The moment his mouth touched hers, Clara experienced a pleasure so keen it was almost like pain, so intense it was almost unbearable. The press of his lips was light, and yet, she felt it in every part of her body. From fingertip to fingertip, from the bottom of her feet to the crown of her hair, it seemed as if every cell and every nerve ending she possessed was awakening to this new experience.

Her first kiss, she thought and closed her eyes, a move that ignited other senses. She became aware of his scent—a mixture of sandalwood and castile soap and something else, something deeper and earthier. She heard the tick of the clock on the mantel and the thud of her own heartbeat. She felt his warm palm cupping her cheek, his fingertips caressing the nape of her neck, his forearm brushing against her breast. In some vague corner of her mind, she knew it was all terribly improper and she ought to stop it, but she could not move. She could only feel, as the sweetness of it all washed over her and through her, becoming more potent with each tick of the clock. When his lips moved against hers and his tongue touched the seam of her closed lips, she stirred in agitation, giving a soft moan against his mouth.

He pulled back a fraction, his lips brushing hers in a teasing caress. He lifted his free hand to slide his arm around her shoulders, and as his fingertips ran lightly down her spine, any notions of stopping this wondrous experience went out of Clara’s head and vanished into space. When he pulled her closer, she came willingly, gladly, her arms wrapping around his neck, her sound of assent stifled by his mouth capturing hers again.

This kiss was more ardent, more demanding, his lips urging hers to part. When they did, his tongue entered her mouth—a shocking thing, and yet, as he tasted deeply of her, the pleasure within her deepened as well, bringing heat, and the sweetness of the first kiss gave way to a new sensation in the second, something hungry and wild, something almost desperate.

His tongue pulled back, and driven by instinct, she pursued. As her tongue entered his mouth, the strange hunger in her rose even higher, grew even hotter. This was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to her, and yet, strangely, it wasn’t intimate enough. She pressed her body closer to his, her arms tightening around his neck, and suddenly, she was falling forward and he was falling back. As their bodies sinking together onto the settee, Clara felt an exultation unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

He moved beneath her, making a rough sound against her mouth as if surprised, and who could blame him? Women, she knew well enough, weren’t supposed to be so brazen. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind, for he broke the kiss only long enough for both of them to take in air, and then, he was kissing her again, his tongue in her mouth and his arms tight around her. It was glorious.

His arms were like steel bands, strong and tight around her. The strands of his hair felt crisp and silky as she raked her fingers through them. She could taste tea and strawberry jam on his mouth. Held in his embrace, captured by his kiss, her senses filled with him, everything else in the world faded to insignificance.

Beneath her, his heat seemed to sear her through all the layers of her clothes. His body was lean and hard—particularly where his hips were pressed to hers with such shocking intimacy. She stirred against that hardness, and the pleasure brought by the tiny move was so sharp, so exquisite, that she tore her lips from his with an astonished gasp.

For an instant, they stared at each other, and then, his embrace of her suddenly slackened and his arms slid under hers, his hands lifting to cup her face.

“This has to stop,” he said, his voice a rasp in the quiet room. “It has to stop now, or God help us both.”

Pressing a quick, hard kiss to her mouth, he gripped her shoulders, then he shoved her backward and sat up. Planting her firmly in her own seat, he let her go and slid at once to the other end of the settee.

Clara turned to stare at the clock on the mantel ahead of her as she worked to regain a sense of equilibrium. It wasn’t easy. She felt as if she’d been running, and because of her corset, she couldn’t take deep breaths, and in consequence, she felt a bit dizzy. Her body seemed afire, burning in all the places he’d touched her and even in some of the places he hadn’t. She’d often tried to imagine what kissing a man might be like, but heavens above, her imagination had never conjured anything even close to the reality.

Was it the same for men? she wondered, and cast a sideways glance at him.

He was not looking at her, but at the floor, his forearms resting on his parted knees. His breathing was hard, deep and labored. Watching him, her question was answered, and the knowledge that she had evoked in him the same feelings she had experienced made Clara want to laugh with joy, because for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to feel beautiful.

Somewhere in the distance, a door banged. Though the sound was muffled by the closed confines of the drawing room, he heard it, too. He stirred, lifting his head, and she looked away, her happiness at what had just happened fading a little as it dawned on her how lucky they’d been. If anyone had come in and caught them—

“Forgive me,” he said, interrupting that alarming line of speculation. “I have to go.”

His voice was a welcome diversion from the sobering turn her thoughts had taken, and Clara jerked to her feet.

