Brandon stared at his old bedroom with a sense of unreality. It was so familiar—he’d spent his childhood, when he wasn’t roaming the estate in Hampshire, in these confines, thinking up mischief, playing with his tin soldiers, holding onto. . .

“Oh, my god,” he said, his voice reverential. “Morley.”

The woman in front of him had moved away, turning to stare up at him. “Morley?” she echoed.

He crossed the wide room in quick strides to pick up the disreputable bundle that for some unknown reason was lying on one of the pillows on his bed, and an unreasonable shaft of longing went through him, for a simpler time, a simpler life, when everything made sense. “Morley,” he confirmed, staring down at the moth-eaten stuffed bunny in his hands. He’d lost one eye, his fur was rubbed off in numerous places, and his stuffing had either leaked or compacted, because he was a far cry from his plump, sassy old self. If Emma hadn’t been there he would have hugged him.

He cleared his throat. “A childhood toy,” he said casually. “I used to sleep with him every night. He looks rather the worse for wear. I should probably burn him.”

“Don’t you dare!” Her protest was so fierce he half-expected her to try to snatch the toy away.

He looked at her curiously. “If you developed an attachment to this bundle of rags then you may certainly have him.”

“Don’t be absurd.” She moved past him to the window, looking out into the rainy night. “He’s not my childhood companion.”

“Then shall I toss him on the fire?”

She said nothing, but he could see then tension vibrating through her, and he decided he’d done too much already. “No, I won’t,” he said. “I’ll keep him with me. He’s a fond memory.”

He looked around the room, and he felt it, an eerie sense of what the French called déjà vu. Highly ridiculous, he told himself. He’d spent half of his life in this room—there were too many memories. But there was something else there, just at the back of his brain.

Normally he’d ignore it, dismiss it. But he’d known there was something about Emma Cadbury, even though he’d been idiot enough to forget her, and he hadn’t paid proper attention. If he had they might not have gotten into such a mess. He’d known he should keep his distance, and for a soldier who relied on instincts to keep him alive he’d done a piss-poor job.

He looked at her stiff back as she stared out the window, obviously waiting for him to leave, and then he glanced at the bed. He could see her on that bed, her arms around him while he wept.

But that was absurd. For one thing he couldn’t imagine weeping—he’d done with that after his first battle, when he’d killed. And killed and killed.

If they’d been on that bed it wouldn’t have been he who was weeping. Emma and beds had an obvious connotation—in fact, the idea of any bed made him think of Emma. Any flat surface. Up against a wall. In a chair—he hadn’t done it in a chair for years. . .

He slammed a door on his thoughts. “Did I ever bed you in this house?”

She turned, and he couldn’t read her expression. “I assure you, until last night I had been blissfully celibate for eight years.”

He froze. “That’s not possible!”

She turned, calm and controlled, raising an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You . . . that is . . . you . . .” he hadn’t been at a loss for words since he’d be a callow youth, and he simply stared at her in disbelief.

“I retired from the day to day tasks of a bordello and concentrated on the business side. Once a whore, always a whore, but in fact my hard-learned skills have not been put to the test for a very long time. I hope I proved satisfactory, my lord. I would hate to receive money for inferior performance.”

The goddamned money! He’d forgotten all about it—it had vanished in the haze of lust that had surrounded him. He would have agreed to anything last night. Good lord, he’d agree to anything right now.

He smiled faintly. “I’ll need to write a draft on one of my accounts.”

“No hurry. I gather you have disposable income, and I don’t come cheap.”

He had never seen such a cool, practiced smile in his life, a perfect curl of the lips that he wanted to kiss so badly, and nothing in her eyes at all. Suddenly he was angry again—at himself, at her for valuing herself so little, at the whole messy, confusing fiasco that he couldn’t figure how to get out of.

“No, you don’t,” he agreed. “You are, however, worth every penny.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew they were the wrong ones. He’d only enforced the notion of a commercial transaction when he’d been trying to tell her how much he wanted her.

In for a penny, he thought. “Would you be interested in doubling that amount?”

Her face drained of color. “Get out.”

He knew how ridiculous he must look, looming over her in his old bedroom, his much-loved childhood bunny in his hand. For some goddamn reason he couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he really needed to.

He shrugged. “You’ll need to give me the direction of your bank so I can have the money transferred.”

“I don’t want your goddamned money,” she said between her teeth. “I just want you to go away.”

Instead of walking away he moved closer, but she held her ground. “You were the one who brought money into our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

He moved closer. “Of course we do,” he said. She was right there, so close, tension radiating through her body. He dropped the bunny, took her arms and pulled her close. “Harpy,” he added softly, and kissed her.

He was prepared for a battle. He was prepared for rage and then, please God, an eventual melting. He never expected she would slide her arms around his waist, holding him tightly, as she let him kiss her, as she started to kiss him back with such endearing awkwardness that his blood caught fire. He wanted her, needed her, so badly. He needed to lose himself in her, drown in her, die in her, he loved. . .

She yanked herself out of his arms, a second before the door opened and Mrs. Patrick appeared, a young maid behind her. “There you are, Master Brandon!” she said jovially, missing any tension between the two of them, Emma’s reddened mouth, the brightness of her eyes, his own upheaval. “Your room’s all ready for you. Would you two be wanting dinner down in the dining room, or would you prefer a tray up here?”

“If you don’t mind I’d prefer a tray,” Emma said before he could say a word. “I’m very tired. I’m certain Lord Brandon would like to go out this evening. He must have old friends he wished to visit.”

And with those simple words she broke him.

Emma watched Brandon walk out of her room without another word, and she felt sick inside. Why had she said that? She had, in effect, told him to go out and try to kill himself again. She knew his old friends had been deviants and satyrs, she had seen the results of their work when she’d found him in this very room, trying to put an end to his existence. What if she’d been too late? What if she’d opened the door and he’d been hanging there, dead, gone forever, lost to the dark world he’d entered.

And now she’d just told him to go back there. He hadn’t missed it, either. His face had gone still, blank, and he’d simply walked away from her.

She could feel him on her mouth, the taste of him, the demand of him. She could feel him on her breasts, pressed against his hard chest as she’d held on to him. She could feel him in her belly, the growing hardness pressing against her, something she no longer thought of with revulsion. He’d been warm and strong and hard and she wanted him back.

She turned away, hugging herself, cursing herself and then she stopped thinking, moving on instinct alone, through the door and out onto the landing that looked down over the broad staircase. He was going quickly down the steps, his head bowed, and she couldn’t stand it. He was going out to die, all because of her wicked tongue, and she couldn’t let that happen. If it did, she would die too.

“Brandon!” She leaned over the railing, not even considering what she was doing.

He stopped his headlong pace, turning to look up at her from that endless distance. She was the slightest bit nearsighted, and she couldn’t read his expression, but she could imagine it.

“Mrs. Cadbury?” His voice was frosty, and she should have been abashed that she’d used his given name for the very first time.

“Lord Brandon,” she amended hastily. He didn’t move, and she cleared her throat. She felt like such an idiot, such a thoughtless, evil fool. “Lord Brandon,” she said again. “I . . . I didn’t . . . forgive me . . .” She couldn’t put her regret into words.

She squinted, trying to draw him into focus, but it was hopeless. “There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Cadbury,” he said with stiff politeness. “I will wish you a good evening.”

“Where are you going?” She heard the intake of breath behind her and knew that Mrs. Patrick had overheard her grossly inappropriate question.

There was a long moment of silence. “I haven’t yet decided,” he finally said. “To church or to the devil or someplace in between. Pleasant dreams.” Before she could say another word he was gone.