"Fischer!" Quentin Blackwell, Earl of Devlyn, hollered for his butler as he strode through the front door of his country home. Behind him trailed two enormous wolfhounds. As Devlyn halted in the foyer, he peeled off his riding gloves and slammed his crop down on the long table braced against the wall.

The mirror overhanging the furniture flashed his reflection at him, and he grimaced at his appearance. He was a mess. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped at the shoulder and a smudge of dirt streaked its way across his browned cheek, emphasizing the scar that ran from his ear almost to his mouth. Shoving a hand through his tousled black hair, he turned and headed toward his study.

With each stride he took, his fury grew. If it were the last thing he did, he'd make Spencer Hamilton rue the day he'd picked a fight with the Devil of Devlyn's Keep. The insolent pup.

"Fischer," he roared. "Where the devil are you?"

The door to the study slammed backward against the wall as he stormed into the room. A moment later he was splashing a stiff shot of whiskey into a glass. Tossing the liquor down his throat, he relished the burning sensation. Where the hell did the boy get the idea that his sister was the injured party in their brief affair almost five years ago?

No doubt, Eleanor was responsible for the boy's misconceived notions as to his sister's innocence. The idea infuriated him. A sudden snap rent the air as the glass he held shattered under the weight of his grip.

"God damn it!" He grimaced as shards of glass bit into his hand. "Fischer! Get the hell in here!"

Whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket, he proceeded to clean the small cuts lacerating his palm. Behind him, he heard footsteps hurrying into the study.

"I'm sorry, my lord. There was a minor catastrophe in the kitchen and Cook required my assistance." The sparse looking man eyed Delyn's appearance with an arched eyebrow. "Another brawl, my lord?"

Devlyn glared at his butler, manservant and all around man of affairs. When one's finances were in such a miserable state as his, he was fortunate to have a loyal retainer like Fischer. But the man had the ability to make him feel like a chastened schoolboy at times. And today wasn't a good day for being chastened.

"I never brawl, Fischer."

He clenched his teeth at the skeptical look the man gave him. At least not anymore he didn't. Granted, the man had dressed his wounds from more than one brawl in the past. The last time had been when a sailor had sliced his cheek open two years ago. It had taught him to curb his temper and walk away from a fight. Now as Fischer studied him with an air of disappointment, he grimaced.

"If you must know, the baron's youngest offspring discovered I'd returned and tried to avenge his sister's supposed honor."

"I see."

"Damn it, Fischer. Even you think me guilty."

"Not at all, my lord. I know you too well to imagine you capable of betraying Miss Hamilton."

Devlyn turned away abruptly at the statement. No, he would never have betrayed Eleanor. He'd been in love with her. The day she'd broken his heart, he'd set out to earn himself the title, Devil of Devlyn's Keep. He'd explored every debauched sin and deed in the past five years with the sole purpose of obliterating her from his mind.

Until today, he'd been successful in doing so. Then Hamilton had accosted him at the pond this morning, ripping open the wound he'd thought scarred over completely. But it wasn't the wound he'd expected. For the first time today, he realized he didn't love Eleanor. Probably never had. No, what had scarred him was the injustice of it all.

Shrugging out of his torn jacket, he tossed it to Fischer. "See that it's mended. I don't know when I'll have funds to purchase a new riding coat."

The humiliating statement made him twist his lips in a bitter grimace. Eleanor Hamilton had done her work well the day she'd betrayed him. Running to her father, Eleanor had convinced Baron Townsend to avenge her so-called honor. The man had made it his business to destroy what little of the Devlyn fortune still existed. The bastard had almost succeeded. If it hadn't been for his attorney's quick thinking to shift his investments, he'd be destitute.

As it was, he retained his townhouse in Mayfair, Devlyn's Keep here in Shellingham and a few small investments that provided him with enough to live on if he was frugal with his spending. At least until his American investments came to fruition, which he expected sometime in the very near future.

"Perhaps you might forgo my salary this month, my lord. I think it might afford you at least a new coat. This one is rather worn. I'm surprised the sleeve hasn't ripped before now."

The man's generous offer made Devlyn tighten his jaw. He often forgot how much Fischer truly was a part of his family. He was the last living Devlyn, and Fischer had been with him throughout his younger years. Forcing a smile to his mouth, he shook his head.

"I'm not that destitute, Fischer. You'll have your salary as always, and you can't say you don't earn every farthing."

"No, my lord. Indeed I can't." Folding the coat over his arm, the manservant nodded toward Devlyn's hand. "Shall I send Cook in to look at that hand?"

"No, I'll be all right. That will be all, Fischer."

"My lord." The manservant bowed and left Devlyn alone with his thoughts.

Eleanor. He wanted to wring the bitch's neck, slowly squeeze the life out of that dainty, golden-haired body of hers. No, that would be too easy a punishment for her. No. He wanted to humiliate her. Make her pay for the lies she'd told and the humiliation he'd suffered. And he wanted to make Townsend pay for trying to strip him of his fortune.

He'd been the innocent and gullible fool throughout the entire thing. Eleanor had simply used him to avoid the scandal her pregnancy would have wrought. When she'd declared him the father of her child little more than a month after he first bedded her, he should have known something was amiss.

Unwrapping his cut, he stared down at the miniature lacerations already puffy and red. He reached for the brandy and poured a small amount of the liquor over his palm. He grimaced. The stinging reminded him of Eleanor's betrayal. He'd been oblivious to every one of her faults.

Instead, he'd allowed love to let him believe her lies. He'd even come close to marrying the woman. Never again would he allow his heart to blind him in such a way. No doubt, she would have continued her whoring after they were married. But fortunately, he'd caught the bitch and her lover rutting like common beasts in one of the Townsend's horse stalls.

