Quinn hugged her warmly. "You never give up on me, do you, Constance? You're still hellbent on turning me into an English gentleman."

"A futile task, I fear," she replied spiritedly. At that moment the orchestra began to play a waltz. "I beg the three of you to move off the ballroom floor. You're fueling the tongues of every gossip in London."

"Then let's not leave them disappointed."

To Noelle's dismay she found Quinn's strong arm clasped around her waist, drawing her hard against his body. The contact was searing. Nightmare memories engulfed her as she fought for control. He led her into the first steps of the waltz, the corded muscles of his thighs burning through her gown. She tried to back away from him, but he was unyielding, the steely band of his arm perversely drawing her closer until her breasts were pressed hard against his chest. Insolently he looked down on her, his eyes fondling the tender mounds of flesh as they strained upward, threatening to break free from the chastity of the lacy bodice. Then, with a twisted smile, he released her to the proper distance as suddenly as he had claimed her. Noelle stumbled; only his strong grasp saved her from falling. Quickly she recovered, once again forcing herself to match his steps.

He was a superb dancer, moving with a lethal gracefulness that belied his size. For a moment she permitted herself the luxury of forgetting who he was, allowing him to twirl her expertly about the floor. Those close by stopped dancing to watch as they glided by; he, the quintessence of maleness, she of womanliness.

Cool feathers of air brushed against her bare skin. Too late, she realized he had led her out into the deserted garden. He stopped moving but did not release her. Instead, with one hand, he pulled an ivory rosebud from her hair and brazenly slipped it into the enticing valley between her breasts.

Just as she reached to pluck out the offending bloom and hurl it in his face, he said softly, "Suppose you tell me what this masquerade is all about."

A shiver of fear crept up her backbone. He had recognized her!

"Masquerade?" she murmured as guilelessly as she could manage, trying to give herself time to think.

Abruptly he let her go. "Don't play the innocent. I have nothing against Simon bedding you, but why is he being so underhanded about it? Other respectable men live openly with their mistresses."

Noelle's thoughts whirled. How stupid of her not to have realized he would interpret her presence in the crudest way possible! She chafed at this additional humiliation.

Then the coolly logical part of her mind took command. No matter how insulting, it was infinitely better for him to think as he did than discover the truth-that she was his wife, owned by him, his chattel. Her mind refused to dwell on even the possibility of so monstrous a thing happening. She would swallow the insult while she made her plans.

"How would you know what respectable men do, Mr. Copeland? I understand from your father that you are a black sheep."

She was disappointed that her shaft did not find its mark. Instead of being offended, amusement showed itself in his wicked grin.

"You understand correctly, madam. What else has my father told you about me?"

Noelle shrugged carelessly. "I vow I don't remember. In truth, I paid little attention; the subject did not interest me."

"And what does interest you, Miss Pope?"

"Almost everything, Mr. Copeland. That is why it is so unusual for me to be as bored as I am at this moment."

With that she turned on her heels and swept back toward the ballroom.

Quinn chuckled as her skirts disappeared through the doorway. She was a spitfire, and a beautiful one at that. A woman like that was wasted on Simon. For a moment the thought of taking her away from his father flashed through his mind, but then he dismissed it. The less he had to do with Simon, the better off he would be.

He walked over to the wall that surrounded the terrace and rested his hands on the stone balustrade while he looked out over the dying garden, where only a few hardy flowers still bloomed in beds scattered with fallen leaves. The muscles in his face tightened. Why the hell had he come back? To anger Simon? Goad him?

When he'd walked out of his father's library almost two years before, revenge had been sweet in his mouth, and he'd sworn to himself that he would never return. Like a nomad, he'd traveled from one shipyard to the next-Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Glasgow-shunning the leather insulated offices to work as a laborer.

Using his strong hands, he had hammered and planed the hulls, resisting the force inside him that yearned to smash the plump shells and reshape them; make them faster, sleeker. He rigged spars and stitched sails, living off what he earned while his fortune lay untouched in a London bank. He'd driven himself until his hands were hard and calloused, until his muscles were taut bands of steel.

And now he'd returned.

