“Oh, how very wicked of you,” she was bold enough to say. “You have quite deliberately discomfited me, have you not? You have deliberately maneuvered me into hotly denying a quality of which we all wish to think ourselves capable.”

“Passion?” he said. “You are capable of it, then, Miss Huxtable? You admit it? How sad it is that a gentle upbringing must stamp all outer sign of it from a lady.”

“But it is something she must display only for her husband,” she said, and felt instantly embarrassed by the ghastly primness of the words.

“Let me guess.” He was more than ever amused, she could see. “Your father was a clergyman and you were brought up listening to and reading sermons.”

She opened her mouth to protest and shut it again. There was no smart answer to that, was there? He was quite right.

“Why are we having this conversation?” she asked him, about five minutes too late. “It is very improper, as you know very well. And we have not even set eyes upon each other until tonight.”

“Now that, Miss Huxtable,” he said, “is a blatant bouncer for which you will be fortunate indeed not to fry in hell. Not only have you set eyes upon me before tonight, but you have done so quite deliberately and with full awareness on more than one occasion. My guess is that Con’s warnings against me-I do not doubt he did warn you-have had the opposite effect from what he intended, as a man of his experience ought to have known. But before you swell with indignation and perjure your soul with more lies, let me admit that since I am aware of your observing me before tonight, then of course I must have been observing you. Unlike you, though, I have no wish to deny the fact. I have seen you with increasing pleasure. You must realize how extraordinarily lovely you are, and so I will not bore you by going into raptures over your beauty. Though I will if you wish.”

He raised both eyebrows and gazed very directly into her eyes, awaiting her answer.

Katherine was fully aware that she had waded into deep waters and was by now quite out of her depth. But oddly she had no wish to return to safe waters just yet. He really was flirting with her. And he had noticed her before tonight just as she had noticed him.

How very foolish to feel flattered. As if she did not know better.

“I see, my lord,” she said, “that you do not observe the rules of polite conversation.”

“Meaning,” he said, “that I do not endorse lies and other hypocrisies in the name of politeness? You are quite right. When I see a spade, I see no conversational advantage in calling it something else. Perhaps this is one reason many people of good ton avoid my company.”

“One reason, perhaps,” she said. “There are others.”

He smiled fully at her and regarded her in silence for a few moments. For which she was very thankful. The smile transformed him into… Oh, where were there adequate words? A handsome man? She had already thought of him as being handsome. Irresistible, then?

“That was a very sharp and nasty retort, Miss Huxtable,” he said. “And not at all polite.”

She bit her lower lip and smiled.

“We are being a severe annoyance to all who are proceeding along this avenue,” he said. “Shall we move on?”

“Of course.” She looked ahead. Their party was right out of sight. They were going to have to walk quickly to catch up. This brief, strange interlude was at an end, then? And so it ought to be. She should be feeling far gladder about it than she actually was.

But he did not lead her in their direction. Neither did he turn back toward their private box. He turned her instead onto a narrower path that branched off the grand avenue.

“A shortcut,” he murmured.

Within moments they were enclosed by trees and darkness and solitude. There were no lamps swaying from the branches here. There was an almost instant feeling of seclusion.

This encounter, Katherine thought, was taking a very dangerous turn indeed. She did not for a moment believe that this was a short route back to the others. She ought to take a firm stand right now, insist upon being taken without delay back to the main avenue and on to Lady Beaton and safety. Indeed, she did not even have to be taken. She could go on her own. He surely would not stop her by force.

Why did she not do it, then?

Instead of taking any stand at all, she walked onward with him, deeper into a darkness that was only faintly illumined by the moon and stars far above the treetops.

She had never really known adventure-or danger. Or the thrill of the unknown.

Or the pull of attraction to a man who was forbidden.

And definitely dangerous.

And, for the moment at least, quite irresistible.

3

MISS Katherine Huxtable was, as Jasper had expected, naivete itself. A dangerous innocent.

