For once in his life, he had no words. None.

The chit rendered him utterly speechless.

He was already furious at himself over the way he’d lost control at Andromeda’s. He’d brought Miss Kent there to teach her a lesson, to show her the full extent of her ignorance. Devil take it, she ought to have fainted after a minute or two. Or slapped his bloody face.

Instead, she’d tempted him ... melted for him.

He still couldn’t believe that he’d kissed her, couldn’t believe how close he’d come to doing much more. If the bawd hadn’t interrupted, he might have found himself well and truly caught in the Parson’s snare for even his tarnished sense of honor wouldn’t permit him to deflower a virgin without accepting the consequences.

He’d assumed that she’d come tonight to demand that he pay the matrimonial piper. The notion of being manipulated by her feminine wiles had enraged him. Savagely, he’d recalled how Laura had seduced him with virginal glances and shy smiles. Aye, he’d paid dearly for losing his head over a so-called innocent, and he’d sworn never to do it again.

But apparently Miss Kent wasn’t interested in marrying him.

This ought to have improved his disposition. For some reason, it infuriated him more.

What does the chit have up her sleeve?

’Twas best to know one’s adversary. Waving a hand to the divan by the fire, he said caustically, “By all means, shower me with your pearls of wisdom.”

With a huff, she went and perched on the cushions. He followed and took the adjacent wingchair. Despite his suspiciousness, he couldn’t help but notice how her velvet cloak set off her creamy skin and rosy lips—lips that he’d sampled. She’d tasted as delicious as she smelled, like an apple tart, wholesome and spicy sweet ...

“I have a plan,” she announced, and he instantly grew warier. “For the last several months, I have been working at Kent and Associates, and I’ve learned something of the trade.”

What the devil?

He stared at her. “You have been employed ... as an investigator?”

She cleared her throat. “Not exactly. I was assisting my brother in more of, er, an organizational capacity. I have, however, learned the ins and outs of detection work. In fact, I recently solved a case on my own.”

The chit was unbelievable. Cracked. Possibly unhinged.

“As a female investigator,” she went on in a determined manner, “I may be uniquely positioned to assist you.”

Specific positions in which she could assist him flitted through his head.

Scowling, he said, “That is the most demented thing I’ve ever heard. What special female talents do you bring to bear, Miss Kent? Your skill wielding a reticule as a weapon? Or perhaps your remarkable ability to jump to the wrong conclusions?”

“I already apologized for my mistake and have rectified it with the magistrates.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you always this difficult when someone tries to help you?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the experience,” he said shortly.

He didn’t trust it either. The only one who’d ever tried to do anything for him was the dowager duchess, and he didn’t know which had been more stifling, his illness or Aunt Patrice’s overbearing anxiety.

“That can’t be true,” Miss Kent said with a frown. “Everyone has relied upon another at some point. What about your mama?”

“She died when I was young,” he said curtly.

“Your papa then—”

“I do not discuss my family.”

She looked as if she might argue ... and apparently thought better of it. “Well, I am trying to help you,” she said, “and I’ve been thinking: according to the papers, Lady Clara was poisoned. Poison is oft said to be a woman’s weapon. Given that the victim was a woman as well, it seems that a female perspective is warranted in this case, don’t you agree?”

He couldn’t resist bursting her little bubble. “The poison wasn’t intended for Clara. It was in my whiskey. She had the misfortune of drinking with me.”

She blinked. “You were poisoned too? But you’re ... not dead.”

“Disappointed?” he said acidly.

“The papers never mentioned—”

“The fewer who know the better. I don’t want the integrity of the investigation tainted.”

Miss Kent’s gaze widened, firelight dancing in the faceted depths. Most brown eyes he’d encountered gave the impression of opacity, but not hers: they were as clear and dark as the finest tea, reflecting her rippling emotions.

“This changes everything,” she said.

“It changes nothing where you’re concerned,” he said with emphasis. “You’re not to get involved. In fact, I want you as uninvolved in my life as possible.”

Keeping her away from him, he concluded, was the only way to preserve his sanity. Emma Kent possessed an uncanny talent for pushing him to his limits. Her willfulness was infuriating—and bloody arousing. He wanted to shake some sense into her. He wanted to yank her into his arms, taste her honeyed surrender again ...

She leapt to her feet, which obliged him to rise as well. He suppressed a grimace as his stiffening cock butted against his trousers. Praise God his shirt covered the bulge.

“But you could still be in danger!” She bit her lip, pacing in front of the divan. “This is my fault. I misled the magistrates into focusing on you instead of the true killer.”

Her concern was ... befuddling. In his extensive experience with the fair sex, he couldn’t recall a single instance where a woman had been answerable for her actions. Where a female had shown a sense of honor and fair play. As he recalled Laura’s tears and denials, her baseless accusations, his jaw tautened.

“Actions have been taken,” he said abruptly. “I’ve hired investigators.”

“You’ve spoken to Mr. McLeod and my brother?”

The last thing he wanted was to be in Will’s debt. “There are other agencies in town.”

“But none as accomplished as Kent and Associates. They’re the best.” Her head canted to one side. “Why wouldn’t you trust your own brother?”