It had hardly been surprising to see Eleanor turn into a raving witch when he'd broken their engagement. Then when Townsend had confronted him over the matter, things had only gotten worse. Eleanor claimed the child was his and Townsend hadn't needed anything else to propel him into action.

Then, in less than a week, the bastard had put him on the edge of financial ruin, while Eleanor had married some unsuspecting member of the peerage a few weeks later. Thoroughly disgusted, he'd traveled to America to try to rebuild his fortune. And while he was there, he'd taken it upon himself to explore every debauchery he could find. In doing so, he'd achieved a modicum of success, not only in his sinful endeavors, but in his financial situation as well. Still it would take several more weeks before his ventures turned profitable.

He wrapped his cuts with the clean side of his handkerchief and moved to stand behind his desk. With his uninjured hand, he sifted through a thin pile of invitations. Word had already spread throughout the county that a Devlyn was once again entrenched in the keep. He smiled cynically. It seemed his neighbors were more than ready to overlook his past transgressions. Well, to hell with them. To hell with every one of them.

"My lord." Fischer's voice ended on a high-pitched note pulling Devlyn's gaze up with a jerk. Whatever had gotten his manservant into a state of apoplexy had to be important.

"What is it, Fischer?"

"It's a lady, my lord."

"A lady?"

"Yes, my lord. But ... well, I'm afraid...."

"Out with it, man!"

"It's Miss Hamilton."

His body snapped to attention, his limbs rigid with tension. Eleanor. No. She was married now. She wouldn't use her maiden name. Her sister most likely, hoping for a verbal duel with him as opposed to the physical one he'd endured with the youngest Hamilton. Her visit would no doubt be quite interesting. "Send her in, Fischer. Send her in."

"Very well, my lord."

A moment later, he watched a tall, lushly figured woman enter the study. Caesar and Beast immediately stood up and approached the woman. Despite their size and fierce appearance, the wolfhounds were gentle creatures, but his visitor couldn't have known that. He waited for her to draw back in fear. Instead, she scratched Beast under the chin and tugged on Caesar's ear before straightening.

Dressed in a royal blue riding habit trimmed in black, there was a mysterious quality about her. Black netting covered her face and he couldn't distinguish her features. The woman made a slight curtsey then inhaled a deep breath. Behind her, Fischer closed the door to the study. She jumped at the quiet sound of the latch falling closed.

"Lord Devlyn. I hope you'll forgive my intrusion. I'm sure it's unexpected." The husky sound of her voice tickled his spine. It intrigued him.

He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk and waited as she sat down. There was a fluid grace to the way she moved. It reminded him of a sleek cat. The dogs trailed after her, and he scowled at the traitors before ordering them to return to their usual resting place. Sitting down, he leaned back in his chair and threw his feet up onto the desk. It was a rude gesture and he knew it. Her body stiffened in response, and he smiled with just a touch of derision. Had she really expected him to be a gentleman? He'd dispensed with gentlemanly behavior a long time ago. The Devil of Devlyn's Keep answered to no one and did as he pleased.

"So tell me, Miss Hamilton, to what do I owe this honor?"

"I ... I came here with a ... a proposition for you, my lord."

"A proposition." He arched an eyebrow at her. The woman had definitely piqued his interest. "Do go on."

"I'm here to offer you revenge."

The words made his limbs tighten with tension. What exactly was this hussy up to with her offer of revenge? Revenge for what? Despite her efforts to hide her trepidation, he saw her hands tremble, and the netting over her face quivered from her rapid breaths.

From the tremor that shook her, he knew his insouciant reaction intimidated her. He smiled slowly, the slight curl of his lip tilting upward on one side. Although he couldn't see his own features, he knew his smile emphasized the scar on his face. Women had told him it gave him a dangerous look.

"What an intriguing concept. Revenge on whom?"

"My sister, Eleanor."

He'd expected the words, but they surprised him nonetheless. So this was the mysterious Sophia Hamilton, Townsend's eldest brat. He'd never met Eleanor's only sister. She'd been away in Scotland while he was courting Eleanor.

"You're willing to betray your only sister?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

A shudder shook her body as he watched the netting covering her face stir with her accelerated breathing. The sight fascinated him for some reason. It reminded him of how fast a woman breathed when she was on the threshold of a climax during lovemaking.

"Because what my father and sister did to you was wrong. Eleanor ... Eleanor has always been spoiled. She's only ever cared for herself, and my father has simply catered to her every whim."

"This is all quite fascinating, but you'll forgive me for being just a tad skeptical as to your offer."

"Of course, I understand. But I assure you, my lord, I'm most serious about this. I have information that will allow you to recoup what my father stole from you, and at the same time, you'll have the opportunity to confront Eleanor with her lies and deceit."

"You've still not really answered the question of why. Why are you willing to betray your father and sister?"

Confusion and trepidation radiated out from her. She sprang to her feet, twisting her hands around the riding crop she carried. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. Please ... please forgive my intrusion."

Not about to let her leave without learning more, he scrambled to his feet and pursued her to the door. Her hand was on the knob when he braced his palm against the wooden barrier, preventing her escape. She immediately took a step back and he followed. Her height amazed him. If he lifted her veil, she'd be almost eye to eye with him. And something made his hand itch to remove that netting, but he refrained for the moment. Instead, he trailed his forefinger along the edge of her jaw, the coarse netting hiding the softness he was certain lay beneath the veil. It aroused him.

"Surely you don't think I'm going to let you leave without discovering why you're willing to betray your family."

"Please, my lord. It was a mistake to come here."

"Perhaps, but nonetheless, I'll have an answer from you."

"Or what?" The sudden challenge in her voice amused him. At least she had backbone.