Part of it was curiosity. The stories of a beautiful young cousin had met his ears as soon as he reached London. But Quinn knew it was more than that. Contemptuous of his own weakness, he smashed his fist down on the stone balustrade, not even flinching at the bone-crushing impact.

He had wanted to see his father.

Noelle was circling the edge of the floor when Simon spotted her. Catching her by the arm, he drew her out into the back hallway.

"Are you all right?" he asked concernedly.

Angrily Noelle shook off his hand. "Isn't it a little late for that?"

Simon looked faintly reproachful. "I know you're upset, Noelle, but you must realize that he was bound to return eventually."

"And I depended on your protection if he did," she snapped.

"You have my protection."

"Oh? I wish I'd been confident of that when he dragged me into the garden."

"He could hardly harm you in the garden. There were a hundred people nearby."

"I don't believe you have even the faintest idea what your son is capable of doing." She dipped her finger into the bodice of her gown, pulling out the bruised rosebud and flinging it angrily on the floor. "Do you know he believes I am your mistress?"

Simon's brows lifted in surprise. "My mistress? Surely you denied it."

"Of course I didn't deny it. He knows I can't be your niece. There is no other way I can explain my presence here. Simon, you must promise me that you will let him keep believing as he does."

Thoughtfully Simon nudged the fallen rosebud with the polished toe of his shoe.

"Promise me," she insisted.

"All right," he concluded, "if it will make you feel better, I promise. Now, let's go back in before we're missed."

"One more thing." Stubbornly Noelle set her jaw. "I want the marriage dissolved now. It must be done quickly, before he discovers who I am."

Impatiently Simon thrust his fingers through his hair. "Noelle, we've been through all this before. You know how complex it is."

"I don't care!"

"You're being totally unreasonable."

"Simon, I'm warning you," she hissed, "you'd bloody well better find a way or I'll tend to that precious son of yours myself, and I'll use a knife."

Her skirt crackled angrily as she whirled away from him.

Simon considered his next move. Somehow he would have to placate Noelle. He dismissed her threat to harm Quinn as a bluff. Women did not kill in cold blood, even a woman like Noelle. No, what really worried him was that damnable pride of hers; it made her unpredictable.

And then there was Quinn. His son consumed women. Impersonally, dispassionately, he used them and then carelessly tossed them aside. To him all of them were expendable because they were so easily replaced. It was obvious that Noelle had intrigued him, but interest was not enough. Noelle's unattainability was the key. Quinn always wanted what he couldn't have, and for now, Simon would make certain that he couldn't have Dorian Pope!

Simon found Quinn in the foyer, his cloak draped across his arm.

"Quinn," he called out with false heartiness. "You can't leave so soon. We haven't had a chance to talk."

"Spare me your camaraderie, Simon. I'm in no mood for a lecture on my behavior the last time we were together. By the way, how is my bride?"

"I saw that she was taken care of," Simon replied evenly. "Come into the library. I have some excellent brandy hidden away. We can have a drink while you tell me where you've been and what your plans are."

"I can tell you everything you want to know standing right here," Quinn said flatly.

The smile faded from Simon's face. "All right. Where the hell have you been for almost two years?"

"I've been traveling. Studying your competition. Now I'm on my way to New York." Quinn paused, knowing how his next words would incense his father. "I've received an offer from Smith and Damon."

With great effort, Simon checked his anger. He'd be damned if Copeland and Peale's fiercest competitor would get his only son!

"They're certainly a fine outfit," he said evenly. "Still, I think you might be happier if you chose to return to Copeland and Peale. I've come to realize I was shortsighted about your experiments. I am now prepared to give you total freedom to carry on your research."

Quinn's eyes were hooded. So, Simon was prepared to swallow his pride to get him back. "I've already accepted Smith and Damon's offer. I leave for New York next month."

"Copeland and Peale is in your blood. Quinn. You're deluding yourself if you think you can turn your back on it." Simon held up a hand before Quinn could respond. "Don't give me an answer now. Just think about it."

"I've made up my mind," Quinn replied brusquely as he pulled on his cloak. Then, as one hand reached for the doorknob, he remembered the enticing young woman he had first seen sheltered in his father's arms.