A game of demands?

Harland’s mouth went so dry, it was like he’d eaten an entire loaf of bread without swallowing a single drop of water.

The undercurrent of her tone stirred sultry thoughts. Hot blood pumped new life into him as images of their naked bodies locked together in sacred embrace rolled through his mind like fluttering silk. His hands wanted to sink into the flesh of her backside as he pressed himself into her warmth.

Who was this woman?

…and would his soul survive the night intact?

Her words had reduced him to such a lack-wit, all he could say was, “A what?” He cleared his throat. “A game of demands. You mean—that is to say—well, what do you mean?”

She smiled as if she knew only too well what a rare sight it was to see him flustered, and was even more pleased with herself that she had been the cause of his fleeting befuddlement. “Don’t you know?”

“I think you’d better say.”

“First the rules and then I’ll open the game. I think stating my first demand would best illustrate what I mean.”

“Rules?”

“’Tis a game, isn’t it?”

“Is this—” His voice almost buckled under the strain of speaking. He spoke with careful detachment. “—something of your own invention that you’ve played before?” Jealousy curled behind the bars of a cage, clattering to be unleashed should she have ever before played this game with another.

Absurd.

He cared not one whit whether or not she’d ever kissed another man—or even if she’d ever lain with another man. Why was the game she proposed different? Why did it bring out territorial instincts?

It was like the cottage, perhaps. Harland couldn’t tell her he’d never brought anyone here before. It would have sounded insincere.

He’d taken pains with the place—each and every item he’d selected. True, most were from the Mandeville House attics, but he still had fond memories of being a boy exploring those upper rooms on rainy days when the nearly interminable lessons with his long-winded tutor had ended.

Mandeville House belonged to the marquess. The cottage belonged to him. Oh, they were one in the same, right enough. In a way. The difference was, within these walls, he was never an outsider.

Her chin struck out at a playful, almost daring jaunt. “Not the version I’ve a mind to play with you.”

Jealousy subsided and rough male satisfaction surged to replace it.

He took a bottle of wine and two glasses from a small cupboard in the corner and filled each halfway.

“Very well then, madam, what are the rules?” He handed her one of the glasses before wetting his own tongue. The wine released a scent of aromatic complexity. It tasted of summer red berries and the wide-open countryside and perhaps the most minute hint of spice. “Wait—first, I should have your name.”

“That is in fact the first rule, I’m afraid. No names.”

Along with a hard crash of disappointment at her pronouncement came a heady rush of a whole new kind of excitement. No names. Interesting.

“I think you know mine.”

“But I won’t say it.”

“Again, I’m at the disadvantage.”

“Enjoy it while you can, my lord.”

It was the first time she’d called him my lord instead of sir.

“What a saucy thing you are.”

She tossed one lovely shoulder.

Harland would wager every last inch of unentailed property that she wasn’t usually like this—but that she was enjoying her newfound cheek more than a naughty child enjoys pilfering forbidden lumps of sugar.

He stirred something in her. Made her want to be bold.

Good.

It was all the promises held in the way their bodies had brushed together when they’d danced coming to fruition.

Thinking on it made him hungry to be close to her.

“I must call you something.”

“You may call me…Miss S.”

“Assure me before we take this any farther that the miss is meaningful and you’re not, in fact, married—at least not to a husband still drawing breath.”

He should have asked sooner, of course.

She’d outright assured him she wouldn’t be going to bed with him, but the atmosphere in the room put every suggestion of the act square between them. Even if they didn’t so much as kiss, he couldn’t be here—not like this—with anyone else’s wife. It was too easy to put himself in another man’s boots. And he’d be damned before he could be comfortable with a…with a…“w” word of his own here, like they were now.

“You have my assurance, my lord.”

“Rule number two?”

“No unreasonable demands.”

Harland’s brows went up. “Such as?”

Her lips quirked at the corners. “We’ll know them when see them, I should think. Number three—we each have the right to refuse one demand.”

“One out of how many?”

“As many as we please.” She held up the first finger of her right hand. “But only one. And the final rule: My mask stays on.”

“Your mask?”

“My mask. Because I demand that you, my lord, take yours off.”

“You minx. You’re cheating. You’ve made one rule for yourself that doesn’t apply to me.”

