The old adage that passions cool with time was a fallacy.

Vane sat on the chair in the shabby room, his eyes fixed firmly on Estelle. The task proved difficult when his traitorous body urged him to look at the bed, called for him to consider the possibility of slaking his desire for this woman and have done with it.

“Very well.” She lifted her chin defiantly, unfastened the ribbons on her straw bonnet and placed it next to her on the bed. “Where shall I begin?”

She could begin by undressing, straddling him on the chair and begging for his forgiveness. “Were you on The Torrens when it sank?”

Estelle pursed her lips and nodded. “When the storm hit, I thought the world was ending. I’ve never seen waves like it. Mountain high. Of biblical proportions.” She put her hand on her stomach and winced. “The wind was so strong it blew men ten feet into the air. The ship careened to one side, the sea swamping the deck. Don’t ask me how I survived, although many times I wish I had not.”

Her eyes filled with tears and Vane felt like the worst of rogues for making her relive what was clearly a painful memory. Still, she owed those who loved her an explanation.

“And what of your lover? Did he survive?” The words sliced through the air like the crack of a whip — harsh and unforgiving.

He knew the answer of course.

Mr Peterson’s bloated body washed ashore and was claimed by relatives. Vane had spent a week pacing the beach looking for Estelle while Fabian scoured the beaches in France.

Little did she know that Vane had boarded one fishing vessel after another, had sat amongst the stench of festering fish guts watching every ripple in the water, praying for a miracle. The men had laughed and joked, shared family stories, while he had sat silently, filled with despair.

“My lover?” Estelle’s voice brought him back into the room, though the ache in his chest remained. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“There is no point denying what I know is true.” Why else would she leave him if not to elope with another man? “You boarded the vessel with Mr Peterson. People saw you dining together in a dockside tavern.”

A groan resonated from her throat. She shook her head, her frown disappearing only to be replaced by an arrogant grin.

“And so because a gentleman offered me sanctuary that means we were conducting a liaison? Maudette never left my side, not for a second.” Estelle closed her eyes briefly and whispered, “Poor Maudette. She did not deserve such a fate.”

“What do you mean Peterson offered you sanctuary?”

“Some men will assist a lady without demanding certain rewards in return. Three drunken bucks made a wager — which one of them would have me first. Mr Peterson punched the tallest one. He told them I was his sister and would shoot anyone who so much as looked at me in the wrong way.”

Anger burst to the fore — hot fury for the bastards who thought to take advantage of an innocent woman. Shame quickly followed, for presuming to think he had all the answers.

“Forgive me. Under the circumstances, I could not help but think the worst.”

If she’d not left him for another man, then what had he done to lose her favour?

He thrust his hand through his hair. The flurry of mixed emotions unsettled him. He preferred to feel empty, to feel nothing. The devil on his shoulder forced him to look at the bed, and whispered, “Take her and have done with it.”

“To assume such a thing means you think I’m a liar. That when I told you how much I—” She stopped abruptly and sighed. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Vane came to his feet. He turned to the window and watched people climb in and out of the coaches. Part of him did not want to hear any more. But knowing the truth was the only hope he had of putting the past behind him.

“And so how did you manage to reach the shore?”

A tense silence ensued.

“French smugglers found me one night while they were rummaging through the wreckage looking for anything of value.”

Smugglers!

A host of unwanted images flooded his mind. “Did … did they hurt you?” He closed his eyes while he waited for her answer, but lacked the strength to turn around and face her.

“Monsieur Bonnay led the men. He lived in a cottage in Wissant and took me in. His wife treated me like a daughter, and so no man dared lay a hand on me.”

Relief flowed through his veins to calm his racing heart. “How long did you stay with them?”

“Four years.”

Vane swung around unable to contain his shock. “Four years! Why the hell didn’t you leave sooner?”

Why did you not come home?

Estelle sat with her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. “I tried, many times, spent sleepless nights planning my escape. But I knew too much. Though Madame Bonnay became my protector, the men would have killed me rather than take the risk I might pass information to the authorities.”

All the time he’d been carousing the ballrooms, bedding women who took his fancy in the hope of banishing this woman from his mind, she was living in squalor, doing heaven knows what to stay alive.

