Providence had evidently felt charitable toward him tonight. Here, Jordan, I grant you agony with your leg, but forgetfulness in the elixir and passion in the touch of a soft and welcoming woman.

The room was spinning, but she felt real. She was his prize for having endured the earlier pain. He wouldn’t remember her tomorrow or even a few hours from now. However, he was going to enjoy the hallucination as long as it lasted.

A waking dream, that’s what he would consider it.

She was touching him and breathing in a way that made him think she was as aroused as he. If she was real, he’d thank her for making him feel as if he was whole and virile and man enough to please her.

But she was only a creature formed by his loneliness and the opiates in Dr. Reynolds’s elixir.

When she’d kissed him, the top of his head went sailing somewhere among the stars. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to feel the desire she so effortlessly summoned.

Where had his walking stick gone? He’d dropped it somewhere after entering the bedroom and being confronted with this delightful dream made real. His hand reached out, pressed hers against his chest.

He threaded his fingers through the mass of her curls, feeling the softness of her hair as he bent to kiss her. A drumbeat began deep inside him, the rhythm slow but increasing, demanding.

How long had it been since he felt the touch of a woman? Too long. He’d been celibate for years, first out of necessity in the navy. Second, because after ascending to the dukedom the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a compromising position with a young miss.

His waking dream wasn’t a virtuous female and he didn’t have to worry about anything. She wasn’t real. Neither was he, in the strictest sense. His mind was under the throes of the drug. His will was compromised. His needs were dominant.

He folded his arms around her, drawing her closer. In the way of all dreams she fit perfectly as if she belonged there.

She was tall enough she could place her lips against his throat, sigh against his neck, and make him grateful for the effects of the elixir.

He’d never before kissed a woman and felt like this. Not once in his experience had the world fallen away.

Until this moment he thought he knew passion. He didn’t realize it had the ability to infuse him with joy. Or make him want to grab her and twirl her around the room in a thoroughly un-Jordan-like move.

He wanted to kiss her until dawn lit up the room. He wanted to touch her everywhere and find those spots that made her giggle or sigh or moan. She was only a waking dream, half wish, half need, created by the elixir.

Yet one kiss led to another and to another until he felt weak in the knees.

He was going to fall down any moment.

He stumbled backward, feeling the mattress against his back.

She didn’t utter one compassionate word, thank God. This hallucination was not a creature crafted of pity.

He drew her with him and she went, her lips still clinging to his. Somehow they climbed onto the mattress, his delusion remaining with him.

He didn’t say a word, terrified she would disappear and he’d be left staring at a twirling ceiling. Until he lost himself to the opiates, he would enjoy her touch and her mind-numbing kisses.

To his surprise, his waking dream was helping him disrobe. Not only him, but her. Her fingers flew over the fastenings, most of which defied his clumsy hands. Women’s fashions were geared to making it as difficult as possible for a man to understand them.

Virtue maintained through confusion.

She slid from the bed and he stretched out a hand to stop her then clenched his fingers into a fist. Let her go. Let her disappear. What sort of fool was he to want to love a hallucination?

To his surprise, she wasn’t leaving him after all; she’d only stood to remove her petticoat. When she returned to the bed his waking dream was attired only in a shift. With any luck she wouldn’t leave until after they loved.

He might become addicted to Dr. Reynolds’s elixir if it promised this kind of companion.

“You’re not real,” he said.

There, a bit of sanity in the midst of this fog. At least he was attempting to find some semblance of himself. His rational mind was trying to make sense of everything while his body merely wanted the pleasure.

Her finger pressed against his lips, followed shortly by her mouth.

His imagination had provided a dream who could kiss like a houri, who tempted him without a word spoken.

His leg prevented him from being completely mobile, but he could certainly sit up and remove his shoes, socks, and then his trousers. It had been years since he’d undressed in front of a woman, but it didn’t matter because she wasn’t truly there. She was a thought, a wish, something fervently desired and as amorphous as a cloud.

Her hands wrapping around his ankle was surprisingly erotic. But when her fingers trailed up his leg, he stopped her. The pain was there, dormant but waiting to be summoned from his mental fog. Not yet. He didn’t want it to return just yet. Let him experience the miracle of this enchanting, unreal creature for a few more minutes before he surrendered to either the darkness or the agony.

He removed his shirt, lay back on the bed and allowed himself to fully enjoy the moment. His waking dream stripped him of every thought, of every worry. He felt only pleasure at her hands and unexpected joy.

Her hands stroked from his waist, all the way up his chest to his neck before bracketing his face. She lowered her head to kiss him again.

If she was real, he’d ask what gave her pleasure. Her excitement was evident from the soft exhalations of breath escaping her. When his hands stroked her, she softly moaned.