"Hmm, what could I do to persuade you to answer?" His fingers touched the snowy cravat tied around her neck. With a lazy movement, he gently tugged at one of the ties. Her cravat tumbled open to expose her creamy throat. God, she was a tempting wench. She gasped as he pressed his thumb against the hollow of her throat. Again, the netting fluttered wildly against her face.

"My lord, please."

"Please is a subjective word, Miss Hamilton. Are you asking me to do something wicked? Or are you begging to tell me your reasons for this interesting proposition of yours?"

"I ... I wish to ... oh bloody hell!"

Her abrupt response was so completely unexpected he jerked back in surprise. She began to pace the floor in front of him, and his eyes narrowed as he watched her prowling. Again she reminded him of a cat. After a moment of tense silence, she stopped and whirled to face him.

"My lord, I came here to offer you revenge on Eleanor and my father because I want revenge too. You weren't the only one they betrayed. They betrayed me as well."

"I see." He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

"When Eleanor became pregnant with her lover's child, she needed a husband. You suited her purpose, but when you refused to marry her, Father helped her steal my fiancée instead."

"You were engaged to that weakling, Shively?"

"Yes. He was ... he was my last hope."

"Last hope?"

"Yes. I'd already given up hope of ever marrying until I met Andrew. I was never the pretty one in the family."

He watched her take a deep breath as she slowly reached up toward the netting covering her face. As she revealed her features, he eyed her with curiosity. For someone who believed herself unattractive, she was quite the opposite.

Although she wasn't a beauty by any stretch of the imagination, her hazel eyes were large and echoed with warmth, while her complexion was smooth and creamy. Wisps of brown hair framed her heart- shaped face and her full mouth pouted in a manner that brought his cock to attention. The reaction startled him. Clearing his throat, he turned away from her.

"I think you underestimate yourself, Miss Hamilton. I'm sure there are plenty of men willing to offer for you."

"No, my lord you're wrong. Offers of marriage have been nonexistent for many years."

"Come now, I think you exaggerate."

"Do I?" With his back to her, he could almost see the small shrug of her rounded shoulders. "Perhaps. Well, my lord, you've received the answer to your question. Now if you don't mind, I should like to leave."

He didn't want her to leave. She intrigued him and something about her made him feel protective of her. Eleanor had hurt her too. He understood that pain.

"Before you go, why don't you tell me what you'd hoped to receive in exchange for this method of revenge you offer me?"

"Marriage."

Stunned, he spun around to stare at her. "Marriage? To me?"

"Yes."

"Good God, woman. Whatever made you think I'd make a suitable husband?"

"I didn't. In fact, I knew you would be far from the ideal husband."

"Then why settle for me? I'm sure there are any number of men willing to marry you."

She heaved a sigh of annoyance. "I'd heard you were intelligent, my lord; however, I'm beginning to have my doubts. I'm Eleanor's older sister. What man would want to marry me?"

"I can only guess at your age, but since Eleanor is younger than I am, I'd say you're about my age."

Her pink mouth formed a moue of astonishment before she burst out into laughter. It was a pleasant sound. "Oh my word. I must admit to being extremely flattered. But you see, my lord. I'm much older than your tender years."

Irritated by her amusement, he frowned. "I'd hardly refer to the age of thirty-two as my tender years."

"It's quite tender when I consider my own age of forty-one."

The comment made his jaw sag. How was it possible that this attractive woman could possibly be so much older than him? She hardly looked old enough to be his age, let alone having almost ten years on him. Impossible.

"You jest."

"No, my lord. Sadly enough I'm an old maid. Any hope of marrying vanished five years ago when Eleanor ran off with my intended."

"And yet you still want to marry?"

"Yes. I want to experience what it's like between a man and a woman." She blushed and it made her look like a fresh debutante. "I could pay for the experience I suppose, but I'm not quite that bold. Coming here was the boldest thing I've ever done."

The idea of teaching this woman about the pleasures of the body captured his imagination. An older woman who'd not yet been initiated into the art or power of lovemaking. An intriguing possibility. His cock stirred again. He stepped toward her and traced the curve of her mouth with his forefinger before his thumb pressed down on her lower lip. It was plump and tender.

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. It excited him. When was the last time he'd had the pleasure of initiating a novice? Years. The scent of lilacs drifted up into his nose as he lowered his head toward her.

"And you're willing to put yourself completely into my hands?"

"Ye-yes."

"Are you certain of that? I've not earned my title without a great deal of wickedness."

"Your sexual prowess has always been widely touted in social circles. I doubt you've acquired more deviant practices while in the colonies." The pulse at the side of her neck fluttered beneath her skin. He excited her. A smile tilted his mouth and he leaned forward until his lips were just a hairsbreadth away from her shell-shaped ear.

"I believe you'll find the social circles are only half accurate. I'm far more decadent than any rumors you may have heard."

"Oh," she breathed.

"So shall we strike a bargain then? My name and experience for the means to avenge myself."

Speechless she barely nodded her head. What the hell was he doing? A wife? He studied the woman in front of him closely. Perhaps it was time to try for an heir, and he could do much worse that this delectable creature. And if the woman didn't give him a child, then his cousin's brat could inherit for all he cared.

Another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched excitement and trepidation flash across her features. Her heart had to be pounding in her breast. He glanced down at the snug fit of her royal blue habit. And they were firm, plump looking breasts too. It was difficult to believe she was so much older than him. The anticipation of the decadent pleasures he wanted to introduce her to as his wife made him grow hard as a rock. His lips curled into a deeper smile as he pinned her with his gaze.

"Then we're agreed. Revenge and nights of pleasure. A decidedly decadent proposition."

LOVE'S PORTRAIT

By

Monica Burns

© copyright September 2005, Monica Burns

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright September 2005

ISBN 1-58608-642-1

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter 1

London, 1892

"It's wicked, Julia. Absolutely wicked!"