Because I don’t deserve to.

“It is none of your concern,” he said irritably.

“Can’t we let bygones be bygones? If your life is in peril, we must work together—”

“There is no we, Miss Kent.”

“I am sincerely sorry for my mistake.” Her eyes pleaded with him. Just as he began to thaw slightly, she added, “And it is not as if you’re entirely in the right. You did kidnap and drag me to Andromeda’s after all.”

“I did that because you were too pigheaded to accept the truth,” he gritted out.

“And I gave the testimony because you were too arrogant to explain what really happened.” She had the temerity to lift her chin. “When it all boils down, I’d say we’re equally in the wrong, wouldn’t you?”

His grip on his temper slipped. “Like hell we are. You spied on me and falsely accused me of murder. Then you instigated that kiss—”

“What?” she said indignantly. “You’re the one who started it.”

“You licked your damned lip in invitation!”

“If I did so, ’twas because of nerves. Unlike you, I’m not accustomed to debauchery.”

Her prim, virtuous reply caused the pressure in his veins to shoot up. A muscle by his left eye twitched. “Nerves my arse,” he said. “If you possess any, they are clearly made of iron. The truth is you were bloody eager for my kiss.”

Uncertainty flitted through her eyes—the first of it that he’d seen from the bullheaded chit.

She recovered quickly. “Circumstances being what they were, it is understandable that we were both somewhat overwrought. What’s done is done, however. There’s no sense arguing about it,” she said in annoyingly brisk tones. “If your reluctance to accept my help stems from fear that we’ll end up in another compromising situation, I can assure you that will never happen again.”

Her naive confidence, the flippant way in which she dismissed the attraction between them fueled his need to prove how wrong she was. The termagant needed a lesson, and he needed to rid himself of her once and for all. He knew exactly how to accomplish both goals.

Kill two birds with one stone.

“You think you can control yourself around me?” he said silkily.

“Of course. And there’s naught to control. Truly.”

The slight wobble in that last word betrayed her.

“So if I were to sit on that wingchair right now,”—his gaze directed to the furnishing in question—“with you on my lap and my mouth on yours, you’d be indifferent?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He stalked toward her, and she retreated immediately. When the back of her knees hit the wingchair, she lost her balance, her bottom smacking softly against the leather seat. He planted his hands on the back of the chair, caging yet not touching her.

Leaning down, he mocked, “Then don’t be a liar. You said you had full control of yourself around me.”

“I do. In that hypothetical scenario, I would be trying to get away from you,” she shot back.

“What if I held you tight, kissed you deeper, licked your sweet lips until you let me in?”

Her cheeks turned rosy. “I—I’d bite your tongue!”

“Ah, but then I’d have to punish you.” He let his words sink in, saw her pupils dilating—not with fear, but ... arousal. Devil and damn. His trousers grew instantly tighter.

“You wouldn’t dare.” She didn’t sound so full of conviction now.

“To the contrary, pet, I dare most anything,” he purred. “Now you saw quite the variety of punishments at Andromeda’s; I wonder which you would most prefer? For instance, would you enjoy being bound and helpless as I took my pleasure? As I touched and kissed you however, wherever, I wanted to?”

A choked breath left her. Beneath her cloak, her bosom surged.

“Perhaps you’d like to pleasure me,” he said thoughtfully. “On your knees, taking everything I give you.” His cockstand, already turgid, pulsed at the idea—and even more so when her teeth sank into her lower lip. Sweat dampened his collar; he forced himself to finish what he’d begun. “But I think you’d most like being turned over on my knee. Raising your pretty bottom up for me.”

His senses flooded with the beauty of that image: her supple, white skin beneath his palm, her beauty entirely in his hands. He knew she was not a miss of half-measures; when Emma Kent submitted, she would give ... everything. Heat sizzled through his veins, and he burned to know the generosity of her ardor, to show her ecstasy that she’d never known before.

In a hoarse voice, he continued, “You could let go of fear and worry, Emma. Put yourself into my keeping.” He cupped her downy cheek, her quiver travelling straight to his prick. “You could trust me to give you everything you need.”

She made a strangled sound, and he saw his own dark desire mirrored in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with arousal rather than disgust. She swayed toward him, her breath panting through her lips, her passion like a seed poised to sprout through virginal inhibitions ...

Virgin—a trap.

His mind sounded the alarm over his roaring lust. Laura seemed sweet and passionate, and she played you for a fool. His gut clenched as her betrayals flooded him, the humiliating memories. The loss ...

Never again.

Control is everything.

Somehow, he mastered himself. Pushing away from the wingchair, he straightened and lifted a brow. “Well, pet? Are you unaffected now? In complete control?”

She blinked, paling as the words struck home. “You’re a bastard,” she whispered.

“I’m honest,” he corrected coolly. “This is what will happen if you play games with me. Now this is your last warning: stop meddling or face the consequences.”

She shot to her feet. “Fine. If you wind up dead, see if I give a farthing!”

Phobos and Deimos leapt up, ready to give chase to her departing figure.

