Jane went to bed early, but she could not sleep. She stopped trying after half an hour. She got out of bed, lit a candle, pulled a warm dressing gown over her linen nightgown, slipped her feet into her slippers, and went back downstairs to her den. Their den. Their haven, he had called it.

Mr Jacobs was still up. She asked him to build up the fire again. The young footman brought the coals and asked if there was anything else he could fetch for her.

‘No, thank you, Phillip,’ she said. ‘That will be all. I can find my own way to bed when I am tired.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to put the guard about the fire, then, when you leave, ma’am.’

‘I won’t.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for reminding me. Good night.’

‘Good night, ma’am,’ he replied.

She would read until she was too tired to keep her eyes open, she decided. She seated herself beside the fire, in the chair Jocelyn had occupied during the afternoon, and picked up a book. Not the one from which he had read. She left that where it was. Perhaps he would wish to continue with chapter three next time he came. She opened her book to the page at which she had left off reading the night before and set it on her lap.

She gazed into the fire.

She should not have allowed him in here. She knew that she would no longer think of this room as hers. It was theirs. She could feel his presence here. She could see him as he had been earlier, sprawled comfortably but not inelegantly in this chair. She could hear his voice reading from Mansfield Park as if he were as lost in the story as she had been. And she could see him standing at the window …

It was unfair. She could have coped with her new life if their relationship had proceeded, as she had expected, along purely sexual lines. She knew enough to realize that sex was not love, especially sex between a rakish duke and his mistress. She did not know what this was.

He had spent longer than two hours in this room with her this afternoon – with his mistress – without once touching her. He had not taken her to bed. After tea, during which they had discussed the war and political reform – she was a pacifist, he was not; she was unreservedly in favor of reform, he was far more cautiously so – he had got to his feet quite abruptly, made her a bow, bade her a good afternoon, and gone on his way.

He had left her feeling empty inside. Though that could not be strictly true or she would not also have felt all churned up – her body, her mind, her emotions.

For almost the whole time they had been here together in the den, he had not been the Duke of Tresham. He had been Jocelyn. But Jocelyn with far fewer reservations than she was accustomed to. Jocelyn without any mask. A person in need of being himself as he had never been before. A man in need of friendship and acceptance and – ah, yes.

Jane sighed aloud.

A man in need of love.

But she doubted he would ever accept that ultimate gift even if he acknowledged the need to himself.

She doubted even more that he was capable of returning the gift.

And who was she to offer? A fugitive. A murderess – no, not that. She was even beginning to believe it herself. She did not think the blow she had given Sidney would have killed him in itself.

She shuddered at the memories.

And then she set her head back against the chair and listened to the sounds of Mr Jacobs or Phillip at the front door, locking up for the night. A moment later there was a tap on her door.

‘Come in,’ she called. It must be midnight or later. The servants should be in bed.

He looked powerful and satanic, covered from neck to ankles in a long black opera cloak. He stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, while her stomach performed a complete somersault and she knew that indeed the afternoon had been disastrous to her.

‘Still up?’ he asked. ‘I saw light beneath the door.’

‘Do you have your own key?’ she asked him.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘This is my house.’

She got to her feet and moved toward him. She had simply not expected him.

And then a strange thing happened. He took his hand from the doorknob as she approached and spread his arms to the sides, revealing the white silk lining of the cloak and the elegant black and white evening clothes he wore beneath. But Jane did not really notice the splendor of his appearance. She kept walking and was soon enveloped in the folds of his cloak while she lifted her face and he lowered his own both at the same time.

It was a long and deep and fierce embrace. But the strange thing was that it was not sexual – not entirely so anyway. Jane had little experience with embraces, but she knew instinctively that he was not just a man kissing his mistress prior to taking her to bed. He was Jocelyn. And he was kissing her, Jane.

By the time the embrace ended he was the Duke of Tresham again.

‘I will be putting you to work tonight, Jane,’ he said.

‘Of course.’ She stood back and smiled.

And then gasped with alarm when he caught her hard by the wrist and gazed down at her with hard, cold eyes.

