Kat Martin

I'm not afraid, she told herself.

I'm Vermillion. I'm not afraid of any man,

and especially not Caleb Tanner.

She tossed her head, wishing her hair was fashionably done up and she was wearing rice powder and rouge. "Don't be silly. I wasn't afraid. I was enjoying a bit of sport, is all. I wanted to see what it might be like to kiss you."

He stiffened and a muscle tightened in his cheek. "That's what you were doing? Having a bit of sport?" Caleb stalked her, looking hard, even dangerous. "Then tell me, Miss Durant, did my kisses meet with your approval?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose so. Andrew's kisses are a bit more forceful. Yours were—"

Caleb jerked her hard against him, cutting off her words. "So you like things rough—is that it? Then rough is what you'll get."

She tried to turn away, but he caught her jaw, holding her immobile, and his mouth crushed down with brutal force.

It was a hard, taking kiss. A fierce, plundering kiss with none of the gentleness he had shown her before and yet her whole body went liquid with heat. Her fingers dug into the front of his shirt and she wasn't sure if she were trying to pull him closer or push him away…



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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

Pocket Star Book published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright © 2003 by Kat Martin

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-1917-0

First Pocket Books printing April 2003

POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Front cover illustration by Tom Hallman; tip-in illustration by John Ennis

Printed in the U.S.A.


To my mother.

For her years of love and constant encouragement,

and for always being there when I needed her.

I love you, Mom.






1


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Outskirts of London

May 1809

Her name was Vermillion. It came from the Old French, a color, a bright Chinese red; cinnabar, some called it.

Vermillion. The word conjured sultry, mysterious images. Hot, lurid, untamed images.

She had always hated the name.

In private, she called herself Lee. Simple. Straightforward. The middle name she carried that was more like the person she was inside. Vermillion Lee Durant, a pretty name, she supposed.

If only it belonged to someone else.

"Hurry, Vermillion, darling. We mustn't keep the colonel waiting."

Lee sighed. No, one must never keep a gentleman waiting. At least not here, in the world of the demimonde, where every man was king, or at least made to believe he was.

Lee paused in front of the tall cheval glass to check the fit of her scarlet velvet gown, a complement to the thick dark red curls swept up on her head, the style not really à la mode, as was the gown, but softer, more alluring, more pleasing to the gentlemen.

The elaborate coiffure was laced with gold ribbon to match the trim beneath the high waist of her gown, which was cut shockingly low, displaying an abundance of cleavage. The slim skirt, slashed nearly to the knee, was the height of London fashion, though hardly suitable for a young unmarried woman of Lee's mere eighteen years.

Still, she was used to the clothes and her sophisticated appearance. She stood patiently as her little French maid, Jeannie, swung the gold-lined, red velvet cape around her shoulders and fastened the diamond and garnet pin at her throat.

" 'Ave a good time, chérie," the woman said, though surely by now she knew it wouldn't be the least bit of fun for Lee.

"Good night, Jeannie." Pasting on the practiced, enigmatic smile her aunt and her admirers expected to see, she paused at the bedchamber door. "I'll be late coming home. I'll ring if I need help getting out of the gown."

Her artificial smile firmly in place, Vermillion swept out into the hallway and descended the curving staircase into the entry of her aunt's elegant mansion in Parkwood, a small village on the outskirts of London. Gowned in sapphire silk scattered with brilliants, Aunt Gabriella waited at the bottom of the stairs, her own, far more sincere smile in place.

Gabriella Durant was forty-six years old, taller than Vermillion and more slender, her breasts still high, her blond hair thick and luxurious, woven with only a few strands of silver gray. But fine lines had begun to appear around her mouth and eyes, and the flesh had loosened beneath her jaw. Though Gabriella loathed each small flaw, she was still a beautiful woman.

"You look lovely, darling." Aunt Gabby surveyed the ruby velvet gown and the upsweep of Vermillion's flame-red hair. "More beautiful every year."