The thought roused a crippling sense of inadequacy.

“Did you commit any criminal acts?” Vane almost scoffed at his own question. No smuggler would give her board and lodgings without asking for something in return.

“I acted as a lookout, distributed contraband. Once, I dressed as a laundress and took receipt of a couple of kegs of spirits hidden beneath newly washed linen while the revenue officers sat a few feet away supping ale.” She looked up at him, sadness brimming in her eyes. “And so the answer is yes, Ross. I have lied, cheated and stolen. I have bribed men to turn a blind eye to my crimes.”

Vane dragged a hand down his face. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

Damn, he wished she’d not told him.

Now the small part of him that so desperately needed to despise her swelled with admiration for her strength and courage.

A sudden noise from the room next door captured their attention. The loud groan could well have been the sound of a weary passenger relieved to have reached his destination. The creak of the bed may well have conjured an image of the poor fellow collapsing with exhaustion, but the groans became grunts. The banging grew louder, more insistent.

Vane met Estelle’s gaze, the flush of her cheeks reminding him of the innocent young woman who’d captured his heart. She had been so full of life, so vibrant and vivacious. Now a deep sadness lingered behind those wide eyes. She may not have lost her life on The Torrens, but she had lost something of herself that day.

“May I ask if you’ve seen my brother?” she suddenly said over the amorous din. “Is he well? Is he happy?”

“Fabian lives on an island off the Devonshire coast,” Vane said, as eager as she to mask the intimate sounds coming from the room next door. “He commands a fleet of merchant ships and has made quite a name for himself.”

A woman’s cries of pleasure rent the air though they were fake. He could tell.

Vane swallowed deeply. “Fabian and Lillian married recently. He kidnapped her in the hope it would persuade me to search for you. As it turns out, they’re in love.”

Estelle blinked. “Good heavens, I don’t know which piece of information to address first.” She fell silent, lost in her own thoughts. “I’m glad he’s happy.”

“Oh, he is happy beyond words.” Vane could hear the thread of jealousy in his tone. “But since his man Mackenzie spotted you in Paris, Fabian has not stopped looking for you. He will be relieved to know you’re safe and well.”

She clutched her hands to her chest and closed her eyes briefly, looked every bit the serene angel who’d come to save him in the dank alley.

“You cannot tell him I’m alive. Fabian must forget about me.” The words as must you echoed in his head though they never left her lips. “I’m not the same person. Too much has happened. Society would never accept me.”

Vane gave a mocking snort. “Society does not look favourably on any of us. Your brother is in trade. A rogue ruined my sister years ago. And as for me … well …”

“But you’re the Marquess of Trevane. People will make allowances. At some point, you must take a wife of noble birth else the ancestral line will stop with you.”

After a quick bolt to the finish line, the wild activities next door came to an abrupt end.

“I am not the marrying kind, regardless of my title and position. When I’m dead, I’ll not give a fig who sleeps in my ancestors’ bed.”

“You never used to think that way.”

“Too much has happened,” he said, repeating her words. “I’m not the person you remember.”

“No, there is rather a lot more of you.” Something akin to admiration flashed in her eyes. She scanned the breadth of his shoulders, absently moistened her lips. “One thing is certain.”

“What is that?”

“Neither of us smile like we used to. We have turned into morbid cynics during our years apart. Life has lost all meaning.”

He was about to tell her that things would have been different had she not abandoned him, but pride kept him from opening his mouth.

A suffocating silence pressed heavily upon him.

He couldn’t bring himself to sit in the chair for it brought an intimacy to the moment, a level of civility, he was trying desperately to avoid.

“And so you escaped the smugglers,” he said to distract his thoughts, “and found work in Paris.” Fabian would want to know the details.

“Madame Bonnay died. Not long after, her husband was found dead in the woods. With both of them gone I had no choice but to escape, though I doubt I shall ever stop looking over my shoulder.”

“But you’ve not seen the smugglers since.”

“No. After that, I spent two years working as a maid but—” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. A few drops landed on her porcelain cheeks. She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. “After leaving there, I moved to—” A choking sob escaped.

Vane saw a multitude of emotions pass across her face: grief and shame and sorrow. He closed the gap between them, took her hand and brought her to her feet.