Alva's squeal of shock made Julia Westgard smile with delight. Her friend was right, the painting was wickedly shocking. She turned back toward the painting she'd commissioned. Tipping her head to one side, she studied it with a critical eye.

Was that really how Isaac Peebles saw her? The nude painting made her look lush and sensual, almost beautiful. Almost, but not quite. She did like the way he'd captured the color of her hair. Soft golden highlights glistened in the dark red hair that tumbled over her shoulders. It was her best feature. And he'd made her eyes close to the green they got when she was angry. He'd made her gaze far more attractive than the plain hazel one she saw in the mirror everyday.

"I like it." Hands resting on her hips, she smiled. "I like it very much. Do you think I should hang it in the salon or the study?"

"Good Lord, Julia. You cannot possibly be serious!"

Tickled once more to have shocked her friend, Julia turned toward the petite woman, the bustle of her gown whispering softly at her quick turn. The horrified look in Alva's blue eyes made her realize she'd teased her friend enough. One hand pressed against the dove gray taffeta of her dress, she shook her head.

"I'm teasing you. I don't have that much self-confidence."

The relief on her friend's pale features made her grimace. No, of course she didn't have that much confidence. The confident air she put on for family and friends was nothing short of bravado. Everything she did was an act to cover up the inadequacies she felt every day-the shortcomings Oscar had regaled her with the entire time they'd been married. Even though he'd been dead almost two years, she could still feel the sting of his cruel taunts and behavior.

Ever the impeccable husband in public, in private he'd found numerous ways to shame and degrade her. From vicious insults to the occasional slap, Oscar had controlled every aspect of her life. She'd never quite figured out how she'd survived, but she had. And she was all the stronger for it.

Still, she'd yet to succeed in shedding herself of the insecurities her husband had cultivated in her. They were always close at hand, just beneath the surface. It was one of the reasons she'd commissioned the nude portrait. It was her attempt to repair her spirit, to regain the independence she'd lost in her marriage.

"Ah, there you two are." Catherine Dewhurst poked her head into Julia's boudoir. "I thought you two would be in the study discussing the latest review of Lady Windermere's Fan."

Julia stepped forward to embrace her cousin by marriage. Of all her in-laws, Catherine was the only one who could see beyond the false façade. The woman had been her guardian angel on more than one occasion.

"I have something much more exciting than a review of Oscar Wilde's new play. Come see what I have."

"Is it here? Finally?"

Julia nodded her head and grinned as her cousin moved to look at the front of the painting. Catherine's face went red before laughter parted her lips.

"Oh my word, however did you manage to keep from fainting, Alva?"

Affronted, Alva's pale face took on a pinched look. "I have no idea. It's scandalous, I tell you, scandalous."

"I don't think it's scandalous." Julia shook her head

"Rubbish, it's shocking. Why, the man saw you naked."

Frustrated with her friend's straitlaced tone that sounded so much like Oscar's disapproval, Julia tossed a pleading glance in her cousin's direction. "Do try to explain to her, Catherine."

"Perhaps she has a point, Julia. It is a bit … risqué, even for you."

Disappointed by her cousin's response, she stalked to the painting and replaced the cloth that had covered it earlier. If she'd wanted an unfavorable assessment of her behavior, she only had to listen to Oscar's voice in her head for that. It wasn't as if she'd gone without a chaperone; she'd taken her maid with her to each and every sitting.

Sitting for Isaac Peebles had offered her a freedom she'd never experienced before. The portrait sittings had been a release from the rigors of society. More importantly, they had been a means of freeing herself of the yoke Oscar had settled on her from the day they were married. With a final adjustment to the cloth over the painting, she turned to face her friends.

"There. You don't have to burden your eyes with the subject matter anymore."

Catherine arched her eyebrows at her and shook her head. "I didn't say I didn't like it. I merely pointed out that it was a bit more ... adventurous than most portraits."

"He did manage to get your hair color right, and that's not easy to do. Even in the more…," Alva blushed deeply, "... the more intimate places."

The woman's words hung in the air for a long moment as Julia stared at her friend in stunned silence. Was prudish, little Alva actually teasing her about the portrait? She shot a glance over toward her cousin. Catherine's expression was equally astonished. Indignation tilted Alva's pointed chin upward.

"Well, I can be daring sometimes too," she huffed, sending them both a sheepish glance as the room exploded with laughter. Julia shook her head as amusement continued to bubble out of her.

"If you found the portrait daring, then wait until you hear what I've planned for the Society's next fundraiser." She turned to her cousin. "Shall we tell her, Catherine?"

"Oh, there's no we in this idea at all." Catherine carefully removed the hat from her head, meticulously pushing the hat pin into the back of the peacock feathered plumes that trailed down the back of the accessory. Sweeping the train of her dark green gown to one side, she took a seat next to Alva.

Julia faced the two women seated before her. Her best friends. The only two people she could count on to love her no matter what she said or did. And of late, she'd been quite bold. Securing shares in St. Claire Shipping had been viewed by Oscar's family as not only excessive but foolhardy as well. If they were to discover she was actually reviewing accounting ledgers and conducting business in person with St. Claire, the family would close ranks around her in an attempt to control her just as her husband had. But perhaps they would have good reason in this instance.

Morgan St. Claire. The thought of the man sent a shudder rippling through her. He was an arrogant bastard. One who didn't like anyone questioning his way of doing business-something she'd done quite a bit of over the past few weeks. Even she'd been surprised by her daring, and it was a miracle the man hadn't choked her yet.

Still, as an investor in his company, she'd insisted on reviewing the books. She wasn't about to hand over a small portion of her fortune without solid evidence that the man knew how to run his business. He'd rebelled against the suggestion, but when she wouldn't budge on the issue, he'd begrudgingly agreed to her request.