“Of course,” she said, turning toward him as he stood up, and she worked to don a demeanor of polite civility and speak naturally, as if the most extraordinary experience of her life had not just happened. “Please express my thanks to your aunt for her kind invitation, and tell her I will respond as soon as I have spoken with my sisters-in-law.”

He gave a nod and bowed, then walked toward the door, taking up his hat from the table where he’d left it earlier as he went. But then, he stopped, hat in hand, and turned to look at her over his shoulder, his perfect countenance graver than she’d ever seen it, his eyes so brilliantly blue that it almost hurt to look into them.

“You’ve never been kissed before,” he said. “Have you?”

His voice was so matter-of-fact, it wasn’t really a question, and she colored up at once, wondering how he could possibly be so certain.

“No,” she admitted. “You were . . . you were the first.”

He didn’t seem gratified to hear it. He pressed his lips tight together, gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, and turned away to open the door, leaving her with no idea what had given her away. Perhaps she’d done it wrong somehow, made some terribly gauche mistake.

That was a mortifying possibility, and yet, Clara’s joy refused to be dimmed. It lingered inside her—like sunshine caught in a box—even after he was gone.

Damn, damn, damn.

The oath reverberated through his head like a series of gunshots, condemning him with every step he took down the stairs, across the foyer, and out of Clara Deverill’s house.

He walked straight past his driver, who had hopped down from the box and was waiting by the carriage door, opened umbrella in hand. “Go on, Hart,” he ordered over his shoulder without breaking his stride. “I’ll walk for a bit, then take a taxi home.”

“But sir, it’s raining.”

“Is it?” He strode rapidly on, his body in the hot, agonizing turmoil of unrequited lust, his mind glad of the cool drizzle already dampening his hat and coat. “Good.”

“But sir,” Hart called again. “You’ll catch cold.”

He made short shrift of the inclement spring weather and its possible consequences with a wave of his hand, and kept walking. A cold, he could not help but feel, would be no more than he deserved for breaking his cardinal rule about women.

Stay away from the innocent ones.

Innocent young women invariably expected matrimony, and who could blame them? For a girl of good family, marriage was the only socially acceptable path through life, the only means of fulfilling physical desires, ensuring a stable future, and having children. His conversation with Clara over tea had only served to underscore why he’d established his cardinal rule in the first place.

But for a man, even a peer, marriage was not a necessity, a fact for which Rex daily thanked heaven. He’d spent his entire youth watching his parents destroy not only each other, but also the passionate love that had brought them into matrimony in the first place. To love and then come to hate what you had loved—he could imagine no greater hell. And though he couldn’t remember the exact moment he’d decided never to wed, not once since then had he had cause to regret his choice, or even to doubt it.

He still didn’t. And that made what he had just done all the more reprehensible.

For Clara, marriage was not a mere necessity of existence. Romance, marriage, children, love everlasting—these things comprised the dream of her life. They were things she wanted and deserved, things he would never willingly offer any girl.

A cold gust of wind came up, taking his hat. He watched, indifferent, as his gray felt derby tumbled through the air ahead of him and landed in a curbside puddle with an unceremonious plop.

Rex stepped over it and kept walking.

He passed Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium, and he couldn’t help giving it a resentful glance as he walked by, wishing he’d never agreed to meet Lionel there for tea. Why there, of all the bloody tea shops in London? Why her, of all the women in the world? It was laughable, ridiculous, and aggravating as hell that he should be lusting after a girl he could not have, a girl who wanted everything out of life that he avoided like the plague.

The rain was falling harder now. Ahead of him, people caught out in the deluge were huddling under their umbrellas—an inadequate protection, given the wind. Those without umbrellas were darting into doorways and ducking under awnings, seeking shelter. Not Rex.

Rex kept walking.

He welcomed the rain that pelted his bare head and soaked his gray morning coat and dark blue trousers. He savored the cold wind that had taken his hat and was now whipping his coattails. These were just what he needed, for the sweet taste of Clara’s mouth still lingered in his own, the scent of her hair still filled his nostrils, and the imprint of her body on his still burned him like a brand.

Worse, her innocence itself inflamed him. The hunger in her inexperienced kiss, the passion that had led her to abandon maidenly restraint and push him down on the settee, the awareness that he was in territory no man had ever explored—all these had acted on him like paraffin tossed onto flames, flaring the darkest, most erotic parts of his imagination more strongly than the naughty wink of a Gaiety Girl or the knowing smile of a courtesan ever could.

And he’d known, damn it all, known instinctively when he’d sat behind her at Covent Garden, that he might be getting into something he would find hard to master. He’d barely made his arrangements with her before his oh-so-clever scheme had come back to taunt him. Even while indulging in erotic notions about her, he’d sensed just how strong was the fire that he was playing with. His body had tried to warn him, and he had not taken warning. Today, that fire had nearly flared out of control. Had he not stopped when he had, he might very well have taken her virtue, right there on a settee in her father’s drawing room.