And quite exquisitely lovely.

There was also something unexpectedly likable about her. She was not insipid, as he had also expected.

All of which did not matter one tittle of an iota, of course.

Her eyes-those deep, fathomless blue eyes, which had drawn him from his first sight of her simply because he could not see far enough into them to understand them or her-her eyes could fill with sudden laughter, and laughter also lifted the corners of her soft, kissable lips.

Her hair was not golden after all. It was actually a dark blond. It might have been nondescript, even mousy, if it had not been for the pure gold highlights that gave it sparkle and luster-and allure.

She was coltishly, girlishly slender, but she was well shaped too, by Jove. He favored women of voluptuous proportions when given the choice, but there was much to be said for slenderness and poise when he was not.

She moved with a natural grace.

It had been sheer good fortune that Rachel had been invited to join this party at Vauxhall tonight-just four nights after his birthday-and that the party was to include none other than Miss Katherine Huxtable-minus any of her family members. His discreet inquiries had revealed to him that they had all gone off to the country together, leaving her behind in care of Lyngate’s mother. It was neither luck nor chance that had brought him here. It had cost him all of fifty guineas to persuade an indignant Gooding to turn an ankle while descending from his curricle this morning. It had taken less effort, it was true, to persuade his elder sister to beg him to escort her in Gooding’s stead and even believe that the whole idea had been hers. She had even thanked him profusely, explaining that an evening at Vauxhall was not something to be missed even if she must go without her betrothed. She had missed so much of life in London. She was twenty-six years old, and this was only her second Season.

“What are brothers for,” he had said magnanimously, squeezing her shoulder, “but to support their sisters when they have suffered a disappointment? I have been assured, by the way, that Gooding’s ankle is not actually broken. I daresay he will be as fit as a fiddle again to dance with you by the next grand ball, whenever that is.”

This was all great good fortune even if he had had to do some fancy maneuvering and open his purse rather wide. There was no place more romantic than Vauxhall-to a lady’s sensibilities-or more conducive to seduction.

The trickiest moment had already passed. She had not resisted being turned off the grand avenue. Young ladies really ought to be educated more thoroughly in the wicked ways of the world. If he ever had daughters-if!-he would make very sure to include it in the compulsory subjects of their schooling. Reading, writing, penmanship, embroidery, dancing, watercolor painting, geography, and the Wicked Ways of the World.

He pressed Miss Huxtable’s slim arm tightly to his side for a while, but when he turned them onto yet another path, even narrower and more secluded than the last, he was forced to release it and set an arm about her waist so that they could move along side by side. Single file was the only sensible way to proceed along this particular path, but who was being sensible?

Not Miss Katherine Huxtable, certainly.

She did not point out, as she sensibly might have done, that this was hardly a shortcut back to the rest of their party. Neither did she make any protest at the intimacy of his touch. She stiffened for a moment, it was true, but then she relaxed again.

“Mmm,” he said softly. “You wear a perfume I have not smelled before.”

It was even true.

“It is not perfume,” she said. “I never wear any. It must be the soap I used to wash my hair this morning.”

He smiled at the naivete of her answer. And at its unconscious invitation. He stopped walking and drew her to a halt too. He lowered his face to her hair and inhaled. He could feel it soft and silky against his nose.

“Ah,” he murmured. “And so it is. Who would have thought mere soap could smell so… enticing.”

He felt her shiver.

“It is what I always use,” she said.

“May I offer a word of advice?” he said, turning her slightly so that her hand had to come up to his chest to keep a little distance between them. “Never change that habit. That soap is more appealingly fragrant than any perfume.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you think?”

“I think, Miss Huxtable,” he said fervently, and he slid his thumb along the base of her fingers, closed his hand about hers, and lifted it high onto his shoulder, bringing her against him with the other hand as he did so. “Though sometimes I prefer not to. Sometimes there are better things to do.”