‘No!’ he said fiercely. ‘You will not smile at me in that way, Jane, like a jaded coquette hiding her weary cynicism behind a cool smile of invitation. There is no of course about it. If you do not want me, then tell me to go to hell and I will go.’

She jerked her wrist out of his grasp. ‘What do you expect when you speak of putting me to work?’ she asked angrily. ‘Does a woman go to work for a man in bed when she wants him? When you call it work you make a whore of me.’

‘You are the one,’ he reminded her, his eyes as cold as steel, ‘who speaks of contractual obligations and rights. What does that make of me? It makes me someone who has purchased access to your body. Someone who has bought the services of a whore. It makes of you a woman who is working when she lies on her back for me. Don’t use righteous anger on me, Jane, and expect me meekly to bow my head. You may go to the devil for all I care.’

‘And you may …’ But she forced herself to stop and to draw a steadying breath. Her heart was pounding like a hammer. ‘We are quarreling again. Was it my fault this time? I am sorry if it was.’

‘It is that infernal contract that is to blame,’ he grumbled.

‘Which is my fault.’ She smiled briefly at him. ‘I really am pleased to see you, Jocelyn.’

The anger and the coldness faded from his face. ‘Are you, Jane?’

She nodded. ‘And I really do want you.’

‘Do you?’ He gazed broodingly at her, his eyes very black.

Could this be the Duke of Tresham? Unsure of himself? Uncertain of his welcome?

‘I am saying it inside the room where we agreed our contract would bear no sway,’ she said, ‘so it has to be the truth. Come to bed with me.’

‘I have come from the theater,’ he explained. ‘I was invited back to Kimble’s for supper with his party and said I would walk there rather than crowd a carriage. But I found my legs carrying me here instead. How do you interpret that, Jane?’

‘I daresay,’ she said, ‘you were in need of a sharp quarrel with someone who would not back down from you.’

‘But you were the first to apologize,’ he reminded her.

‘Because I was wrong,’ she told him. ‘I do not insist upon winning an argument at any cost, you see. Not like some I know.’

He grinned wolfishly at her. ‘Which means, I suppose,’ he said, ‘that as usual you have had the last word, Jane. Come, then. Since it is what I came for and since you have invited me, let us go to bed.’

Physical desire made her breathless again as she stepped past him and preceded him up the stairs. He did not come immediately after her, she noticed. He had paused to set the guard in front of the dying fire.

Which was probably, she guessed with an inward smile, one of the most domesticated things he had ever done.

Kimble would tease him mercilessly in the morning. Jocelyn did not care. When had he ever cared what anyone – even his closest friends – thought or said about him? And the teasing would at least be good-natured.

The truth was he had had to come back tonight. He had been more disturbed by the strange events of the afternoon than he cared to admit. He had had to come back just to get some normalcy back into his relationship with his mistress. To put her to work.

It had been a mistake to use those exact words to her, of course. But he was not accustomed to tiptoeing his way about other people’s sensibilities.

He undressed, doused the candles, and climbed into bed with her. He had instructed her to keep on her prim and pretty nightgown. There was something surprisingly erotic about grasping its hem and lifting it up her legs and over her hips to her waist. He did not want foreplay tonight. He wanted to do what he had come to do before somehow the whole scene became unfamiliar again. He slid his hand between her thighs and felt her. She was ready enough. He turned onto her with his full weight, spread her legs wide with his knees, slid his hands beneath her, and entered.

She was soft, warm, relaxed heat. He began to work her with firm, vigorous strokes. He tried to think of her simply as a woman. He tried to think of his need as simply sexual.

He failed miserably on both counts.

He rarely kissed in bed. It was unnecessary, and it was too personal for his taste. He kissed her.

‘Jane,’ he murmured into her mouth, ‘tell me you wanted me to come back, that you have thought of nothing but me since this afternoon.’

‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘So that you can warn me again not to become dependent upon you? I am not sorry you came. I am glad. This feels good.’

‘Damn you,’ he said. ‘Damn you.’

She was silent while he worked. But just as he felt the climax approach and was about to deepen and quicken his rhythm, he felt her arms close about his waist and her feet slide up the bed and her thighs hug his hips while she tilted her pelvis to allow him deeper access.

‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered, ‘don’t be afraid. Please don’t be afraid.’

He was driving toward release and did not hear the words consciously. But after he had finished, when he lay exhausted beside her, he heard their echo in his mind and thought he must have imagined them.

‘Come here,’ he said, reaching out a hand to touch her.

She curled up against him, and he lowered her nightgown, drew up the bedclothes, wrapped his arms about her, pillowed his cheek against the top of her head, and fell asleep.

He had frequently spent nights at the house and staggered home at dawn to sleep. He had never slept a night at the house. When he had come this time, he had intended a few hours of vigorous sport just to remind both Jane and himself of the basic nature of their liaison.

He awoke when daylight was pouring into the room. Jane, tousled and flushed and delicious, was still asleep in his arms.

He drew free of her and swung himself out of bed, waking her in the process. She smiled sleepily at him.

‘My apologies,’ he said stiffly as he pulled on his evening clothes. ‘I daresay according to that infernal contract I have no right intruding on your privacy when I am not actually asserting my rights. I will be gone in a moment.’

‘Jocelyn,’ she said with soft reproach, and then she had the unmitigated gall to laugh.

With glee.

At him.

‘I amuse you?’ He scowled at her.

‘I do believe,’ she said, ‘you are embarrassed that you slept instead of spending the night demonstrating your renowned prowess as a lover. You seem always to have to prove your superior manhood.’

The fact that she was perfectly right did not improve his mood.

‘I am delighted to have amused you at least,’ he said, throwing his cloak about him with a vicious swing of his arm and buttoning it at his throat. ‘I shall do myself the honor of calling upon you some other time when I have need of you. Good morning.’

‘Jocelyn,’ she said softly again when he already had the door of the bedchamber open. He looked back at her with haughtily raised eyebrows. ‘It was a wonderful night. You are lovely to sleep with.’

He did not wait to discover if she mocked him or not. He stepped through the door and closed it none too quietly behind him.

Devil take it, he thought, noticing the clock in the hallway as he descended the stairs and noticing too with a grimace that Jacobs was waiting there to let him out, it was seven o’clock. He had been here for seven hours. He had been in her bed for seven hours, and he had had intercourse with her once. Once!

He bade the butler a curt good morning and strode off down the street, noticing with some satisfaction that the twinge of stiffness in his right leg was becoming less pronounced each day.

You are lovely to sleep with.

Jocelyn chuckled despite himself. She was right, goddammit. It had been a lovely night, and he felt more refreshed by his sleep than he had in a long while.

He would go home to bathe and change, he decided, and then go shopping – for a small pianoforte and for sketching and painting supplies. Perhaps the best thing to do about this whole extraordinary situation was to go along with it, let it happen, let it proceed in its own way and at its own pace to its inevitable conclusion. Sooner or later he would grow weary of Jane Ingleby. He had of every woman he had ever known or bedded. He would of her too – perhaps in a month, perhaps in two, perhaps in a year.

In the meantime, why not just enjoy the novel feeling of being – ah, yes, the fateful words that hovered in the background of his thoughts and threatened to verbalize themselves.

Why not?

Why not enjoy the feeling of being in love?

Why not revel in the ultimate foolishness for once in his life?

Working in the garden later that same morning, enjoying the exercise, loving the brightness and heat of the sun on her back, Jane came to a decision.

She was in love with him, of course. Worse than that, she thought she was also growing to love him. There was no point in trying to deny her feelings and no use whatsoever in trying to fight them.

She loved him.

But it would not do, of course. She was not foolish enough to imagine that he would ever love her in return, though she knew that he was in the grip of a serious obsession with her. Besides, even if he ever did love her, there could be no happily-ever-after to expect. She was his mistress. And she was who she was.

But she could not live forever as a fugitive. She should never have given in to the cowardly impulse that had sent her scurrying into hiding in the first place. It had been so unlike her normal self. She was going to have to come out of hiding and do what she ought to have done as soon as she discovered that Lady Webb was not in London to help her.