Her mouth pursed in a smile she tried—and failed—to hide, revealing one surprising dimple in her left cheek. How had he not noticed such a delightful little whimsy in her features before? “Would you like to refuse this demand, my lord? Think carefully. You can only refuse once.”

Not speaking, he went to the hearth. Looking to her, he reached up, caught the bottom edge of his mask, and held on. “You’re going to be punished for this.” He swept it off his face and tossed it into the fire. “My turn.”

Miss S settled into one of the seats, skirts strewn about her, wineglass in hand. “Do your worst.”

“Tell me about the best gift you ever received.”

“Is that your idea of punishment?” Was that a note of disappointment in her voice?

“Are you stalling?”

“No, I genuinely want to know.”

“Don’t think you’ll escape so lightly. I’m going to hold onto my promise and wield it when I think most appropriate.” First, he had to wheedle information from her that might help him piece together who she was—but he had to start with something relatively innocent.

She shivered, then drew a breath as if steadying herself before answering. “A kitten.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“I said tell me about it…” He nodded to coax her onward. Teasing information required laying careful groundwork in innocuous questions before wandering into more daring territory.

“Ah. Well, all right. It was a little cream kitten, about twelve weeks old, that my father gave me for my eighth birthday. His name was Pie and he lived with me for the next twenty-one years.”

“You can’t be serious. Cats can’t live that long.”

“Pie did. My turn. Have you deduced who I am?”

“No, but I plan to before the night is out. My turn.” She’d left the opening with her story about the kitten, making his next question flow seamlessly from the first. “Who was your father?”

“Too close to asking for a name.”

He held the sensation of sinking helplessness at bay. The sky outside was still dark. A few hours were still left before dawn. He couldn’t give up, not yet.

There was more to this woman than any other he’d ever known, and yet he barely knew her. What was it he sensed? Was she ambitious? Should he be on his guard against scheming machinations?

His gut said no, that what he saw was nothing but genuine. She hadn’t a hint of artfulness about her.

But he would keep on guard.

He cast her a querying look. “Well?”

“Tell me why you still hold a debauched ball you clearly despise.”

“Am I so transparent?”

Tilting her head to the side, she considered. “It’s difficult to know what others see. I rather think they don’t notice, not most of them, anyhow. People see what they want to see, and I don’t doubt they want to see you in a certain light that serves their notions of you instead of who you really are.”

He didn’t dare ask what she made of him—what she considered really him. She saw too much. Maybe more than he’d bargained for.

Then why had he brought her to the cottage if not to reveal that which he otherwise always concealed?

“I do it because it’s tradition.”

“Is that all?”

“When you say it like that, you make it sound easy to cast away all the years of what have come before to invent myself anew.”

“Forgive me, but considering your personage, my lord, I’d hardly believe you to be trapped by any circumstance.”

“You’d be surprised.” Harland paused. “Would it shock you terribly if you knew I wanted to kiss you?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

She gave him a pointed look. “Well, do you?”

“I’m afraid I must own I do, rather.”

“Well, I would have been shocked. Until the rather.” Her mouth turned down. “That’s a bit of a blow, isn’t it?”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

She sipped the wine. “It’s your turn, my lord.”

“Come here.” He motioned for her to come forward to the floor at his feet.

She obeyed, kneeling between his knees, her gaze into his eyes steady and unblinking. She put her hands on his thighs. He’d already been well and truly hard for God knew how long. His erection flexed. The heavy material of his front falls covered only so much. If she looked down, no doubt she’d deduce what he hid there.

He wouldn’t be putting himself to bed this morning without having himself off with a youthful resurgence of vigor. There was a high likelihood of going to sleep sporting an unfortunate self-inflicted chafing wound.

As much as he anticipated the inevitable, it would do best for it to be a long time coming. Because it would mean she’d be gone forever.

A few hours until dawn—that was all he needed to remember. “Now—”

“No, it’s my turn.”

“I only told you to come here. I didn’t demand it of you.”

“Now it’s you who’s cheating.”

Harland’s voice went husky. “It’s time for your punishment, Miss S.”

The glow of the firelight cast a beguiling light over her bare upper chest. It rose and fell, rose and fell. With every inhalation, an indented line formed through the sweet swells of her breasts where her bodice cut into them.

“And what is it you demand of me, my lord?”

He smiled. Helpless as he was before her, it was time to reclaim some small measure of his power in these proceedings.

“Let down your hair.”