“Where are you going?” she demanded.

He looked away from her face. “We need to return to the ball.”

“Why?”

He grimaced. “I’m supposed to be meeting dignitaries, remember?”

“I remember that you appear to be about to dismiss me as nothing.”

He finally faced her again—it seemed he must find a way to fight this gut-deep pull, and now was as good a time as any.

Her plush lips were pressed together, her eyebrows knit, and her fine eyes looked… hurt. Dear Lord. Something inside of him began to bleed.

“What would you have me do?” he murmured, conscious that the ball—and all the people attending it—was only feet away. “I’ve apologized and you are insulted.”

“You are avoiding the subject.” She dropped her hand and he felt the warmth seep from his arm where she’d touched him. “You are avoiding me. You were about to kiss me a minute ago. I felt it and—”

“But I didn’t.” He wanted to tear at his hair, punch the wall, grab her again, and give in to temptation. Kiss her until that awful look left her face.

He did none of those things, of course.

“No, you didn’t,” she said slowly. “Obviously I am easily resisted.”

“Easily.” He scoffed at the word, folding his arms across his chest to keep his hands contained. How could she think this was easy for him? “I’ve no doubt that you are used to men kissing you and more when you look at them the way you just looked at me.”

Her lips parted. “Are you calling me a whore?”

His head jerked back. “No. I don’t—”

She stepped up to him, toe-to-toe, and jabbed a finger rather painfully into his ridiculously embroidered waistcoat. “I may not meet your monkish standards of conduct, but that in no way makes me a loose woman. Do you understand that, Winter Makepeace? I enjoy the company of men and I enjoy bedsport. If you are made uncomfortable by that fact, then perhaps it is your standards that you should look to.”

Isabel turned in fine fettle, obviously about to sweep out of the little alcove and leave him flat.

Winter snaked out an arm. It was his turn to arrest her. “I don’t think any of those things about you,” he said, attempting to get her to face him.

“Then why not take the next step?” she asked, her face averted.

“I can’t.”

She turned and he nearly closed his eyes, so blinded was he by her blazing look. “Why not? Are you physically incapable?”

His mouth twisted. “No. At least not to my knowledge.”

Her eyes softened. “If this is the fear of inexperience, I assure you that I won’t expect an expert lover—at least not at first.”

Winter’s lips twitched. “No, it isn’t that. You don’t understand—”

“Then explain.”

He exhaled and tipped back his head to stare at the plump cupids cavorting on the Duchess of Arlington’s ceiling. “I am dedicated to the home and St. Giles. I have pledged to help those who need my help—need it desperately—in that wretched area of London.”

“You sound as if you’ve made a priestly vow,” she said wonderingly.

He glanced away from her, marshaling his thoughts. He’d never put this into words, never told another living soul his mission.

Then he inhaled and faced her. “It is very similar, in intent if not philosophy, to a priestly vow. I’m not like your society rogues, Isabel. I regard physical lovemaking as something sacrosanct to love. And if I loved a woman enough to take her to my bed, then I would love her enough to marry her. I don’t intend ever to marry, ergo, I do not intend to ever get close enough to a woman—physically or emotionally—to make love to her.”

“But you’re not a priest,” she said. “Surely you can have both a wife and family and help those in St. Giles.”

He glanced down at her, so beautiful, so full of that life. “No, I don’t believe so. A husband and father’s first duty is to his wife and family. Everything else is secondary. How can the people of St. Giles ever come first if I am married?”

Her eyes widened in astonishment. “I don’t believe this. You’re attempting to become a saint.”

His mouth tightened. “No, I’ve merely dedicated my life to helping others.”

“But why?”

“I’ve told you why,” he said, trying to still his impatience. This discussion was like cutting open his chest, putting a hand in, and stirring his organs about. He did not like it at all. “The children, the poor of St. Giles, the terrible lives they lead. Did you not hear me when I spoke?”

“I heard you well enough,” she snapped. “I’m asking why you. Why must you be the one to make this sacrifice of your entire life?”

He shook his head helplessly. She was of the privileged class. She’d never known want, never counted coins to calculate whether they should go to pay for coal to warm the body or bread to feed it, for they would pay for only one, not both. She simply could not understand.

Winter dropped his hand from her arm and stepped back, putting prudent distance between them. His voice was carefully modulated when he spoke.

Carefully gentle. “If not me, then who?”

MEGS SIGHED AND arched her back, luxuriating in the lovely feeling after lovemaking. This had been one of many revelations she’d discovered since dear Roger had initiated her into the secrets of the bedroom: how boneless, how utterly relaxed her body felt afterward.

Not that they’d ever had the opportunity to meet in a bedroom.

At the moment, she lounged on a settee in a very dark receiving room at the back of the Duchess of Arlington’s house. She could hear the sounds of the ball, muffled by the walls and intervening rooms, but it was still a lovely, cozy refuge for just the two of them.