“Sometimes it is better to cry than to bury the pain inside.” He was a hypocrite. Every negative emotion he’d ever felt lingered in the hollow cavern of his chest.

Tears came in a constant stream now. She seemed so small and helpless, not at all the wicked vixen he’d painted her out to be. The sight of it tore at his heart. He cupped her cheeks, wiped away the evidence of her misery with the pads of his thumbs.

“Oh, Ross, I cannot tell you how dreadful it has been.”

“Hush now.” Against his better judgement, he drew her into an embrace. Almost instantly her essence penetrated the fine fabric of his coat. The strange energy that had always bound them together flowed between them as though the last eight years had never existed. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

“I will never be safe. I have no home.” She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her forehead to his chest and cried until there were no more tears left to shed. It was the sound of someone devoid of all hope.

No matter how many women he’d taken in his arms, no matter how many he’d taken to his bed, no one touched him like Estelle did. Despite the gravity of her situation, despite all that had happened, the urge to hold her and never let go almost knocked him off his feet.

And then she looked up at him, all lost and forlorn, those wide doe-like eyes swollen and red.

He bent his head, brushed his lips once across hers and whispered, “I’m sorry for all you have been through.”

She looked into his eyes, yet it felt as if she’d found the secret door to his soul, opened it and stepped inside. When she came up on her tiptoes, he froze.

“I’m sorry, too.” For what, she did not say. But she closed her eyes and kissed him. One chaste peck led to another and another, each one more daring than the last. Her breathing grew short and shallow. Small hands skimmed his waist and drifted up over his chest to clutch the lapels of his coat. “Oh, Ross,” she gasped against his mouth. “I have been alone for so long.”

The comment resonated with him. Yes, he had kissed women but never truly tasted them. He had entered their willing bodies but never made love to any of them. A man could count a hundred lovers and still be lonely. He could lie next to a warm body at night and still be frozen to his core.

“Won’t you kiss me?” she whispered. “Just once, like you used to.”

He wanted to deny her and yet found he could not. She wanted the sweet, tender kiss of a young man but she would get the sinful kiss of a scoundrel.

Vane crushed her to his chest, covered her mouth and devoured those plump wet lips. She tasted as he remembered: of rightness, of hope, of something infinitely addictive. The carnal need for more, the need to satisfy the clawing hunger, led him to tease her lips apart and enter the only place in the world he’d ever wanted to be.

Estelle met him with equal enthusiasm, letting her tongue tangle with his. Her pretty moans conveyed delight in the erotic dance. Their desperation to explore, to sate their lustful urges was yet another thing they had in common. A whimper resonated in the back of her throat. One of pleasure, not pain.

Liquid fire burst through his veins. Dangerously hot. Wickedly sensual. His pulse galloped. His desire spiralled. Their passion ignited like a blinding fury: wild, intense, uniquely satisfying.

With his large hands settling on her buttocks, he shuffled forward until she had no choice but to collapse on the bed. He followed her, covering her body as he’d always planned to do.

They were lost in their heady kisses, panting as their bodies writhed to an ancient rhythm.

Years of practised skill in the steps of bringing a lover to a bone-shattering climax abandoned him. While his fingers fumbled with the hem of her dress, dragging it up past her thigh, his mind rushed to the denouement. They were fully clothed, but he imagined them naked, pictured the moment of bliss when he entered her body.

Good God, he was liable to spend himself long before then. The thought was sobering as was the sudden banging and moaning again from the occupants next door.

Was this what he wanted?

To take his dream and turn it into something soiled and sordid. Eight years of pining, of heartache, reduced to a quick fuck in a coaching inn. Everything he touched bore the Devil’s mark. Would he ruin the one thing he’d always held sacred? The only truth in his life: his feelings for Estelle.

He tore his mouth away and scrambled to his feet. His hard cock throbbed against the material of his breeches, the ache for satisfaction muddling his thoughts. The need to dominate surfaced, too. He could kneel between her legs, taste her arousal with his tongue. Suck and lick her into submission. Give everything, take nothing. Show her the pleasure she had denied herself long ago.