He felt like a dog. He watched people peeking curiously at him from beneath the brims of their umbrellas as he passed them, and he wondered if their curious stares were because he was walking, coatless and hatless through a pouring rain, or because he was emanating lust for all to see. Either way, getting drenched was just what he needed and what he deserved.

He was soaking by the time he picked up a taxi at the Holborn Hotel, but thankfully, by then his ardor had cooled, and his body was once again under his strict regulation. Innocent young women with big dark eyes, romantic ideals, repressed passion, and marital ambitions were once again relegated to the same place in his mind that he put oysters, Afternoon-At-Homes, Evensong, and aspic: things that were not for him.

“And all’s right with the world,” he muttered, but as the taxi carried him back to the West End, he felt anything but right. Clara Deverill had shown him how erotic innocence could be, and if he couldn’t keep that newfound knowledge at bay, her virtue, her dreams for her future, and her blissfully sweet notion to marry for love would all be in jeopardy.

He didn’t want any of that to happen to her. He didn’t want to kill her dreams, or taint her ideals about love and romance. Hell, he must have had some romantic ideals himself at one time, even if he couldn’t remember them anymore.

A carriage containing four women was not usually a place one would expect silence, particularly when it was conveying them to a picnic on a fine, sunny afternoon, but as the Duke of Torquil’s open landau made the journey down Park Lane from the duke’s home in Upper Brook Street to the Stanhope Gate of Hyde Park, all four ladies in the duke’s carriage were silent.

Carlotta, usually the first to point out the negative aspects of any situation, seemed in a happy frame of mind today, content with enjoying the beautiful afternoon and anticipating the event ahead. Married to the duke’s brother, Carlotta was Clara’s chaperone while Irene was away, but that duty had been quite a dull one until Lady Ellesmere and Lady Petunia had conspired to bring Clara out. That decision had benefitted the duke’s entire family, and Carlotta was too relieved by the re-elevation of their social status to complain about anything.

Nor was the silence from Sarah all that surprising. The youngest of Clara’s three sisters-in-law, Sarah was a quiet girl by nature. Sarah’s sister, Angela, however, was usually a lively and outspoken sort, but as the carriage rolled down Park Lane, even Angela was uncharacteristically silent.

For her own part, Clara sensed a certain tension among her sisters-in-law, but at the moment, she was in no frame of mind to wonder at its cause, for she was gripped by tensions of her own, and those dominated her thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

In only a few minutes, she would see him again. A week had passed since that extraordinary kiss, but though she had seen his great-aunt at several social events during the past seven days, she had not seen him.

The prospect of seeing him today, however, did not bring the happy anticipation that a girl ought to feel about seeing the man who had so recently kissed her. No, Clara’s anticipation at the notion of seeing Galbraith again felt more like dread.

The joy she’d experienced during those extraordinary moments in her father’s drawing room had, alas, faded over the past seven days, supplanted by her innate common sense. Her dazed wonder had slowly, inexorably, given way to a sobering appreciation of harsh realities.

For one thing, her actions had been foolish. Galbraith was not a man any girl could rely upon—not for marriage anyway, and for her own life, she wanted no path but marriage. Despite that, she had allowed him the liberty of kissing her, knowing he had no honorable intent of courtship or view to matrimony. What did that say about her self-respect?

She had been very wrong to allow it, and even now, she didn’t understand what had possessed her. How could she have ignored her scruples, abandoned her customary caution, and gone against her very nature? She was not, she reminded herself, an intemperate person. She was calm and steady. She was plain. She was shy.

The image of her pushing Galbraith down onto the settee flashed through her mind again, bringing all its glory and agony. There hadn’t been any temperance or shy modesty about her that afternoon. On the contrary. She’d been indiscreet, forward, downright wanton.

If all that wasn’t enough to force her into sober reflection, she had also put her reputation at grave risk. If they had been caught, if her father and the doctor had come in, or if—God forbid—one of her father’s acquaintances paying a call had been ushered up to the drawing room, the sight that met that person’s eyes would have been a shocking one indeed.

She imagined it as a witness might have done—with her prone body shamelessly on top of Galbraith’s, her hands raking through his hair, her mouth taking his with hungry abandon.

It was a painful picture.

Had anyone walked in on them, the result for her would have been abject shame, disgrace, and possibly ruin. It had been a mistake of epic proportions, and she needed to make that fact plain to Galbraith at the first opportunity, lest he assume her brazen behavior had been permission for him to take further liberties in future.