“Time to get up, my love,” Roger whispered in her ear.

“So soon?” Megs pouted.

“Yes, at once,” he mock-scolded her. Roger sat up and put himself to rights. “You don’t want the matrons in the ballroom to notice your absence, do you? Or worse—your brother the marquess.”

Megs shuddered at the thought. Both her brothers in their own ways had made rather scandalous marriages, but that didn’t mean they would look at all favorably at even a hint of impropriety from her.

She sat up reluctantly and began straightening herself.

“Besides,” Roger continued casually, “I do want to remain on good terms with my future brother-in-law.”

Megs caught her breath and looked up, joy rushing into her breast.

Roger burst into warm laughter at the expression on her face. “Did you think I wouldn’t want you for my wife, sweet Meggie? Haven’t you realized yet that I’m head over heels in love with you?”

When she just stared at him, frozen, his face fell. “That is, if you are amenable to my suit? I fear I may’ve overstepped my—”

She flung herself on him before he could finish.

“Oof!” Roger fell backward onto the settee under her onslaught.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Megs muttered in between covering his sweet, dear, wonderful face with rather messy kisses. “Oh, Roger, how can you ever think otherwise than that I love you with all my heart?”

He caught her face and held her still for a much longer, more expert kiss on the lips.

“Oh, sweeting,” he whispered as he broke away. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

She lay her head beside him, simply enjoying the moment.

Then he lurched beneath her and slapped her rather familiarly on the bottom. “Up, up, up.”

Megs groaned, but complied. She hurriedly checked herself in a small mirror and then turned to Roger. “Shall we have a short engagement?”

“Yes, please.” He grinned down at her, the dimple she’d grown quite fond of flashing in his right cheek. “But a small favor? Can we keep our engagement secret until I can order my estate and make a proper suit to your brother? I’m not as rich as I’m sure he would like, but I’ve a business offer that—”

“Hush.” She placed her fingertips over his lips. “I’m marrying you because I love you, not because of your money.”

He frowned. “You could marry a title. Marry a much richer man.”

“I could but I won’t.” She smiled up at him, blissfully happy. “And I’ll be sure and make that point to Thomas when the time comes.”

He laid his forehead against hers. “I do love you.”

“I know.” She stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his lips. “I’ll not tell anyone of our engagement as long as you promise not to wait too long to talk to Thomas.”

“A fortnight, no more.” His roguish brown eyes grew grave. “Truly, it’s an excellent investment, Meggie. If all comes to fruition, even your brother will be impressed.”

She shook her head fondly, whispering, “You don’t need money to impress me, Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”

She stood a second, looking into his eyes, wanting to say so much more and unable to find the words.

Instead, in the end, she touched his cheek, turned, and slipped from the room.

ISABEL BACKED INTO the doorway of the ladies’ retiring room and stared down the hallway thoughtfully. If she wasn’t mistaken, Lady Margaret had just exited a room farther down the hall, where the passage became dimly lit. Now why—Isabel’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby had just come out of the room Megs had left.

Well.

She was enough of a woman of the world to know that clandestine tête-à-têtes sometimes took place at balls. But Lady Margaret was an unmarried heiress. True, Mr. Fraser-Burnsby seemed like a nice enough young man, but Megs risked her reputation and thus the rest of her life by meeting him in private.

Isabel checked that her skirts were straight and then started back to the ball. She’d have to find a way to gently hint to Megs that she wasn’t quite as discreet as she thought she was. But in the meantime, Isabel had to return to the ball and Winter Makepeace. She’d already taken too long in the retiring room and had the sneaking suspicion that she might’ve been hiding from him. Isabel sighed. She’d never been a coward before. She’d just have to face the man and make light conversation until this wretched evening was over.

And then she must find a way to put Winter Makepeace from her mind—and perhaps her heart.

Chapter Eight

That night the Harlequin took revenge upon those who had wronged him. His attackers had not even left St. Giles when he found them, and though they screamed at his unholy white eyes and tried to defend themselves, they were ill matched against the Ghost of St. Giles! He fought with inhumane strength and skill and he killed them all without word or look of mercy. But he didn’t stop there. The Harlequin went hunting the next night as well. Soon, all who had ever done a misdeed knew to stay well away from St. Giles at night, for the Ghost was thirsty for blood…

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

“Oh, my lady, those stockings are the very height of elegance,” Pinkney exclaimed the next night as Isabel rolled her new lace stockings over her calf. “And such a reasonable price. Shall I order another dozen?”

Isabel pointed her toes to better view the embroidered clocking overlaying the lace on the outside of her ankle. It really was rather fine. No doubt Winter Makepeace would think clocked lace stockings a shocking waste of money.

She nodded defiantly to Pinkney. “Buy two dozen.”

The lady’s maid grinned, ever enthusiastic when it came to the procurement of expensive clothing, and held open Isabel’s petticoat for her to step into. “I will indeed, my lady.”