His imagination furnished her with the softest skin, the smoothest curves, and plump breasts fitting his palms just so. She was perfect, created out of his most fervent fantasies.

Her skin was warmer than normal as if she had a fever. If so, it was another thing they shared, this dream creature and his besotted self. He felt as if he was in the middle of a conflagration, flames bursting from inside him.

Sliding to the center of the bed, he raised her over him. He did so with ease, his imagination making this seduction effortless. She didn’t question why he put her in that position. Why would she? This female was an extension of himself, his wishes given the illusion of flesh.

Her shift was white in the moonlight, making her appear like a phantom. His body responded as if she was real. His heart was racing, his pulse jumping in concert. His breath was tight and fast.

Real or not he prayed the hallucination would last. Just for a few more minutes. He wanted her. He had to have her.

She bowed over him, placed her lips on his, and sighed into his mouth. For an eternity of moments he was lost in her kiss.

He needn’t cajole her or charm her or even appear before her flawed and broken. She already knew him. She was part of him. He’d created her solely for these perfect moments. As she allowed him to pull her shift over her head, he realized his imagination was so much more powerful than he’d ever known.

She didn’t see him as damaged or lacking. In this act of joining, they were simply two creatures lost in the throes of passion, rejoicing in the act of making love. Who cared if he was drugged and she wasn’t real?

Her breasts filled his hands, the hard tips pressing into his palms. One hand at her back urged her down. He raised his head until he could mouth a nipple, smiling at the sound of her sigh above him.

He couldn’t think, could only feel, desire overcoming any memory of pain. Ecstasy surged through him, numbing him to outside noises or even his own being. The creature of his imagination moaned above him. He lifted her until her heated flesh slid over his erection, teasing him with its wetness. He hesitated there, at her opening, then guided her into place. She was tight yet welcoming, clenching around him as he entered.

Her moan of delight changed slightly.

Damn him, he’d imagined a virgin.

She was a sweet innocent who needed to be soothed, treated with tenderness. In that next instant the cogent thought abruptly vanished, leaving him overwhelmed by pleasure.

Why had he imagined a virgin? A question lasting until she rose up over him. His hands on her waist urged her down again.

He opened his eyes to see her back arched, her head back. Her breasts, proud and large, were almost begging for his hands. He cupped each, gently pinching the nipples.

She moaned again and this time the sound was too real, almost piercing the fog surrounding him.

His hands left her breasts only for a moment to stroke from her waist, down her thighs, and back up to her breasts. He wanted to embed the touch of her on his skin for those nights when he couldn’t summon her, when distorted images and frightening sounds took her place.

She rose and fell, rose and fell again, the rhythm one she began. She was making little sounds that accompanied her movements, soft breathy gasps telling him she no longer felt discomfort.

His vision grayed. The moment extended. Was this what dying was like, when you were conscious of every pore, every inch of skin, every beat of your heart even as you became separated from yourself? He felt, in that instant, as if he was being thrown out into the cosmos, only one more flickering star, and then gradually returned to his body, to his bed, and to the consciousness that his waking dream was weeping.

Surely he wouldn’t have imagined such a thing? Was it the elixir? Or Providence, punishing him for having such an erotic dream?

She was vanishing, sliding from the bed, departing as he’d half expected from the beginning. The fog was returning, falling over him.

He was alone, the stark silence in the room expected yet troubling. The opiates had created a lover for him, one who’d given him immense pleasure, but she wasn’t destined for permanence. She was only a temporary respite from his loneliness, a ghost created in his mind.

He heard the door close, as he allowed himself to fall, to spin downward into a drugged sleep.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” Reese said.

Josephine glanced back at the bed where he lounged. “You haven’t played the gentleman all night, why bother now?”

“A reward, perhaps?” he said, his voice amused. “A token of my appreciation for hours well spent? I trust you felt the same.”

“You’re a skilled lover, Reese, is that what you want to hear? That I nearly screamed?”

“As I recall, you did,” he said, chuckling. “A good thing Sedgebrook’s walls are thick, else you would have terrified the staff. Everyone would have run for the exits, thinking some type of banshee creature was loose.”

She bent, retrieved a pillow from the floor, and tossed it at him.

“You are truly a despicable creature,” she said, wishing she didn’t feel so wonderful.

She was finding it difficult to dislike the man when her body was still thrumming with satisfaction.

“Am I?”

He propped himself up on one elbow and watched her as she looked for her clothing. He’d insisted on leaving the light on and she found it a heady experience being so openly admired.

Dawn would come shortly and the industrious Sedgebrook servants would be up and about. She grabbed her nightgown and wrapper and put them on, intent on returning to her room before encountering anyone. She’d come dressed for seduction, hadn’t she? Just not in Reese’s bed.