Vermillion made no reply. The Durant women were known for their beauty. It was a simple statement of fact that Lee saw as more of a curse than a blessing. The butler, Wendell Perkin Jones, a thin, elegant little man who wore his dark hair parted down the middle and curled at the sides like an emperor, pulled open the door, and Vermillion caught a glimpse of the carriage, a sleek black barouche pulled by a pair of matched gray horses, a gift from the Earl of Claymont, her aunt's current cher ami.

"The coach is waiting," Aunt Gabby said. "Claymont is meeting us at the theater." Gabriella smiled, looking forward to the evening with a relish Vermillion rarely felt. She would rather stay at home, ride one of her precious horses if the sun were still up, or read a book, perhaps, or enjoy an hour on the harp, though none of those thoughts appeared on her face.

Instead, her smile widened as she settled into her role, almost second nature after so many years of learning the part. "I'm ready to go anytime you are. As you say, we mustn't keep the gentlemen waiting." Sweeping her cloak out behind her, Vermillion joined her aunt in the entry and the two Durant women walked gracefully out the door, into the glittering London night that awaited.


Captain Caleb Tanner held the harness of the lead horse of the pair in front of the carriage, keeping the flashy grays calm in their traces. The expensive black barouche sat in front of the Durant mansion, which was fashioned of brick, stood three stories high, and sat on several hundred acres of rolling green hills just outside London. Tall white Corinthian columns held up a decorative portico designed to shelter arriving visitors from inclement weather and a long curving driveway led up from the road.

The owner, Gabriella Durant, had inherited the mansion along with a very tidy fortune from her mother, a well-known courtesan of her day. Gabriella had followed in her mother's footsteps, amassing even greater wealth and continuing what appeared to have become a family tradition, currently being carried on by Gabriella's red-haired niece, Vermillion.

Caleb knew a great deal about the Durants, who traced their ancestry back to the time displaced French nobles arrived penniless in London to escape the guillotine. Using her great beauty and charm, Simone Durant had saved the near-destitute family and prospered, her skill as a lover legendary in the world of the demimonde. After Simone's death, her daughter, Gabriella, had become the reigning queen, La Belle, the toast of London.

Caleb cast a glance toward the door of the mansion, waiting for the women to appear. Rumor was, the niece Gabriella had raised as a daughter intended to claim the throne for the third generation.

Caleb had never seen Vermillion, but he had heard stories about her, gossip about her loveliness and skill in the boudoir.

He knew she must be beautiful.

But he wasn't prepared for the impact that hit him like a fall from his horse the moment she stepped out onto the porch. As he watched her in the glow of the whale oil lanterns beside the door, Caleb couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. He had never seen such fiery hair or skin so flawless. He had never seen eyes the color of aquamarines.

She was smaller than he had imagined, her figure fuller, more womanly. Beneath the clasp of her scarlet velvet opera cape, her breasts were high and lush and nearly spilled out of the bodice of her gown. His hands itched to cup them. He wanted to pluck the pins from her fiery hair and run his fingers through it. The true color of her lips was masked by the rouge that turned them a dark ruby red, but they curved in a sultry smile that made a man want to own them.

Caleb shook himself, a feeling of distaste rising inside him. Vermillion Durant was nothing but an expensive plaything, an object to satisfy men's lust, a woman who used her body to gain power over foolish, unwary men. Perhaps she was even a spy.

Which was the reason Caleb Tanner stood next to the horses, the newly hired head groom of Parklands, the name used by those who attended the lavish and notorious balls, ridottos, and house parties hosted by Gabriella Durant.

This assignment was different than any he had had before. Caleb had been ordered back to England during his tenure in Spain, having served in the cavalry under General Sir Arthur Wellesley through the Oporto campaign. The youngest son of the Earl of Selhurst, he had enlisted in the army just out of Oxford. Caleb had served in India and the Netherlands. On orders from the general, he was in England now.