Even as she took that stance of firm resolve, the memory of his body beneath hers and his strong arms around her made her pulses quicken and spread aching heat through her limbs. Even as she reprimanded herself for a fool, her soul yearned to experience it all again, to know, if only for a few more shining moments, how it felt to be a beautiful and enticing woman.

Heavens, she was in such a muddle, how could she ever face him? How could she sit across from him on a picnic blanket this afternoon and not think about the two of them on that settee locked in a passionate embrace? How could she be in the presence of his family and act as if he had not given her the most singular experience of her life? She’d been tempted to refuse the invitation, but she hadn’t had the heart to do that to her sisters-in-law, who were receiving precious few invitations this year. It would have been selfish, and cowardly, too. And ultimately futile, for she’d have had to face him sometime. They’d made a bargain. She couldn’t back out.

And as the carriage made its way down Park Lane, she knew she had only a few precious minutes to piece her wits together. Because unless she found a way to spend the afternoon in his company without showing the world what he’d made her feel, she’d spend her season pursued by him alone—a man who could only offer a sham courtship. Unless she wanted to become known as a flirt and a jilt when she refused his suit in two months’ time, she had to regain the cool façade of polite tolerance she’d originally decided upon. How easy polite tolerance had seemed ten days ago, and how impossible it seemed now.

“All right, that tears it,” Angela suddenly burst out, breaking the silence in the carriage. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t tolerate the suspense a moment longer.”

She turned toward Clara, lively curiosity and expectation in her gray eyes. “What is going on?”

Alarm seized Clara’s insides, clutching like a fist. There was no way her sisters-in-law could know what had happened between her and Galbraith, but it was clear they sensed something was afoot, and she knew it was time to put on the mask of indifference she was supposed to be wearing. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Angie,” she said and looked away, pretending a vast interest in the tall elms around them.

This pretense seemed to exasperate Angela. “Really, Clara!” she cried, “you are like a sphinx when you choose. Days and days have passed, and still, you haven’t explained a thing. When are you going to tell us about it?”

She resisted the temptation to look down and see if she had a big scarlet A emblazoned on the front of her blue-and-white striped outing gown. They can’t possibly have guessed, she told herself, hoping she wasn’t engaging in mere wishful thinking as she turned again to the woman beside her. “But what am I expected to tell?”

“Everything about him, of course! Is he as charming as they say?”

At once, Clara’s cheeks grew hot, a reaction that did not go unnoticed.

“Ooh-la-la,” Sarah piped up, laughing. “See how she blushes, Angie, and you haven’t even uttered his name.”

“Shall I say it, and watch her blush deepen? Lord Galbraith is the man I’m talking about, Clara, you oyster! Viscount Galbraith, the handsomest devil in the entire ton. So,” she added, nudging Clara’s knee playfully with her own, “do you intend to keep us on tenterhooks, or shall you tell us what’s between the two of you?”

“And don’t say there’s nothing,” Sarah interjected as Clara opened her mouth to say just that. “Because it’s plain as a pikestaff you’ve caught his eye.”

“Have I?” Had she put the proper amount of innocent surprise in her voice? she wondered.

Angela made a scoffing sound. “Oh, you know you have. First, he singles you out to open Lady Petunia’s ball, and then she invites you to sit in Leyland’s box at Covent Garden. And now, we’re off to spend the day with them.”

“It’s just a picnic,” she began, but Angela cut off her attempt to downplay it.

“One with a family we are barely acquainted with. The point is, all these things are because of you. As Sarah said, Galbraith’s interest is clear, and yet, for all you talk of him, he might as well not exist.”

“That will be enough, girls,” Carlotta put in, the rebuke severe enough to demonstrate how seriously the duke’s sister-in-law took her role as matron and chaperone of her unmarried companions. “Despite Lord Leyland’s scandal-ridden wife, his aunt is quite well-regarded in society, and if she is willing to help bolster our social position after your own mother’s unfortunate elopement, I shall not take issue with it. And, more importantly, if Clara doesn’t wish to confide in us or seek advice,” she added with an injured sniff, making it clear who she thought ought to be dispensing said advice, “then you’ve no right to press her.”

“It isn’t that!” Clara cried, her mask slipping a notch. She wished she could confide in them, for the feelings that had been plaguing her ever since that extraordinary afternoon were heady and overwhelming and wholly alien to her, and she’d spent most of the week torn between wanting to laugh with joy and wanting to die of mortification. She would have dearly liked to hear other feminine opinions on the subject, but she could not allow herself that luxury.

