It must have been the champagne.

Clara didn’t know how else to account for what had just happened. The passionate kiss she and Rex had shared in the drawing room upstairs had been sweet and exciting and so, so lovely, but that kiss was not anything like what he had had done to her tonight. His searing touch, her own rising tension and hungry, aching need, and then . . . waves of pleasure, shattering her again and again, like nothing she had ever felt before, or could ever have even imagined. It had all been wickedly shameful, and yet, she’d felt no shame. Even her usual shyness had been burned away by his hot caresses, and long after he was gone, she couldn’t summon so much as a speck of maidenly modesty.

No, the only thing she felt was a euphoric happiness that didn’t disperse even after she’d disposed of the empty champagne bottle in the rubbish bin out back and washed the glasses and returned them to the china cupboard. As she went upstairs, undressed, and got into bed, she felt gloriously wide awake, and she was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

In that, however, she was wrong, for she fell asleep almost at once, and when she woke the next morning, her theory about the champagne seemed the most logical explanation for her wanton behavior the night before. And whenever she thought of Rex’s scorching caress, euphoric joy rose inside her like champagne bubbles, a fact that made her meeting with Mr. Shaw even more difficult. Every time she presented one of Rex’s drawings, she was reminded of what had occurred, and though she did her best to present a brisk and businesslike demeanor, an occasional euphoric giggle did slip into her presentation.

Still, old Mr. Shaw was favorably impressed by what she had to say, and by Hazel’s plan and Rex’s sketches, so much so that the old devil not only approved the entire advertising plan, but also commissioned an additional series of advertisements for the new cold remedy that would run throughout the winter. This happy conclusion filled Clara with a sense of triumph and satisfaction she’d never experienced before, For the first time, she truly appreciated just why Irene had been so passionately involved with the newspaper.

Clara had no opportunity to tell Rex about today’s success, however, or thank him for the enormous part his drawing talents had played in achieving it, for that afternoon, she learned that he had left town, a piece of news that turned her bubbly euphoria as flat as day-old champagne.

The bearers of this information were Hetty and Lady Petunia, who came to call on her at the newspaper office, and though Clara tried not to show any feelings about his departure one way or the other, she knew at once she hadn’t quite succeeded.

“There, Auntie Pet,” Hetty said only seconds after imparting the news, “I told you she’d be as disappointed about this as we are.”

“You are mistaken,” Clara rushed to reply, working to wipe any trace of emotion off her face, even as she wondered if last night’s episode had driven him away. “I’m not disappointed.”

That was not only a flagrant lie, it was also a rude thing to say. “Forgive me,” she added at once, grimacing. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s only that I’ve been so hard at work, you see. We lost our editor, and then our advertising artist had to go to nurse a sick relative, and of course, with my sister away on honeymoon—” She stopped, appreciating that she was rambling. “It’s just that I shan’t have much time to see anyone for the time being, and it does no good to be disappointed about it.”

“But Rex going away is a disappointment?” Hetty asked. “Oh, Clara, do say it is! You must like him, at least a little.”

Thankfully, Lady Petunia intervened before Clara could reply. “Henrietta, that will be enough. You mustn’t press Clara and invade her privacy this way.”

“Sorry,” Hetty said at once. “Forgive me.”

“Not at all,” Clara replied, striving for something innocuous to say. “And yes, I do like your cousin. We have become friends, you see.” Even as she spoke, she thought of last night, of how she’d leaned down and kissed him, and of the sensations his caress had evoked in her, and she feared she was beginning to like Rex in a way that had nothing to do with friendship.

“Friends, hmm?”

Hetty’s amused, teasing voice lurched her out of her contemplations, and Clara realized something in her face must have given her away.

“Henrietta, stop this at once,” Lady Petunia said, her voice a sharp rebuke. “Clara is not required to confide anything to us, and why should she, given your relentless teasing? If you keep on this way, she’ll never agree to come to our house party.”

“House party?” The other woman frowned a little, turning to look at her great-aunt.

“My dear girl, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our Friday-to-Monday six days hence?”

There was a moment of silence, then Hetty gave an exclamation. “Right, of course! You mean the weekend party.”

“It’s a Friday-to-Monday,” Petunia said with a sniff, “and that’s a house party, regardless of what you young people call such things nowadays.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Hetty said. “I just hadn’t realized it was so close. My, how time flies in the season.”

“That’s just why a Friday-to-Monday is so perfect for July.” Petunia turned to Clara. “I am chaperone to Henrietta, as you know, as well as to her younger sister, May, and because May is just out this year, it’s been an especially busy time. But I’m getting on in years, you know, and the season is becoming so frantic, I will soon need a rest, or I fear I won’t be able to continue. So, after May has been presented at court, we shall be having a little Friday-to-Monday at Lisle. That’s the home of my nephew, Sir Albert—Henrietta’s father, you know. We should dearly love to have you join us, my dear. And the duke’s family, of course.”

