He sighed. “Adriana, my dear, as usual, you’ve quite lost me.”

“Have I?” She smiled at him. “But I didn’t mean to. And you considered one of the leading lights of the Tories, too!”

Her ripple of laughter was enough to send a less-strong man into raving fits. As it was, Hasselthorpe merely smiled tightly at his spouse. “Very amusing, my dear.”

“Yes, aren’t I?” she said complacently, and went back to poking at her fish. “I think it must be the reason you love me.”

Hasselthorpe sighed. Because despite her lack of wits, her irritating conversation, and her execrable decorating style, Adriana was quite right about this one matter.

He did love her.

BEATRICE SHOULD’VE BEEN suspicious when Reynaud sat down to dine with her and her uncle that night. But alas, she was so caught up in keeping her expression bland that she didn’t even think to wonder what he was doing there. So when he made his request over the fish, she nearly choked on her wine.

“What did you say?” Beatrice gasped when she’d caught her breath.

“I wasn’t addressing you,” the odious backstabber said.

“Well, you’ll certainly have to consult with me about the matter eventually,” she said tartly.

A muscle in Reynaud’s jaw flexed. “I doubt—”

“No!” roared Uncle Reggie.

Beatrice’s head swung toward her uncle in alarm. His face had gone the color of claret. “Please don’t excite yourself—”

“It’s not enough that you must have my title, but now you want to take my niece as well,” Uncle Reggie bellowed. He thumped a fist on the table, making the silverware jump.

“I haven’t accepted Lord Hope’s proposal,” Beatrice said soothingly.

“But you will,” Reynaud said, crushing what little peace she might’ve gained.

“Don’t you threaten my niece!” Uncle Reggie shouted.

Reynaud’s lips thinned. “I don’t threaten; I merely state a fact.”

And they were off again. Really, she might not be in the room for all the attention they paid her. She was like an old bone for two dogs to fight over. Beatrice sighed and sipped her wine again, taking a surreptitious glance at Reynaud. He’d left her the night before, soon after their lovemaking, and she hadn’t seen him all day. He wore the white wig tonight and a dark wine-red coat that made his tanned skin and dark brows and eyes exotically elegant. The iron cross earring swung against his jaw as he tilted his head mockingly at her uncle. It made him look a bit like a pirate, she decided.

He caught her eye and winked. The rest of his face was impassive, and it was done so quickly that she almost thought she imagined it. Did he really want to marry her? The notion sent an odd shaft of warmth to her center.

Until Uncle Reggie said, “You only want to marry my niece to bolster your claim that you aren’t mad. It’s another scheme to steal my house and title!”

Well, that was certainly dampening. Beatrice stared fixedly at her wineglass. She would not weep before these two buffoons.

Reynaud’s upper lip curved in a sneer as he leaned toward her uncle. “It’s my house. How many times must I repeat it? The title, the house, the monies, and, yes, now Beatrice. They’re all mine. You hold them by the tips of your fingers, and they’re all sliding away from you, old man. That’s why you’re so angry.”

Beatrice cleared her throat. “I don’t know if either of you are aware, but I am sitting right here.”

Reynaud lifted an eyebrow at her, his black eyes glinting. “And would you care to join this conversation? Perhaps list one or two reasons a match between us is inevitable?”

How dare he? The threat was implicit that he’d inform Uncle Reggie that he’d bedded her if she balked at this proposal.

Beatrice lifted her chin, addressing her remarks to Uncle Reggie, although she still held Reynaud’s gaze. “I’m sure Lord Hope would be amenable to some sort of compensation for your stewardship of the earldom, Uncle.”

A corner of Reynaud’s mouth quirked as he mouthed, “Touché.”

But Uncle Reggie roared, “Be damned afore I accept help from this popinjay!”

Beatrice sighed. Gentlemen could be so extraordinarily pigheaded sometimes. “It wouldn’t be help, Uncle; it would be compensation for years of service to the title. Really, it’s only fitting.”

Reynaud leaned back in his chair, watching her speculatively. “Whatever makes you think I’d give anything to this usurper of my title?”

“Well, fitting or not, I’ll not accept it.” Uncle Reggie pushed back his chair with a thump. “I’ll leave you, Niece, to the company of this man you’ve chosen over me.”

And with that, he left the room.

Beatrice looked down at her plate, trying to conceal the hurt she’d felt at her uncle’s words.

“He’s an old fool,” Reynaud said softly.

“He’s my uncle,” Beatrice replied without looking up.

“And because of that, I should reward him for stealing my title?”

“No.” She finally inhaled and met his eyes. “You should gift him with a small remuneration, because it would be the right and honorable thing to do.”

“And if I don’t give a damn about honor?” he asked softly.

She watched him, lounging in his seat, his hand on the stem of his wineglass, idly twirling it. But she knew he was far from idle. He’d maneuvered her here to this spot, this confrontation as deftly as a chess master cornering his opponent’s queen. And why not? a small part of her whispered. If she was Reynaud’s wife, she would be in a much better position to urge him to vote for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.