She was going to find the Earl of Durbury if he was still in town. If he was not, she was going to find out where the Bow Street Runners had their headquarters and go there. She was going to write to Charles. She was going to tell her story to anyone who would listen. She was going to embrace her fate. Perhaps she would be arrested and tried and convicted of murder. Perhaps that would mean a hanging or at the very least transportation or lifelong imprisonment. But she would not give in meekly. She would fight like the very devil to the last moment – but not by running away and hiding.

She was going to come out into the open at last and fight.

But not just yet. That was the agreement she made with herself as she pulled weeds from about the rosebushes and turned the soil until it was a richer brown. A definite time limit must be set so that she would not continue to procrastinate week after week, month after month. She was going to give herself one month, one calendar month, starting today. One month to be Jocelyn’s mistress, his love, though he would not be aware of the latter, of course. One month to spend with him as a person, as a friend in the den, if he ever returned there, as a lover in the bed upstairs.

One month.

And then she was going to give herself up. Without telling him. There might be scandal for him, of course, when it became known that he had harbored her at Dudley House for three weeks, or if anyone knew that she had been his mistress here. But she would not worry about that. His life had been one scandal after another. He appeared to thrive on them. She thought he would probably be rather amused by this particular one.

One month.

Jane leaned back on her heels to inspect her work, but Phillip was approaching from the direction of the house.

‘Mr Jacobs sent me, ma’am,’ he said, ‘to tell you that a new pianoforte just arrived and an easel and other parcels too. He wants to know where you want them put.’

Jane got to her feet, her heart soaring, and followed him back to the house.

One glorious month, in which she would not even try to guard her feelings.

One month of love.

There followed a week during which Jocelyn almost totally ignored his family, the Olivers, the Forbeses, and all topics of gossip with which the ton continued to entertain itself. A week during which he rode in the park most mornings and spent an hour or two afterward breakfasting at White’s and reading the papers and conversing with his friends, but during which he attended few social functions.

Kimble and Brougham were highly diverted, of course, and very inclined to ribaldry. Until, that was, the three of them were walking along a fortunately deserted street on the way from White’s one morning and Kimble opened his mouth.

‘All I can say, Tresh,’ he said, pretending to sound bored, ‘is that when the delectable Miss Ingleby has finally exhausted you, you may pass her on to me, if you please, and I will see if I can exhaust her. I daresay I know a trick or two she will not have learned from you. And if—’

His monologue was rudely interrupted when a fist collided with the left side of his jaw and with a look of blank astonishment he crashed to the pavement. Jocelyn looked with scarcely less astonishment at his own still-clenched fist.

‘Oh, I say!’ Conan Brougham protested.

Jocelyn spoke curtly to his friend, who was gingerly fingering his jaw. ‘Do you want satisfaction?’

‘Oh, I say,’ Brougham said again. ‘I cannot be second to both of you.’

‘You should have told me, old chap,’ Kimble said ruefully, shaking his head to clear it before scrambling to his feet and brushing at his clothes, ‘and I would not have flapped my jaws. By Jove, you are in love with the wench. In which case the punch was understandable. But you might have been more sporting and warned me, Tresh. It is not the most comfortable of experiences to walk into one of your fists. No, of course I am not about to slap a glove in your face, so you need not look so damned grim. I meant no disrespect to the lady’s honor.’

‘And I did not mean to endanger our friendship.’ Jocelyn extended his right hand, which his friend took rather warily. ‘It is all very well for you and Conan to tease, Kimble. I would do no less to you. But no one else is to be drawn into this. I will not have Jane publicly dishonored.’

‘I say!’ Brougham sounded suddenly indignant. ‘You do not believe we have been spreading the word, Tresham? The very idea! I did not believe I would live to see the day when you would be in love, though.’ He laughed suddenly.

‘Love be damned!’ Jocelyn said gruffly.

But apart from that one incident, almost the whole of his attention for the week was taken up by the house where Jane lived and where he spent most of his time – in two separate but strangely complementary capacities. He spent his afternoons and several of his evenings in their den with her, almost never touching her. He spent his nights in the bedchamber with her, making love to her and sleeping with her.

It was a magical week.

A week to remember.

A week of such intense delight that it could not possibly last. It did not, of course.

But before it ended, there was that week …