“Lisle’s a lovely place,” Hetty put in, “even if I do say it myself. Do say you’ll come, for I should very much like to show it to you.”

“I’d like to come,” Clara assured her. “But as I said, things are very busy here. I’m not sure I can afford to be away.”

“It’s in Kent, down toward Dover,” Hetty said. “And that’s a very short journey, with trains running multiple times a day. If anything untoward were to arise, you could be home within a few hours. And if you’ve been working as hard as you say, you’ll surely need a good rest by then. Not that we’ll rest much if the weather’s fine, for there will be croquet, and tennis, and perhaps some punting on the stream. We may even go to Dover and picnic on the cliffs overlooking the sea.”

“That would be lovely, for I’ve never been to Dover. But—”

“There, then, it’s decided,” Hetty cried. “I don’t want to hear any buts, Clara. It’ll be great fun, I promise, and though there will be plenty of new people for you to meet, you needn’t fear you won’t know anyone. Rex is there already, along with my brother, Paul, who you met at the picnic.”

As she remembered, Hetty’s brother Paul was very nice, and the idea of meeting new people didn’t intimidate her nearly as much now as it would have done just a couple of months ago, but it was the mention of Rex that caused Clara to capitulate. “Very well, then,” she said, and the moment those words were out of her mouth, all her earlier euphoria came rushing back. “If the duke’s sisters are free to accompany me, I should be delighted to come to Lisle.”

There was nothing like the country if a man wanted to regain his sanity. A long, hard ride across the downs on horseback every morning, followed by a hike through the woods or along the cliffs after luncheon, and a few vigorous sets of tennis with his cousin Paul in the late afternoon all helped Rex put himself to rights. The tennis, he found, was especially effective, for not only was his cousin as fiercely competitive as he and almost as skilled a player, Paul was also a full decade younger, which meant that although sometimes Rex won and sometimes he lost, he never failed to be thoroughly done in afterward. And if thoughts of Clara fired his blood at night and prevented him from sleeping, a few dozen laps in the pond were sufficient to cool his blood.

After half a dozen days of vigorous exercise, and nights of tumbling into bed exhausted, Clara Deverill at last stopped bedeviling his mind and body. The feel of her, so warm and sweet, became a memory rather than a torture. The sound of her soft cries of release stopped invading his dreams, meaning that he no longer woke up hard and aching in the middle of the night. By the afternoon of the house party, he felt he was at last himself again.

He and Paul were on the court when Hetty, May, and Auntie Pet, the only members of the family not already at Lisle, arrived from the station. Tea had been laid out on the south lawn near the tennis court, and some of the guests were already partaking as Uncle Albert’s carriage pulled into the drive, but it wasn’t until the vehicle stopped nearby and Hetty called a greeting to them that Rex noticed another vehicle coming around the south lawn. More guests, he supposed.

“Everyone seems to be here at last,” Paul called to him, returning Rex’s attention to the game. “Do you want to stop for tea?”

“Tea?” Rex shook his head, laughing. “Now, when I’m a hair’s breadth from winning this match? Not a chance.”

“Hair’s breadth?” Paul echoed, making a sound of derision as he prepared to serve. “That’s rich.”

The ball rose high in the air, then Paul’s serve sent it flying across the court to a tricky corner. Rex’s backhand, as deadly a weapon as his cousin’s wicked serve, sent the ball flying back across the net, but then, Rex thought he heard Hetty call Clara’s name.

Startled, he glanced sideways and found all his worst fears confirmed by the sight of Clara’s slim figure alighting from the second carriage, and his concentration shattered to bits. He heard the thwack of Paul’s racquet against the tennis ball, but still looking at Clara, it took him a millisecond too long to respond, and by the time he dove for the ball, he was already too late. He missed it entirely, his body went stumbling forward, carried by sheer momentum.

He landed hard, his shoulder and hip slamming down on the turf of the tennis court less than ten feet from the very woman he’d been trying for nearly a week to forget, his gaze riveted to a view of Clara’s dainty, leather-clad toes and lace petticoats peeking out from beneath the pleated hem of a blue traveling skirt.

Christ, almighty.

He turned away from that delectable vision at once, grimacing in pain and aggravation as he rolled onto his back, Paul’s merry laughter ringing in his ears.

What the hell, he wondered, staring up at the sky, had he done to deserve this?

“Are you all right?” Paul asked, still laughing.

“Shipshape and Bristol fashion,” he called back. “Why do you ask?”

