She will be married to the Duke of Eastling.

The words clanged through Gideon's mind as they'd ceaselessly done since the earl had uttered them, like rusty chains hobbling criminals on their way to the gallows. The news had stunned him, and he'd gone perfectly still. On the outside. On the inside, it felt as if everything shifted and tumbled. Crashed and shattered. Then the reverberating words were replaced by an agonized Noooooo!that had screamed through his head.

It had taken him several seconds to recover, and when he had, anger and betrayal stabbed him like daggers in the back. She'd known. Known she was betrothed to another man, yet she'd deliberately set out to entice him. Then a keen sense of self-disgust filled him. He'd done a great many things he wasn't proud of, but by damn, he'd never cuckolded a man. Even if he'd desired the woman and she'd been willing. Even if he'd disliked her husband.

For years he'd been forced to witness the damage and pain that sort betrayal could cause. And he wanted no part of it. How many vicious rows had he listened to while watching the light fade from his mother's eyes after his father came home stinking of some trollop's cheap perfume? More than he wanted to recall. There were bloody few lines he hadn't crossed, but that was one of them. Until she'd deceived him. Not to mention the point of pride and honor that he didn't take things that didn't belong to him. And unbeknownst to him-because she'd deceived him-she belonged to someone else.

Now, on the cold walk home, he passed under a gaslight, the fog shifting eerily in the pale yellow glow, and he heaved out a long sigh. In spite of both the betrayal and self-disgust, an aching, profound sense of loss all but strangled him. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? Why had the earl's announcement hit him with the force of a blow to the head? He'd seen the parade of suitors tramping through the house. The men who flocked to her at parties. It certainly wasn't as if he ever could have thrown his name on the silver platter bearing those of her countless admirers.

Still, the news of her imminent marriage had caught him off guard. And he didn't like being caught off guard.

She will be married to the Duke of Eastling…

Unreasonable, white-hot jealousy ripped through him with a viciousness that wouldn't allow him to deny what it was. Bloody hell, the thought of that bastard putting his hands on Julianne, taking her without a care to her pleasure as he had Lady Daltry at last night's soiree, made him want to break things. Most specifically, that bastard's face.

Fancy gowns and parties are not important to me. Not nearly as much as other things. Love. Laughter. Companionship. Desire. Romance. Passion. They are what I long for.

In his mind's eye he saw her saying those words, the despair and vulnerability and yearning reflected in her expressive eyes. He clenched his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn't crumble to dust. She sure as hell wouldn't get all those things from a cold bastard like the duke.

The only time I've ever felt free of that glass coffin is when you kissed me.

Damn it, the taste of her still lingered on his tongue. In spite of the chill, dank air, he could still smell her. Feel her curves against him, and her warmth surrounding him. It was as if she were tattooed on his senses.

How the hell was he ever going to forget her?

Especially now that he'd agreed to protect her?

He dragged his cold hands down his face and released a pent-up breath that fogged the air. God knows he hadn't wanted to agree. Had wanted to tell her arrogant father that Gideon Mayne couldn't be bought. And he hadn't been bought-by the money. That he could have walked away from. But as much as he cursed himself for it, he couldn't walk away from Julianne when she was in danger. He would find the bastard threatening her and stop him. He'd do his job.

And then he'd walk away from her.

She'd marry the duke and move to Cornwall.

And that would be that.

All he needed to do was make sure he kept his damn hands and his damn mouth off her.

But now that he knew she belonged to someone else-that her betrothal wasn't simply something nebulous that would happen someday-his tarnished honor demanded there be no further intimacies between them. All he needed to do was hold on to that sense of anger and betrayal he'd felt upon hearing the news, the realization that she'd deceived him, and he'd succeed. Surely he could do that.

Wouldn't have mattered if you'd known, his inner voice taunted. The evening would have ended the same way. With you lifting her skirts.

His hands tightened into fists, and he shook his head to dislodge the insidious voice. No. He would have found the strength to resist her had he known.

You wanted her more than you wanted your next breath.

True. But the knowledge that she was betrothed would have cooled his ardor.

Wouldn't it?

