Tonight he had forced himself to bid his wife an excruciatingly polite good night at the door of her bedchamber. He had deliberately not given her any indication of his intentions. He wondered if she was lying awake even now, waiting to see if he would come to her.

The uncertainty would do her good, he told himself. The woman was decidedly too headstrong and far too quick to issue a challenge, as that whole damn business involving the debt to Lovejoy proved. She had gotten into that dangerous situation precisely because she had been trying to demonstrate to Harry that she was not obliged to bow to his wishes.

Harry got up from his chair and stalked across the chamber to pour himself another glass of brandy. He had been far too lenient with Augusta thus far; that was the problem. Too indulgent by half. She was, after all, one of the Northumberland Ballingers. She needed a firm hand on the reins. He owed it to their future happiness to restrain her reckless streak.

But the more he thought about it tonight, the more Harry wondered if he was taking the right tact by staying out of his wife's bedchamber.

He swallowed more brandy and contemplated the stirring heat in his loins.

There was another way of looking at his current situation, he decided on a flash of brandy-induced wisdom. If one were to be quite logical about this—and he did pride himself on his ability to think logically—one could see that he might do better to assert his privileges as a husband right from the start.

Yes, that reasoning was much more sound than his previous thoughts on the matter. It was not, after all, his self-control he needed to demonstrate, but rather his dominant role in the marriage. He was master in his own home.

Vastly more satisfied with this new line of logic, Harry set down his glass and went across the room to open his wife's door.

He stood in the doorway and gazed into the deep shadows around the bed. "Augusta?"

There was no response.

Harry walked into the bedchamber and realized there was no one in the canopied bed. "Damnation, Augusta, where are you?"

When there was still no response, he swung around and saw that the door to the bedchamber was ajar. His insides clenched as he realized she was not in the room.

What trick was she up to tonight? he wondered as he strode toward the door and let himself out into the hall. If this was another one of her efforts to lead him in circles until he was dizzy, he would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms.

He stepped out into the hall and saw the ghostly figure. Garbed in a pale dressing gown that floated out behind her, candle in hand, Augusta was heading for the long picture gallery that fronted the house. Curious now, Harry decided to follow the wraith.

As he trailed softly behind her, Harry was aware of a sense of relief. He knew then that a part of him had secretly feared she had packed a bag and run off into the night. He should have known better, he told himself. Augusta was not the sort to run from anything.

He followed her into the long gallery and stood watching at the far end as she went slowly along the row of portraits. She paused at each picture, holding the taper high to study each face in its heavy gilt frame. Moonlight filtering in through the tall windows that lined the front of the gallery bathed her in a silvery glow, making her appear more of a ghost than ever.

Harry waited until she was examining the picture of his father before he started forward.

"I have been told I resemble him very closely," he said quietly. "I have never found it much of a compliment."

"Harry." The flame flickered wildly as Augusta spun around, her hand at her throat. "Good grief. I did not know you were there. You gave me a terrible start."

"My apologies. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, madam?"

"I was curious, my lord."

"About my ancestors?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, my lord, I was just lying there in my bed thinking that they will be my ancestors, too, now, will they not? And I realized I did not know much about any of them."

Harry folded his arms across his chest and propped one shoulder against the wall beneath his father's stern face. "If I were you, I would not be in too much of a rush to claim this lot. There's not a particularly pleasant soul among them, from all I've ever heard."

"What about your father? He looks very strong and noble." She peered up at the portrait.

"Perhaps he was when he sat for that painting. I only knew him as a bitter, angry man who was never able to deal with the feet that my mother ran off with an Italian count shortly after I was born."

"Good heavens. How terrible. What happened?"

"She died in Italy. My father locked himself in his library with several bottles for a week when he got the news. He drank himself into a stupor. When he came out, he refused to allow her name to be uttered in this house."

"I see." Augusta slanted him a searching glance. "The earls of Graystone have certainly had rather poor luck with women, have they not?"

Harry shrugged. "The various countesses of Graystone have been notorious for their lack of virtue. My grandmother had more affairs than anyone could count."

"Well, it is the fashion in Society, Harry. So many marriages are made for reasons of money and status rather than love that such things are no doubt bound to happen. People instinctively seek love, I believe. And when they do not find it in marriage, many go outside it."

"Do not even think of going outside our marriage for whatever you may feel you are missing in our alliance, Augusta."

She tossed her dark hair back over one shoulder and glowered at him. "Tell me honestly, my lord, were the various earls of Graystone any more virtuous than their countesses?"

"Probably not," Harry admitted, remembering his grandfather's string of passionate liaisons and his father's endless parade of expensive mistresses. "But one tends to notice a lack of virtue more in a woman than in a man, don't you think?"

Augusta was instantly outraged, just as he had guessed she would be. Harry watched the passionate light of battle leap into her eyes as she drew herself up for the skirmish. She held the taper in front of her as though it were a sword. The glow of the flame danced on her face, enhancing her high cheekbones and giving her an exotic allure.

She looked like a small Greek goddess, Harry thought. A young Athena garbed for war, perhaps. The thought made him smile with anticipation and the smoldering fire in his groin that had been plaguing him all evening suddenly burned hotter.

"What a perfectly odious thing to say," Augusta raged. "That is the sort of statement only an extremely arrogant, extremely obnoxious man would make. You should be ashamed of yourself, Graystone. I expected more even-handed logic and reason from you. You are supposed to be a classical scholar, after all. You will apologize for that silly, inane, totally unfair remark."

"Will I?"

"Most certainly."

"Perhaps I will do so. Later."

"Now," she retorted. "You will apologize now."

"I doubt if I will have sufficient breath left to say anything at all, let alone apologize, after I have carried you back to your bedchamber, madam."

He unfolded his arms and came away from the wall in a smooth, swift motion.

"Carried me back to my—Harry, what on earth do you think you are doing? Put me down at once."

She struggled briefly as he picked her up in his arms. But by the time he had carried her down the hall to her bedchamber and deposited her beneath the canopy, she was no longer putting up even a token resistance.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered in an aching voice. She put her arms around his neck as he came down beside her on the bed. "Are you going to make love to me?"

"Yes, my dear, I most certainly am. And this time," he told her softly, "I shall try to do a better job of it. I am going to turn you from Athena, the beautiful warrior, into Aphrodite, the goddess of passion."

10

Harry. Dear God, Harry. Please, I cannot bear it. This is beyond anything."

Harry lifted his head to watch Augusta as she approached her first delicious, shuddering climax in his arms. Her whole body was arched, tense as a drawn bow. Her hair was fanned out against the pillow in a dark cloud. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she twisted her hands in the white sheets.

Harry was sprawled on his stomach between Augusta's raised thighs. The hot scent of her was filling his head and the indescribable taste of her was still on his tongue.

"Yes, darling. That is how I want you." He eased his finger inside her again and slowly withdrew it. He felt the tiny muscles at the entrance of her tight passage clench gently. He slid his finger back into the clinging heat while he teased the small, exquisitely sensitive little nubbin above with his thumb.

"Harry."

"So beautiful," he breathed. "So sweet and hot. Let it happen, darling. Give yourself up to it." Slowly, deliberately he withdrew his finger and felt everything inside her clench desperately. "Yes, darling. Squeeze a little harder once more. You're almost there. Tighten yourself, my love."

He flicked his thumb over the small nub one more time as he entered her again with his finger. And then bent his head and kissed the swollen female flesh.

"Good Lord, Harry. Harry."

Augusta 's hands became fists in his hair and her hips lifted up off the bed, straining fiercely against his invading finger and his teasing tongue. Her thighs shivered, her feet flexed.