And she could press for concessions before surrender.

Beatrice leaned back in her chair, mimicking his pose. “Then you might do it for me.”

“Might I?” he said. He contemplated her, as if weighing her worth against that of his pride.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “you might. You might also offer Uncle Reggie permanent residence here in this house should you regain your title.”

“And what would be the benefit to me of this magnanimous gesture?”

“You know full well what the benefit would be,” she said, tired suddenly of this game. “Don’t play with me.”

He took a sip of his wine and set down the glass with finality. “Come here.”

She rose and circled the table to stand before him. Her heart was beating fast and hard, but she tried to regulate her breathing. Tried not to show how desperately he affected her.

He pushed his chair from the table and spread his legs. “Closer.”

She stepped between his legs, almost touching him, the blood rushing in her ears.

He looked up at her, a conquering warrior. “Kiss me.”

She inhaled and then bent, placing one hand on his shoulder. Her lips brushed his, and she could not control their trembling. She straightened and looked at him.

“More,” he said.

She shook her head. “Not here. The servants will return soon to clear the meal.”

“Then where?” His eyelids drooped lazily. “And when?”

In answer, she held out her hand, for she didn’t trust her voice. Her action went against everything she’d ever been taught about how a lady should behave. She’d been told this was wrong. That it would only lead to sorrow and disgrace. But her heart seemed to be telling her otherwise, and she had no one else to turn to anymore. Jeremy was dead. Uncle Reggie had made clear his displeasure with her, and Lottie was too wrapped up in her own life right now.

Which left only herself to depend upon.

He placed his hand in hers, and she gave a gentle tug to make him stand up. She led him from the room without saying anything. The hall was deserted; Uncle Reggie didn’t like servants hanging about during the evening meal. She went quickly up the stairs, aware of Lord Hope’s footsteps, steady and almost ominous behind her, but she didn’t look back. She took him to her own room and then paused beside the door.

“Wait here,” she said, and slipped inside. Quick was in her room, as she was every night, waiting to help her ready for bed.

“That’ll be all,” she said to the maid. “And, Quick?”

The maid turned toward her. “Miss?”

“Be sure you don’t see anything in the hall.”

Quick’s eyes widened but she was far too good a servant to comment. She merely curtsied and left the room.

Beatrice took a deep breath and went to the door, opening it. He was outside, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently.

“Come in,” she said, and he straightened.

SHE STOOD TALL and prim and invited him into her room. He’d been there twice before, of course, but not at her invitation.

And that, it seemed, made all the difference.

He could feel his pulse pounding at his temple and lower down at the base of his cock. He was already erect, already ready for her, but he moved slowly. The wolf never wanted to frighten the deer until it was ready to pounce.

She turned and went to the fire, stirring it with a poker. “Will you undress?” Her hand might be steady, but her voice was high and thready.

“Why don’t you?” he asked, his own voice deep.

“Oh.” She set aside the poker and reached for the laces of her bodice.

“No.” In two strides he was beside her, staying her hands. “Why don’t you undress me?”

She looked at him, her face pinkening into a blush, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He wanted to bite that lip himself, wanted to catch her in his arms and bear her to the bed, a warlord with a prize. But he needed to have her come to him of her own volition. True, he’d coerced her, but she’d led him here. He’d take that small bit of free will on her part.

Beatrice set her hands on his coat, slowly, carefully pushing it back over his shoulders. He moved his arms to help her take off the garment, but otherwise he simply watched her. As a young officer in His Majesty’s army, he’d been to brothels in London and the New World. Had sampled the favors of accomplished courtesans. Yet the sight of this properly brought-up woman taking off his coat was far more erotic than anything he’d ever seen at a brothel.

She folded his coat and carefully set it aside. Then she stood on tiptoe and pulled off his wig. He ran his hands over his head, scrubbing at the stubble of his hair.

“I confess it made me sad the day you cut your hair,” she said quietly.

A half smile curved his lips. “You’d rather I sport that wild mane?”

“No.” She reached up to smooth her palms over his head. “But maybe a little more hair than this. Your long hair softened your aspect a bit. I never really realized until you cut it all off. Without it, you look so… ruthless.”

But he was ruthless. Didn’t she know that yet? He didn’t say the words, merely watched her as she bent her head over the buttons of his waistcoat. The only sounds in the room were her breathing and the slide of fabric over the bone buttons. She reached the end and pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders. She laid the waistcoat aside and hesitated for a moment, staring at the expanse of his white shirt. Had her feet grown cold? Only two days before, this woman had been a virgin, and now he was demanding that she undress him. He should take pity on her.

He grasped her hand and brought it to his chest. “The shirt next, I think.”

She began on the buttons without comment, though her breath was coming faster. The brush of her fingers, even with the fine linen in between his skin and hers, was a torture. She undid the last button, and he raised his arms so she might draw the shirt off over his head.

She licked her lips and glanced shyly at him from under her brows. “Everything?”