbert, had served him well for a year, but things had wound down to their natural conclusion. His friend Viscount Marlow was happy to take her off his hands, gushing his gratitude in disgusting fashion at every opportunity.

Bay had been ready for a change, and his choice was the most alluring Deborah Fallon. Those full lips, those fuller breasts, those tip-tilted blue eyes. She looked like a naughty cream-fed kitten. She had some wit, and if she were a bit of a prima donna, it was only because she knew her own worth. Her last protector had to reluctantly marry to further the family line, and nothing he could say would make Deborah part of a triangle. She had her standards-her lovers had to be rich, of course, and completely unattached. Along with several others, Bay pursued Deb for weeks before he persuaded her to move into Jane Street, and he hadn’t gotten to warm the sheets even once before he was called away.

He’d stopped at his town house to make himself presentable after his long journey, pleased to see that someone had thoughtfully hung a mourning wreath upon the front door. He was truly sad that his grandmother had passed, but she had been nearly ninety-five, a very great age. He was three and thirty-and would be happy indeed to treble that if he remained as shrewd as his grandmama up till near the end. She had fallen in her garden, tending to her beloved roses. The doctor thought she had had a series of small strokes, and by the time Bay arrived, she was sleeping most of her days away. She had rallied briefly at the sight of him, then went to bed one night and never woke up. Bay had stayed to see to the disposition of her faithful servants and shut up most of the house for the time being. He was a city man now. One day he might try to raise a family again in the stone manor house, but now he meant to raise his spirits in Deborah Fallon’s arms.

Perhaps he’d been foolish to ride back to London. Every inch of him hurt, but he was damned if he was going to wait any longer for Deborah. He wondered how she’d amused herself while he was away. He let himself in to the dark house with his own key and climbed the stairs. He could have been blindfolded and still have found Deborah’s bedroom. She had changed her perfume to a delicious harmony of orange and lemons, and her fresh scent filled his head. He stood by the bed, not wanting to startle her awake, dropping his clothing quietly to the floor. This was not how he pictured his first night with his new mistress, but he was stiff as a poker and could not wait to seduce her over champagne and strawberries.

Angelique’s revolting cherubs were still gleaming in the moonlight. Helena had been too superstitious to remove them and had actually acquired several more. Poor Deborah had probably waited for him to return before she made any changes. He fully expected her to make the bedchamber her own, although the rest of the house was exactly to his taste.

Their liaison had not gotten off to a good start. The carters had no sooner delivered Deborah’s trunks before he’d left her in tears in the marble hallway. He had sent letters and flowers weekly, of course, and news of his grandmother’s death. In a foolish fit of lust he had discovered a ruby necklace in his grandmother’s jewel case and sent it to London, with the understanding that Deborah could wear it as long as she was his mistress. He was longing to see it around her white throat-it, and nothing else adorning her luscious body.

Grace Bayard was the rare woman who didn’t care much for ostentatious jewelry, so he had never seen his grandmother wear it. He had buried her with the plain gold band his grandfather had given her eighty years ago, before he made his fortune. Their marriage had not been an especially happy one. His grandmother had been practically a child when she wed, the fashion of the day. Her husband was older and ambitious, spending much of their married life outside England. Their long separation resulted in just one child, Bay’s father.

Grandmama Grace had told him once his grandfather had given her the rubies to atone for some infraction. His grandfather, Bay thought, must have done something spectacularly bad, for the rubies were large and lustrous and very valuable, and the diamonds surrounding them not insignificant either. The collar with its enormous center drop was fit for a princess. Hell, fit for a queen. He hoped it had not been a mistake to gift them to Deborah temporarily. He’d have to tread carefully when he discussed the necklace on the morrow.

He encountered an amusingly virginal night rail, which he made quick work of. She gave a pleased little sigh and wrapped herself around him. Her magnificent hair was in two schoolgirl braids-she certainly had not expected to entertain him this evening, and he was touched at her surprising modesty. And equally touched by her ardent, almost thirsty kisses. She tasted of vanilla and wine and smelled like a Spanish summer. She cupped his balls and brought him to her entrance and he slipped in without any hesitation. She was wet but very tight. Heaven. If she was a schoolgirl, he was as randy as a schoolboy and didn’t last long in her pillowing embrace. He’d spend more time tomorrow morning tending to her needs. He was known as a considerate lover, one of the reasons Deborah had agreed to be his mistress. Even his wife had no complaints while they were married.

Thoroughly spent, he passed a delightful night in his lover’s arms. And when the first rays of sun had the audacity to slip through the shutters, he feasted upon her breast as if it were a banquet of cream and honey. She gave a low groan, but he didn’t think it was in protest. The faint light showed him his mistress was not quite as young as she appeared to be six weeks ago-there were a few silver strands in her unraveling ink-dark braids. No doubt she resorted to artifice and would have corrected this had she known he was coming.

And speaking of coming, he wanted to seat himself within her again. Last night had been heaven, and now that the empty day was spread before him, the devil in him intended to visit heaven again and again. No, he was not sorry he’d paid the exorbitant price to secure Deborah Fallon’s favors. If last night was any indication of what the woman could do when she was half asleep, he would cheerfully beggar himself. He was a lucky man indeed.

He licked her nipple to taut, pale pink perfection, wondering idly if he’d get a child on her someday. He’d been fortunate with his mistresses thus far, but he would do his duty by her if she bore his bastard. He was a gentleman, and that’s what gentleman did. Somehow the thought of an infant suckling Deb Fallon’s very tempting breast was unbelievably erotic. She would resemble a naughty Madonna, her black hair cascading down her ivory shoulders.