The fact that he'd conceded defeat in the face of her persistence had amazed her. It had been a small concession, but one that had bolstered her confidence more than anything else she'd done since Oscar's death. It had helped ease the feelings of worthlessness he had fostered in her.

The question now was whether her friends would support her in this new adventure she had devised. It was for a good cause, and she needed to do something daring. Something to break out of the narrow confines of the life she'd lived for far too long.

Even though Oscar was gone, the repressive atmosphere lingered in the house they'd shared. It was as stuffy, stiff and rigid as Queen Victoria herself. That was why she'd chosen to do something foolhardy and daring. She would be the one in control--no one else. It would be one more silent shout against the oppressive life she'd endured for so long. One more protest against Oscar and his hypocrisy. She inhaled and exhaled a deep breath.

"We're--" She paused as Catherine arched a threatening brow at her. "I'm going to acquire a silk handkerchief from Morgan St. Claire and auction it off at the Society for Lost Angels to raise money for the new orphanage."

Alva tipped her head to one side, her expression puzzled. "Well, that doesn't sound all that bold. I'm sure Mr. St. Claire will be happy to part with a piece of silk for the children."

"I don't intend to ask him for the handkerchief. I intend to sneak into his rooms at the Clarendon tomorrow night at the dinner party he's having for his investors." Julia smiled at the notion.

She was feeling quite pleased with herself about this bold plan. To pull one over on Morgan St. Claire would be almost as pleasurable as when she occasionally found errors in his books. More importantly, it would be a blow in support of all the women he'd dallied with before leaving them with simply a monogrammed handkerchief as a token of the affair.

"Oh my! You can't do that, Julia. What if he catches you?" Alva sent her a horrified look.

"I don't intend to get caught. I've already made arrangements for one of the maids on his floor to give me access to his rooms."

"Couldn't you just ask him for the handkerchief? He's such a gentleman, I'm sure he won't refuse your request."

"Oh, don't get her started on Morgan St. Claire." Catherine grimaced at Alva. "We'll be here all day listening to her rail at the man's shortcomings."

"But I've always found Mr. St. Claire quite charming," said Alva in a bewildered tone.

Julia glared at her. "Morgan St. Claire is full of himself and enjoys tempting women into heartbreak. He's a scoundrel of the worst kind."

"Which makes me wonder why you chose to invest in his company?" Catherine sent her a look filled with mockery.

"Business should never be guided by emotions. St. Claire Shipping is a sound investment."

"I see." Catherine's ironic tone earned her a look of puzzlement from Alva and a glare from Julia.

"I still don't see why you're going to sneak into the man's hotel room instead of just asking for a handkerchief." Alva frowned in disapproval.

Closing her eyes, Julia shook her head. "Because it won't have as dramatic an impact if I ask him for one. Sneaking into the man's hotel room and taking a handkerchief without getting caught will cause a stir among the ladies. They'll want details about his hotel room, which I'll be happy to elaborate on as they bid on the blasted thing."

"Surely you're not going to admit to the Society that you entered the man's room." Alva looked askance at the idea and Julia frowned. For once her prudent friend was right.

"I see your point." With a wave of her hand, Julia smiled. "Well, I'll just explain that the woman who took the handkerchief prefers to remain anonymous. I can just share this mysterious woman's adventures as she might herself."

Catherine coughed her disapproval at this change in plans, forcing Julia to send her another glare. She refused to give way on this adventure. It was something she had to do. She wasn't sure why, it was simply that she needed to test the waters and her new found courage. Of course, she wasn't sure how courageous it was to undertake such a foolish adventure. But she'd declared her intentions, and she refused to back down now.

Alva's brow puckered. "How will you prove that it's really Mr. St. Claire's handkerchief?"

"His monogram. I have it on good authority that he always gives a handkerchief to each of his ladies when they part so the woman can dry her tears." Julia grimaced at her words. The arrogance of the man.

"Oh, that sounds so romantic."

"Don't be a ninny, Alva. It's not romantic at all." Catherine turned her glare on Julia. "As for you, cousin, I think you've gone mad. If you're caught, you'll cause a sensation, with the distinct possibility of being ostracized. You know how the Queen is about circumspect behavior. Although as far as Prince Edward is concerned, the man would probably applaud you. Still, polite society won't overlook an outright indiscretion of this sort."

Julia waved her cousin's concerns aside. "I won't get caught. I have it all planned out. Dinner is being served in St. Claire's private dining room at the Clarendon. I'll simply ask to refresh myself then run upstairs and retrieve the handkerchief from the man's room. I'll be back at the dinner party before anyone is the wiser."

"What is that old adage? The best laid plans go astray?" Catherine mouth was tight with disapproval, but there was concern in her gaze too.

"My maid knows the maid on St. Claire's floor. The girl is quite trustworthy. I promise you, nothing will go wrong."

Julia smiled at both of her friends. No, nothing was going to go wrong, and she was going to enjoy auctioning off one of St. Claire's handkerchiefs. She would be the first woman to own one that hadn't been handed out in a moment of pity.

* * * *

With a smile pasted on her face, Julia cast a furtive glance at Morgan St. Claire as he talked quietly with the guest seated across from her. She didn't know why the man unnerved her, but he did. Tonight, he was making her distinctly uneasy, far more than during their occasional interactions at his office.

He'd been nothing but charming since her arrival, but there was a dangerous glint in his eye whenever he looked at her. She couldn't decipher the look, and the truth was she didn't really want to. Her fingers grasped the stem of her wine glass, and she took a sip of her drink.

A king in his castle could not have been more at ease than the man sitting next to her at the head of the table. It nettled her to admit it, but he was handsome. She approved of his clean-shaven look. There was nothing she despised more than whiskers down to the jowls or waxed mustaches. His appearance clearly indicated he was his own man and bowed to no one--not even fashion.