Yes!his tarnished honor roared. Absolutely yes.

He turned off the main road onto a narrower cobbled street. Almost home. Where he'd climb into bed and get some much-needed rest.

You won't rest, you idiot. You'll lie awake and stare at the ceiling and remember what it felt like to kiss her. To bury your face between her soft thighs.

Heat raced through him, settling in his groin, and he grimaced as he swelled against his breeches. The fact that he hadn't had a woman in two months wasn't helping the situation. Not since he'd first seen Julianne. He hadn't wanted anyone other than her.

His lips compressed into a thin line.

That was going to change. Tonight. And he knew just the place.

He looked ahead, and his gaze fastened on the sign coming up on the next corner. The Drunken Porcupine. He hadn't been to the tavern since he'd met Julianne. In fact, he'd been living like a monk since that night. Well, no more. He quickened his pace, and a moment later, he pushed open the heavy oak door.

Loud guffaws, ribald singing, and the sound of a fiddle spilled out, along with a haze of smoke and the scent of sausage and cooked cabbage. Two months might have passed, but nothing had changed. Booths lined the outer walls, and wooden benches set in front of long, pockmarked tables ran the length of the room.

He made his way through the dimly lit interior, Caesar at his heels, nodding greetings to a few men he knew, returning the glares of several he didn't. When he reached the well-worn bar, he chose an empty stool in the corner that afforded him a good view of the room and put the wall at his back. Caesar settled himself at Gideon's feet.

"Well, look wot the storm blew in."

Gideon turned and found himself the subject of a narrow-eyed stare from Luther, the giant of a barkeep who polished a thick glass mug with the corner of his apron. The dim light reflected off Luther's shiny bald head and glinted on the small gold hoop in his earlobe. The tattoo of a rose decorated a beefy forearm. In spite of standing behind the bar, he still looked very much like the brawny sailor he once was. "Thought mayhap ye'd died and hadn't bothered to tell me."

"Couldn't very well tell you if I had."

Luther considered that, then nodded. "I suppose not. What'll ye have? Yer usual nip o' ale?"

"Whiskey."

Luther made no comment, and seconds later his ham-sized hand set down two glasses in front of Gideon. "I'll join ye," Luther said, pouring a generous shot of amber liquid into each glass. When he finished, he picked up his glass and raised it. "Here's to ye still bein' alive."

Gideon raised his glass. "And you as well."

"Thank ye."

Gideon tossed back the potent liquor in a single gulp then closed his eyes against the scrape of rough fire that burned its way down his throat. When he opened his eyes, Luther was setting down his empty glass and staring at Gideon with a speculative expression.

"Can't recall I've ever seen ye drink whiskey," Luther said.

"I rarely do," Gideon said. "Probably because it tastes so foul." A shudder ran through him. "Jesus. I think my guts are melting."

Luther gave a bark of laughter. "Probably are. Best whiskey in London right here." Then Luther sobered and rested his massive forearms on the bar and leaned forward. "Ain't right that ye stayed away so long, Gideon. Ain't no way to treat a friend."

Gideon met his gaze and gave a tight nod. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Luther nodded his acceptance then flashed a grin. "Especially a friend who's so much bigger than you."

Gideon allowed himself to grin back. Gideon stood several inches over six feet, but Luther was still a half a head taller and probably a good four stones heavier. "I could squash ye like a spider," Luther said, grinning.

"You'd have to catch me first."

"That'd be a problem," Luther agreed, shooting his left leg a rueful expression. A wound sustained in a knife fight on the docks had ended Luther's seafaring ways. "Speedy bastard, ye are."

"It's what keeps me from getting squashed like a spider."

Luther poured them each another whiskey. After Gideon had taken a swig-a much smaller one than last time, although it most likely didn't matter as his insides had already corroded-Luther said, "Interestin' that ye'd stop in tonight."

"Why's that?"

"Someone were here earlier askin' about ye."

"Oh? Who?"

"Gave the name o' Jack Mayne. Said he were yer father." Gideon's hand froze halfway to his mouth, and his fingers tightened on the glass. An unpleasant cramp seized his insides.