There was still time for her original plan. Gran didn’t look as if she was ready to leave for home. There was always tonight.

“You’re plotting something,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, standing.

“I’d put some cream on that spot on your chin.”

One hand flew up, her fingers smoothing over her face.

“You marked me?” she asked, horrified.

“There and in a few other places,” he said, grinning at her. “Your left breast, for example, bears the marks of my night beard.”

She frowned at him, annoyed when he began to laugh.

Turning, she went to the door and listened for a moment. From the mantel clock, it was only a little after one, too early for the servants to be up and about.

She slowly pulled the door open, looked both ways, then slipped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Halfway back to her room, she realized she wasn’t alone after all.

Martha was ahead of her, fully dressed, and hurrying to her room. Evidently, everyone was roaming Sedgebrook tonight.

What was proper, staid, and plain Martha doing out of her bed?

Martha escaped from Jordan’s suite feeling like God Himself was chasing her. What had she done? Why had she remained? It was clear he hadn’t been himself. He’d thought she was a sylph, a spirit, someone he’d imagined.

He’d been real to her.

What could she say if anyone discovered what had happened?

He seduced me. Not entirely correct, was it? She’d had plenty of time to leave. She could have slipped from the room at any time, but she hadn’t.

I was confused. She hadn’t been. Instead, she’d been certain of what she wanted and it had been him.

I was innocent. True enough, but she wasn’t now.

Her grandmother would say she’d lowered her bridal chances. No man wants a well-used woman, child. Gran had originally made the comment during her season, warning her about not being alone with one of her suitors. What would Gran say if she knew she’d not only been alone with the Duke of Roth but that she’d wholeheartedly participated in her own downfall?

He’d taken her virginity. She’d found discomfort and delight in his arms. An apt reason for wanting to burst into tears.

She didn’t get the chance.

She’d just closed the door to her room when it suddenly opened again.

“Where have you been?” Josephine demanded. “What have you been doing, Martha?”

She didn’t want to have this conversation now. Nor was she in the mood to take on Josephine. She wanted to think about the past few hours, about Jordan, and how she would act when she saw him in the morning.

Her sister, however, entered the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Josephine advanced on her, stopping a few feet away.

“Tell me. Where were you?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

At that, Josephine narrowed her eyes.

“You’ve been with someone, haven’t you? You’ve had relations.”

The accusation left Martha staring at her sister.

“What are you talking about? Of course I haven’t.”

“Who was it? Did one of the footmen strike your fancy?”

“Will you leave?”

“No. Who were you with? Tell me.”

When she didn’t answer, her sister turned toward the door.

“Maybe I’ll go tell Gran you’ve been wandering around Sedgebrook before dawn. She’ll get it out of you.”

Her stomach lurched at the thought of Josephine waking their grandmother with that kind of news.

“Leave Gran alone, Josephine,” she said, biting back her fear.

Josephine glanced over her shoulder and smiled, the expression one she wouldn’t have shared with the men who admired her. This smile had an edge to it.

“Tell me or I’ll go right now,” she said, turning. “You know I will.”

Josephine was certainly capable of doing exactly that.

For a moment she balanced the thought of revealing where she’d been against Josephine’s threat. Would the truth silence her sister?

She didn’t have a choice, did she?

“The duke, all right? I was with Jordan.”

The attractive pink of Josephine’s cheeks deepened to become a splotchy flush spreading down to her neck. For a moment she didn’t say anything, just stared at Martha.

“You couldn’t have,” Josephine finally said. “He wouldn’t have looked at you.”

Hurt crowded out any fear she felt. Martha took a deep breath and somehow managed a smile.

“If it makes any difference, he didn’t. He was besotted.”

“Was he?” Josephine asked.

She nodded. “I don’t think he even knew it was me.” She sat on the end of the bed, wishing it wasn’t the truth.

“How interesting. Did you seduce him? Did you go to him in hopes he’d make your maidenly dreams come true? How was he? Did that leg of his interfere with his manly charms?”

“I’m not talking about this,” she said, standing and moving past Josephine to the screen in the corner. She wanted to bathe.

“You’re right to want to wash the scent of him off you, Martha.”

She loved Josephine, but there were times—like now—when she didn’t like her much.

After she washed, Martha peered out from behind the screen to find Josephine had left the room. Staring at the closed door, she wondered if her sister had gone to see Gran. Would she tell their grandmother anything? Or would Josephine simply go back to her room and forget everything she’d learned?

That was a foolish wish, wasn’t it? As long as she was wishing, then perhaps Gran would feel well enough to travel a day early and they could leave Sedgebrook.

Please, God, let her go home to Griffin House. Now before anything else happened.