Observing him covertly as she toyed with her food, she could understand why women fell for him. The chestnut colored hair, those dark brown eyes that seemed capable of seeing right through a person, and then there was the man's physique.

She'd heard he was a rower on Viscount Atherby's rowing team. It would explain the muscles that rippled beneath the snug fit of his evening jacket. If she didn't find the man's arrogance so irritating, she would no doubt have found herself among the victims St. Claire always left behind.

Fortune had favored her as he'd left her alone with the account ledgers she'd been poring over for the past few weeks. It would have been much more difficult if he'd hovered over her shoulder. But he hadn't, and for that she was grateful.

Lowering her gaze to her plate, she took a bite of the poached salmon. Still, the man did know how to entertain. The Clarendon was known for exceptional meals, but tonight's meal was beyond her expectations. In fact, the entire dinner party illustrated the man's wealth and power in a subtle fashion, from the selection of foods to the delicate wines served with the meal.

"You seem distracted, Mrs. Westgard."

The deep note of his voice warmed her skin, and she frowned at the tingling sensation skimming over her body. What was she doing reacting to him like this? This was St. Claire. A scoundrel and ladies man to rival any in the Marlborough Set, even Prince Edward himself. She raised her eyes to meet his searching gaze. Heavens, a woman could drown in those dark, mysterious depths. The thought made her tighten her grip on her fork. What on earth was wrong with her?

"No, I was simply enjoying this delicious salmon. The hotel's chef has outdone himself. Do you suppose he would send me the recipe?"

"Actually I have a personal chef who prepares all my meals, and I'm afraid Henri refuses to share his secrets-- even with me."

"What a pity." She enjoyed the morsel she popped into her mouth. "This is a dish I could eat quite often."

"Then come back for dinner again, next week."

He'd leaned toward her, his voice dropping a level so that his invitation reached only her ears. Startled, she almost dropped her fork. The expression in his eyes was mesmerizing as she attempted to force a confident smile to her lips.

"I think that would be unwise. One should never mix business with pleasure."

"Perhaps." He pulled away, one shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Although I'm sure it would be quite pleasurable."

She suppressed a shiver at the way he almost purred the words. Dear Lord, the man's reputation was well earned. His gaze was a sensual caress as he scanned her features before moving downward to her bodice. The warmth of a flush filled her cheeks at the blatant stare of interest. No, not interest--insolence, that's what it was. He was being insolent. She'd been a thorn in his side for the past few weeks, and now she was paying the price for daring to question the great St. Claire.

He didn't take his eyes off her as he reached for his wineglass. It was difficult not to swallow the knot in her throat as his fingers stroked the stem of the crystal goblet. Taking his time, he drank from the glass, and all the while she was hypnotized by his actions. A secretive smile curved his mouth and he arched an eyebrow at her.

Flustered and embarrassed that she'd been staring, she jerked her gaze back to her plate and resumed eating. With her head down she didn't see him lean forward, but his presence was a hot sun against her body.

"You blush quite charmingly, madam. However, I do confess to being curious as to what prompted such a becoming color."

Irritated that she was acting like all the other women who'd fallen for St. Claire's charms, she clenched her jaw. Fixing a neutral expression on her face, she met his mocking gaze with her steady one.

"Are you flirting with me, Mr. St. Claire?"

"Would you like me to?" There was a dark note in his voice, and she shivered.

"No."

"As you wish." The enigmatic smile on his lips evolved into one of dry amusement.

She tried to avoid drawing blood as she bit the inside of her mouth. God, he was arrogant. The sooner she secured the item she'd come for the sooner she could leave. Perhaps Catherine was right. Maybe she should sell her interest in St. Claire shipping.

Being in this man's presence was becoming increasingly difficult to manage. He was too sure of himself, which made him dangerous. The man probably thought she was ready to throw herself all over him. Well, he was in for a rude awakening if he thought Julia Westgard was going to succumb to his sensual charms. She'd had more than her fill of pompous, controlling men.

Without waiting for him to speak again, she turned to the man on her left and started a conversation. Anything to avoid conversing further with Morgan St. Claire. Although she couldn't see him watching her, the blast of heat warming her skin told her the man's gaze was still pinned on her.

The effect of St. Claire's intent look was nerve wracking and she barely managed to focus on her conversation with the man next to her. Being only one of two women investors in the small party of twelve was enough to strain even her own daring. She found herself wishing Lady Falkenhouse was not at the opposite end of the table.

For the first time she wondered why St. Claire had placed her on his left. She frowned at the thought. That would imply he'd deliberately chosen her seat. No, she was reading too much into the seating arrangements.

With the meal almost complete, she excused herself from the table. Aware that the moment of truth had arrived, she left the dining room. The warmth on the back of her neck was a clear indicator that St. Claire's gaze was following her, and she suppressed the butterflies milling in her stomach.

Once she was in the hallway, she quickly made her way up to the fourth floor of the hotel. A young girl waited at one end of the corridor. Without speaking, the girl glanced furtively over her shoulder then quickly opened a nearby door before scurrying away as if hunted. Uneasy at the girl's behavior, Julia peeked into the room the maid had unlocked. The first thing she saw was a painting of the Calcutta, one of St. Claire's prized ships. She smiled to herself. Victory was close at hand.

Sliding into the room, she exhaled the pent-up emotion that had been building inside her since she'd left the dining room. For all her bravado, she realized getting caught was not something she wanted to contemplate. There would be too much explaining to do, and she didn't think Morgan St. Claire would find her explanations amusing. Despite the thought of her intimidating host, she experienced the familiar rush of exhilaration that always flowed through her just before she was about to take a risk. It was still quite a new sensation, and she relished it.