Vane looked down at her — the angel of his dreams, the devil of his nightmares. During all the solitary moments when he had played out this scene, he was strong, commanding, knew his mind. But in reality, he did not know what the hell he wanted anymore.

“We should leave,” he heard himself saying, “before we both do something we may well regret.”

He turned to the window, desperate to look at anything other than her swollen lips and bed-tousled hair.

The people outside were busy going about their business oblivious to his inner torment. All except one woman who stared up at him intently. She stood too far away for him to distinguish her features. Perhaps it was a coincidence or a consequence of his strained nerves. Suspicion flared when she turned and hurried away from the courtyard.

A creak and a weary sigh drew his attention back to the room and led him to conclude Estelle had stood too.

The tension in the air was palpable.

“Emotions are running high,” he continued. “We still have much to discuss, but we shall leave it until another day.” Did he want to know what prompted her to leave Prescott Hall, to leave him? He wasn’t sure.

“You’re right,” she said weakly. “No doubt Mr Erstwhile will wonder what happened to me, and he has enough worries at the moment.”

Vane turned to face her and wished he hadn’t. Sadness filled those dark brown eyes. He preferred seeing the fire of passion alight there.

“You speak of the theft at the shop.”

Estelle patted down a few stray locks of hair and gathered her bonnet. “The intruder stole nothing. He left the money box full of sovereigns and only sought to cause unnecessary damage.”

“Then it is not the mark of a thief but of someone with a point to prove,” Vane said, grateful that someone else’s problem distracted him from his own. “Has Mr Erstwhile upset anyone?”

“I highly doubt it.” She brushed her hand down her dress to remove the creases. “There is not a kinder more honest man than Mr Erstwhile.”

“How did you come to work for him?”

“We spoke on the crossing to Dover. He has a way of seeing what other people cannot, of understanding a person’s secrets without a word passing from their lips.”

“Like a seer? Like a man renowned for his moral and spiritual insights?”

A brief smile brightened her face. “Yes, exactly like that. I owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“Then I shall escort you on your errand to gather provisions.” Part of him wanted to return to Berkeley Square, to put this woman from his mind and concentrate all efforts on ruining Lord Cornell. Part of him needed to remain at her side, to know she was safe, to discover more about this Mr Hungerford. “It’s the least I can do after dragging you away from your errant knight.”

She frowned. “Errant knight?”

“Mr Hungerford. Clearly, the gentleman has designs on securing more than your company.” The thought roused Vane’s ire.

“He is just a lonely man who cannot function without a wife.”

The cryptic comment proved intriguing. “And you believe he has marked you for the role?”

Estelle shrugged. “When it comes to understanding the motives of men, I am often left baffled.”

“Likewise, I gave up trying to understand a lady’s motives eight years ago.” He spoke of the way Estelle had professed her love only to flee on a ship heading to France.

A howl of satisfaction from the adjoining room brought another blush to her cheeks. “Now I know why the landlord insisted I visit him before leaving. The sounds of pleasure and pain are often the same.”

Never had truer words been spoken.

“Then I shall meet you downstairs in a moment.”

She looked at him with some confusion.

“The landlord will want to see you alone,” he added. “To ensure your opinion is your own.”

It was not a lie but an exaggerated truth. Vane needed a minute to gather himself. The mask he’d held in place these last few minutes needed adjusting, repositioning.

Estelle nodded. “I shall wait for you downstairs.”

Vane watched her unlock the door and leave the room, then he sat on the chair and buried his head in his hands.

The day had been enlightening on many levels. He’d discovered something of her savage life, of the woman she’d become in his absence, of the criminal things she’d done. He sensed there was much more to tell, most of it equally harrowing, deeply unpleasant.

For his sins, his own mind was a muddled mess of confusion. He’d lost count of the conflicting emotions tearing through him: anger, pity, raging lust, and another indeterminable feeling hovering just out of reach. In short, Estelle Darcy had managed a feat beyond the capabilities of any other woman.

She had made him feel something.

And yet amid all the chaos one frightening thought remained constant.

He would never stop wanting her.

Nothing she could say or do could banish the intense longing burning inside of him. No other woman would ever compare, and so he was destined to live a vapid life of meaningless liaisons.

Fate had marked him unworthy of love, marked him to live a lonely, empty existence.