“Stay,” Alaric commanded.

The deerhounds came over to him, whining at the loss of a visitor.

“Trust me, lads,” he said darkly. “It has to be this way.”

* * *

Despite his victory over the indomitable chit, Alaric felt bedeviled with restlessness. The dark fantasies he’d used to warn off Miss Kent continued to plague his lustful imagination. Visions of her kneeling in front of him, her lips parting so sweetly as he fed her every inch of his throbbing shaft ...

He paced the library like a damned prisoner in his own house. Either he could go upstairs and frig himself like a blasted greenling or he could find some distraction. His club—that was the ticket. He hadn’t gone to White’s since Clara’s death, and his continued absence would add fuel to the gossip.

Best to nip it in the bud. He had naught to hide.

Summoning his carriage, he made the short trip over to St. James Street.

As Alaric entered White’s, that bastion of male comfort, all eyes turned to him. The scent of leather and cigar smoke curled in his nostrils as he returned cold stares and polite greetings in equal measure. Nothing like strife to separate friends from foes. He made mental note of who fell on which side: the Scot in him valued loyalty above all else.

“Strathaven, I am surprised to see you here.”

At the pompous drawl, Alaric turned to see the Earl of Mercer approaching, accompanied by his usual pack of dandies. With his wheat-colored hair immaculately pomaded and his trim figure clad in embroidered velvet, Mercer was a handsome Pink of Fashion. He was also a snob, the kind of fellow whose sole purpose in life appeared to be flaunting his wealth and position—neither of which he’d earned—and spewing “wit” with his viper’s tongue.

“Why would you be surprised?” Alaric said in even tones.

“The passing of Lady Osgood—so very shocking to the sensibilities.” Mercer shuddered. “It appears you’ve managed to escape unscathed. Must be those hardy Scottish sensibilities of yours.”

Mercer’s cronies tittered.

“I had nothing to do with Lady Osgood’s death. Anyone who claims the contrary can meet me at dawn,” Alaric said coldly.

“At dawn? How uncivilized an hour. Lord knows I have plenty of engagements,” Mercer said with a brittle laugh, “and cannot possibly rearrange my schedule to fit you in.”

“Well met, gentlemen.” Gabriel, the Marquess of Tremont, came up to them. If Tremont’s astute grey gaze took the full measure of the tense situation, his pleasant expression showed no signs of it. “Mercer, I believe some friends of yours are looking for you. Something about an entry in the betting book.”

“A gentleman’s work is never done.” Sketching a bow, the earl sauntered off, his entourage tagging at his heels.

Alaric said in low tones, “I’d like to rearrange more than that bastard’s schedule.”

“Mercer’s just looking to stir trouble. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” Tremont slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s have a drink and talk of more important things.”

They managed to find prized seats by a private hearth.

“They don’t make chairs like this anywhere else,” Tremont said, stretching out his legs.

“They do if you pay them enough.” Alaric had commissioned furnishings from the same manufacturer for his study at Strathmore Castle, and it had cost him a pretty penny.

Tremont regarded him with a dry smile. “We aren’t all as rich as Croesus, you know.”

While the marquess had improved the financial situation he’d inherited, apparently he still had a ways to go. Alaric understood the other’s predicament. After all, he’d spent his tenure as duke replenishing the coffers left empty by his guardian’s profligacy.

“You will be once our venture is settled at month’s end,” Alaric assured him.

“I do have some good news on that front. I spoke with Burrowes today, and he’s decided to stand firm with us. His show of support should help us cauterize this wound yet.”

“Well done,” Alaric said. “That is the best news I’ve had all day.”

“What are you two up to now?” said an amused voice. “Whatever it is, may I join in?”

Marcus Harrington, Lord Blackwood, was another friend from his Oxford days. Blackwood had been the spare to the title back then and after University had bought a commission in the army. His training was still evident in his militaristic bearing, the precise cut of his golden brown hair. After his brother’s death, he’d acquired a marquessdom and a marchioness soon thereafter.

All three stood and exchanged bows.

Alaric said, “Care for a hand of cards, Blackwood?”

“Why not? I could always do with some of your gold.”

At one o’clock in the morning, Alaric left the table with heavier pockets, bowing to the good-natured groans of his friends. Outside, he descended the steps of the club, aware of an edgy energy that the night’s distractions had not quelled. As he headed toward his carriage parked up ahead, he considered making a stop at a bawdy house. Mayhap a fuck was what he needed to rid himself of his inexplicable itch for Miss Kent once and for all.

Yet for some damnable reason, he didn’t feel like bedding a whore.

The oncoming rattle of wheels made him look to the road. A black carriage was flying over the cobblestone; the driver, a fellow obscured by a dark hat and greatcoat, must have bacon for brains for driving that fast down St. James. Trash fluttered from the open window. As the vehicle passed him, Alaric glimpsed whipping curtains, a face split by a scar into two menacing halves, metal glinting—

Even as he threw himself to the ground, the shot rang in his ears. He lay on the pavement, blinking up at the stars. Muffled shouts came from the distance. Scorching pain flamed over his arm, and the night descended upon him.