Blood pumped its way madly through her veins as she stared about the masculine room. It was as sensual in nature as the man who slept here. The large canopied bed was draped with heavy curtains. It was difficult to tell if they were navy blue or black. Gold tasseled cords held back the material, and the bed itself was covered with a matching spread. The overall impression was one of elegant decadence.

With a shake of her head, she grimaced. She was wasting time. Dragging her eyes away from the bed, she glanced around for the wardrobe. The large chest was across the room, and with swift steps she crossed the floor to open the doors.

More than a dozen suits filled the massive storage and she shifted her gaze to the drawers that lined one side of the piece of furniture. The first drawer revealed nothing but cuff links and watch fobs. Closing it, she moved on to the next drawer.

When it didn't offer up the treasure she sought, she uttered a noise of frustration. She went through two more drawers before she found the prize she hunted. Triumph sailed through her as she pulled one of Morgan St. Claire's monogrammed handkerchiefs from the drawer.

"It appears you've found one of my handkerchiefs."

A surprised cry flew from her lips. Whirling about she saw her host watching her with a narrowed gaze. Arms folded across his chest he studied her in silence. The quiet echoing through the room heightened the tension brewing inside her, and she swallowed the fear threatening to close her throat. Dear Lord, how was she going to explain what she was doing?

"I … I'm sure this must look terrible to you, sir. But it's not what it seems, I can assure you."

"I'm listening."

He was listening. Of course he was. The question though was what to tell him. The truth. She could tell him the truth. No, he'd never believe her. If she were him, she wouldn't believe her story. Stealing a handkerchief to auction off at the Society for Lost Angels would sound too fantastic, and he would immediately label it a falsehood.

"I … I was curious … I mean I wanted to know … umm … I wanted to have one of your handkerchiefs."

"I see."

When he didn't move, she sucked in a quick breath, suddenly conscious of the fact she was trembling. At least he hadn't asked her to return the silk material she held in her hand. The best thing to do was flee. That is if she could make her feet move. She took only one step before he was blocking her way.

She'd never seen a man move so fast or so silently before. It was disturbing. He not only barred her path, but he was inches away from her. Having him stand so close to her set her pulse pounding even faster than it had when he'd first caught her in his room. She sucked in a sharp breath. What if he took this as a sign she was interested in him? No, she'd made her distrust and dislike of him quite clear.

"Surely, you're not leaving so soon." His voice was as smooth as the silk she held in her hand.

"I … I've been terribly rude and ungracious in the face of your hospitality, Mr. St. Claire. I am deeply sorry."

"There's no need to apologize, Julia."

"Thank you, now if you'll excuse me, I'll return to the dinner party." It was a struggle, but she managed to avoid sounding as breathless as she felt.

"There's no need to hurry. I came up to retrieve a couple of papers for Jepson, but when we both turn up missing they'll assume you and I had unfinished business to attend to."

There was a glint of amusement in his brown eyes, and she frowned at the slight curl of his sensual mouth. They had no unfinished business--

"You bastard. They're all going to think--"

"I don't care what they think."

"Naturally, it's not your reputation in jeopardy," she snapped.

"Perhaps you should have considered the risks more carefully before visiting my hotel room."

She grimaced at his words. It was incredibly irritating to have to admit that he was right. She'd not sufficiently weighed the risks of her actions. Well, there was little she could do about having been caught. What mattered now was escaping.

"As much as I hate to admit it, you're correct, Mr. St. Claire. I erred in my risk calculation. I apologize for intruding. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll rejoin the others."

In a quick movement, she tried to skirt him, but he was faster. Once more he blocked her way. Heat radiated from his hard, lean body, and it created a frisson across her skin that alarmed her. She swallowed her dismay as she met his penetrating gaze.

"You've yet to explain why you needed one of my handkerchiefs, Julia."

The way he said her name let loose a dozen butterflies in her stomach. There was a possessive sound to it, and she wasn't quite certain what it meant. One thing was perfectly clear to her. The resolute line of his lips said she wouldn't leave the room until she'd given him an explanation for her behavior. She clenched her jaw in frustration.

"If you must know, I wish to auction off the silk at a luncheon for the Society for Lost Angels. We're trying to raise money for a new orphanage."

"And you thought my handkerchief would draw a large sum." Humor sparkled in his eyes as he arched an eyebrow.

"Unfortunately, there are a number of women who think it romantic that you offer an abandoned lover a handkerchief with which to dry their tears."

He studied her with that mesmerizing gaze for a long moment before he smiled. It was a smile of dangerous charm, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the power it held over her.

"And you do not subscribe to that romantic myth."

"No, I do not."

"Interesting, although I'm not convinced any of your Society's members will buy this small trifle."

She trembled as his fingers glided along the side of her forearm before flicking the silk square she held tightly in her hand. Even through her evening gloves his fingertips singed her. The amused skepticism in his eyes infuriated her. The man obviously knew nothing about the women in the Society. The handkerchief she held would bring a tidy sum to the orphanage fund.

"Shall we make a wager on that, Mr. St. Claire?"

His gaze narrowed. "Hmm, an interesting notion. What do you propose we wager?"

A shiver of trepidation skated down the length of her spine. God in heaven, she was as reckless as Catherine said she was. But she was in the pond now. There was nothing for it, but to swim for shore with what little decorum she had left.

"If I sell the handkerchief, you must offer up an equal sum for the orphanage fund."

Folding his arms, he arched an eyebrow. "An intriguing wager. So if you sell this handkerchief to a Society member, I'm to offer up the same amount."

"Correct." For the first time since their conversation began, she relaxed. She would still escape with the means to increase the orphanage finances.