If she told her sisters-in-law that Galbraith had kissed her, they would surely assume an engagement had been made, and upon finding out that no such honorable proposal had been offered, they would be outraged on her behalf. Knowing Clara’s own father was hopeless at parental duties, Carlotta might even go to her husband, the duke’s brother, and honor would require Lord David to see Galbraith and demand he do right by her, a ghastly and humiliating prospect that Clara could not bear to contemplate.

She would then be obligated to take responsibility for her part in what had occurred, own up to the fact that she had been as much to blame as he, and how could she tell anyone that? How could she make the humiliating admission that she had allowed a man to whom she was not affianced an unpardonable liberty? More than allowed it—she had enjoyed it, reveled in it, pushed him down on the settee and shamelessly demanded more of it. Clara could no more have confessed such things than she could have turned herself into a frog and croaked out a mating song.

She swallowed hard and made herself to say something. “It’s just that there’s nothing to tell,” she said. “I hardly know the man. Yes, I danced with him at his aunt’s ball, as you saw for yourselves. And as I told you at the time, I didn’t think much of him.”

“A feeling that is obviously not mutual,” murmured Sarah, giving her sister a wink across the carriage, and Angela’s responding giggle only increased Clara’s dismay.

“His great-aunt is a friend of my grandmother,” she reminded them. “As I told you before the ball, Lady Ellesmere prevailed upon Lady Petunia to help bring me out. That is the reason for all these invitations, I’m sure.”

“That explains Lady Petunia’s attentions,” Carlotta put in dryly. “But hardly Galbraith’s.”

Clara stirred on the seat, her lips tingling, some of Galbraith’s more improper attentions becoming even more vivid in her mind. “I don’t see that he’s been so very attentive,” she said, hoping to heaven lightning didn’t strike her dead for such a bold-faced lie.

“Don’t you, my dear?”

Desperate for a distraction from this topic, Clara looked past the other woman to the carriage behind them. “Lord James shall have his hands full today, I think, for his boys seem in even higher spirits than usual. Colin is climbing out onto the boot of the carriage, and Owen is sitting on the back of his seat. Your husband does not look happy, Carlotta, riding with them. I told Lord David I would take his place, so that he could sit up here with you, but he declined.”

“My husband can hold his own with his nephews, I assure you,” she answered without turning her head to look. “And if Jamie’s sons are hellions, it’s his own fault. As for you riding in the other carriage, that would not have been appropriate. Jamie is a widower, and you are unmarried. Speaking of single men,” she added, making Clara groan, “as you are in my charge for the season, my dear, I am obligated to point out that Galbraith’s attentions to you were made plain at Covent Garden. A single man who was not interested in you would never have allowed himself to be seen tête-à-tête with you at the rail of his father’s box, in full view of all society.”

“It was hardly tête-à-tête,” she objected. “Lady Petunia was less than a dozen feet away.”

“But the conversation was intime, so I’ve been told.”

This confirmation that gossip was already circulating about Galbraith’s interest in her made it even more crucial that she don the veneer of polite tolerance she and the viscount had discussed. She pasted on a dismissive smile and braced herself to tell more lies. “It doesn’t have the significance you impart to it. Nothing intimate was said. And anyway, it’s common knowledge that Galbraith would never seriously consider courting any girl.”

“All the more reason he would take pains to avoid speculations on the subject, then,” Carlotta said and leaned back, still smiling.

“And perhaps his views about courtship have undergone a transformation,” Sarah put in. “At least since he danced with a certain girl we all know,” she added with a wink.

“This is absurd,” Clara cried, even as she reminded herself that this sort of thinking was just what her arrangement with Galbraith was supposed to bring about. “Even if what you say is true, Sarah, my opinion of the man hasn’t changed.”

But as she spoke, her body proved her a liar not only to herself, but to all the ladies riding with her, for she blushed as she spoke. The other three women giggled—including Carlotta—and Clara jerked her chin, turning her head to the side and her attention to the view of Hyde Park as she struggled to regain her composure. “Any young lady,” she said through clenched teeth, “would be a fool to want Galbraith’s attentions.”

Her own words made her grimace, for she was well aware of how shamelessly she’d responded to some of those attentions. And now, as she thought of that kiss, all the heat, shame, and exultation she’d felt that afternoon came roaring back and underscored the galling truth that Galbraith was not nearly as low in her estimation as she’d previously believed. Either that, she thought dismally, or he had awakened her to her true nature as a strumpet.

Clara wasn’t quite sure which possibility was worse, but as the carriage turned to enter the park, she knew one thing for certain. It was going to be a long and awkward afternoon.