He stood up before Paul or anyone else could question that lie. Giving his shoulder an experimental shrug, he was glad to find he’d suffered no serious injury, and he glanced around for his racquet. It had landed nearly on the chalk line, a fact that forced him even closer to where Clara stood at the side of the court with Hetty.

“Rough game?” his cousin asked as he bent to pick up his racquet.

“Apparently so, Hetty. Miss Deverill,” he greeted with a bow, but he didn’t look at her, and before she could reply, he turned away, returning to center court. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his wrist, and readied himself for Paul’s next serve, but suddenly the idea of playing any more tennis, knowing Clara was here, that she’d be watching, was just too much to bear, and he waved Paul to stop before the other man could serve.

“What’s wrong?”

He shrugged his shoulder again, and gave an exaggerated grimace of pain. “Let’s stop,” he said. “I’m done in. I concede,” he added before Paul could reply. “I’m going to bathe and change for dinner.”

“Concede?” his cousin echoed as he walked off the court. “But you never concede.”

“I just did,” he called back, fearing it wasn’t just the tennis match he’d given up on.

He didn’t see her again until dinner. Fortunately, he was not seated anywhere near her at table, but that wasn’t as much of a blessing as it might have been, for he could still see her plainly from where he sat. Paul, seated beside her, must have been in quite a mind to be witty and charming company, because every time Rex took a glance her way, she seemed to be laughing at something his cousin had said. Lisle had no gas jets in the dining room, and the candlelight gave her pale skin a luminous glow. Her hair was done up in that pretty chignon he’d complimented that night in her office, which only led him to remembering what had happened there, and he was heartily glad when dinner was over and the ladies and gone through to the drawing room.

After the port, when he and the other gentlemen joined the ladies, Rex kept his conversation with her to the politest possible minimum, but there were times when he couldn’t resist edging close enough to hear her voice. It was an exercise in self-torture, and one that soon paid him out in spades, when he heard her describing the beauty of her yellow bedroom to her sister-in-law, Lady Angela. There was one, and only one, bedroom at Lisle done up in yellow.

The moment he discovered the location of her room, he tried to put the knowledge out of his mind, but he feared it was rather like putting Pandora’s gifts back in the box, because lying in bed five hours later, the location of her room seemed to be the only thing he could think about.

Images of her there danced tantalizingly across his mind, of her hair tumbled down around her, of small, round breasts, pale, luminous skin, and long, slim legs.

He breathed deep, imagining the scent of orange blossoms and past the roar in his ears, he remembered her soft cries of climax as his own lust rolled in him like thunder, rising, thickening, until it was pain.

He slid his hand along his hip, thinking to relieve the agony with simple expediency, something he’d been doing quite often during the past two months, but then he sighed and let his hand fall to his side. What good would it do? Any relief would be temporary, for just one sight of her smile and he’d be reduced to this state again.

Shoving back the sheets, he got out of bed. Time for another midnight swim, he decided. After sliding on black trousers and his heavy indigo satin smoking jacket, he left his room. Barefoot, he went downstairs and slipped out into the moonlit summer night.

He walked across the cool turf, circling the house toward the north side, making for the millpond, though he feared that was nowhere near far enough to get clear of her now. Maybe he could go rent a cottage in Ireland, he thought in desperation, or go to his father’s hunting lodge in Scotland, but neither of those seemed far enough away. Hell, with how he felt right now, even Shanghai might not be far enough to keep her safe from him.

After stripping naked, he dove into the pond, and he counted thirty full laps before the ache in his loins eased, the driving need for her slid back into mere discomfort, and he began to think Shanghai might not be necessary. But on his way back, he saw a light in one of the windows, the only light still lit on this side of the house. He counted the windows twice just to be sure, but even as he did so, he knew quite well it wasn’t necessary.

This was fate. One of those things a man just couldn’t fight. His attempt to do so had been a worthy, perhaps even noble battle, but now he knew it had also been a pointless one because when he saw the light in the Yellow Room, he knew he’d just lost the war.

He began walking toward the house, his steps quickening as he crossed the grass, slowing to a soft and quiet tread once he reentered the house. He went up the south staircase because it didn’t creak, traversed a maze of corridors, tiptoed past the quietly snoring hall boy, and turned toward the suites of guest quarters. He paused at the start of that corridor, noting the light that shone from beneath the door of the Yellow Room, and he didn’t know whether to be glad or not.

He counted doors as he walked toward her room, verifying his earlier calculations. Outside her door, he paused. Taking a deep breath, he considered with great care what he was about to do, what it would mean, and the inevitable consequences it would bring. Then he put his hand on the doorknob. Turning it, he opened the door, stepped inside, and crossed the Rubicon.