"Very well, since you've laid the foundation for this wager, I think it only fair that I name my terms if I should win."

"Of course." She smiled at him with a touch of self-satisfaction as she waited to hear his condition of the bet.

"I saw a portrait recently, quite lovely in fact. I want to see the model reclined in my bed, a willing participant in a night of passion."

The soft edge in his voice raised the hair on the nape of her neck. Triumph mixed with desire to darken his brown gaze and she swallowed the trepidation squeezing her throat closed.

"I don't understand. What portrait are you referring to?"

"It's quite erotic. Just looking at it made my cock spring to attention."

The shocking words made her gasp, but words of protest failed her. She could only stare into his eyes with a sinking feeling of horror as he offered her a wicked smile.

"Let me see if I can describe the portrait. The woman is quite lovely to look at. Her hips are wide, softly curved and voluptuous. Her mouth is full and parted in a seductive pout. But it's her breasts that I find so entrancing. They're large and full. Quite succulent."

"Oh, my God."

"And her hair--it's a beautiful color. Not quite red, not quite brown, even the nest of curls between her legs is the same delectable color."

He was describing her portrait. How had he seen it? Isaac Peebles had given his word he wouldn't show the painting to anyone. But how else could St. Claire know about the portrait? A shudder shot through her, and she clenched her fists as she struggled to maintain a dignified composure.

She wouldn't go through with it. She'd return the bloody handkerchief and leave his room with at least her reputation intact. No. That was impossible. If she backed out of the bet now, he'd be insufferable.

It would be unbearable dealing with the man when it came to her financial investment. No, she had to see it through. He might have seen the portrait, but it was in her possession. She had nothing to fear in that area. More importantly, he couldn't win this wager. She'd make sure Catherine or Alva would bid on the silk. After all, as long as one of the ladies in the Society of Lost Angels bought the handkerchief, she'd win.

"This woman in the portrait, do I know her?" She tilted her chin at a proud angle, hoping to convince him she didn't understand him.

His hands grasped her arms and he pulled her against his hard body. A small squeak of surprise escaped her. Heat enveloped her and made her heart race with excitement even though she tried to slow the mad pace of its beat.

A strong arm curved around her waist, binding her close. His mouth was so close to hers she could smell the expensive wine on his breath. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would be like to taste that liquor on his tongue. Shocked by the traitorous way her body was behaving, she braced her hands on his chest and tried to push away from him.

"Surely you're not going to deny that you have the most delicious looking mocha nipples, Julia. Seeing them in that portrait made me ache to suck on them."

His fingers skimmed her exposed skin at the lower edge of her bodice. The touch made her mouth go dry at the sudden longing that gripped her. What would it be like to be this man's lover? Immediately, her mind careened to a halt. Sweet heaven, she needed to keep her wits about her where this man was concerned. She needed to close this wager and flee with what little dignity she still possessed.

"I don't deny anything, sir. But if you think you can win this wager, I dare you to accept."

"So you agree that if I win you'll recline yourself on my bed." The look of satisfaction sounded alarm bells in her head, but she was in too deep to stop now.

"It is easy to gamble when the outcome is certain to be in one's favor, sir."

"Then let us seal the agreement."

The sudden possession of his mouth took her by surprise. The warmth of his firm lips covering hers made her stomach flip with excitement. It was like being engulfed by fire. As his tongue swept into her mouth, she relaxed into him, unable to prevent the wild reaction of her body. Hands rough with calluses scraped over her sensitive skin as he cupped her face. It was a kiss of seduction, possession and mastery all in one.

Her body reveled in the experience, all the while her head was scrambling for clear thought. Rough fingers trailed down to the base of her neck, where a long finger slid under the edge of her bodice. A wave of sensation swept over her at the touch, and her nipples grew hard as her breasts swelled and tried to push their way out of her corset.

Sweet heaven, no wonder women fell at the man's feet. His touch was like a drug. He captured her mouth again, his kiss drowning out every one of her thoughts. She found herself clinging to him with abandon, while strong, rough fingers undid several buttons at the back of her dress. In protest, she tried to push away, but her gown slipped off one shoulder before she could free herself.

One tapered finger slid its way between her skin and corset, and she gasped as he gently eased her breast up so her nipple popped over the edge of the snug fitting garment.

"Beautiful," he murmured as he lowered his head and flicked his tongue over the taut bud. The action singed her skin and she uttered a soft cry. An instant later, his teeth gently clamped on her and tugged at the nipple in a playful manner. The world shifted beneath her feet.

"Please … please…." Her voice evaporated as he began to suck on her breast. The pleasure singing through her veins was indescribable. Moist heat gathered at the apex of her thighs. A moment later, she wondered what it would feel like for his hand to touch her intimately. The picture shimmering in her head shocked her.

Wrenching herself out of his arms, she backed away from him. He looked completely unfazed by their recent embrace, and she was certain she looked disheveled and disconcerted. In the back of her mind, she knew all too well that the only reason she was free was because he'd been willing to release her.

Embarrassed, she adjusted her clothing with great speed, all the while fully aware of his dark eyes watching her. It was disturbing. Even more so because, deep inside, she liked the way he watched her. The way he'd touched her.

Shaken by the knowledge, she struggled to regain her composure. Her gaze flashed toward him only to see him smiling at her, the glow of desire in his eyes. "I shall enjoy having you in my bed, Julia."

His confidence should have frightened her. Instead it infuriated her. Her senses restored somewhat by his arrogance, she glared in his direction. "I think not, sir. You forget that I hold the upper hand."

Sweeping around him, she raced from the room. She heard his laughter trailing after her. It made her heart lurch with an intense pleasure she didn't want to feel, but the sensation spread its way through her body like a raging river. It made her want to return to his arms and experience the delight she was certain she'd find there. Oh, if only she were that