The Blade of The Macleod

Leonie Sinclair stared over the rail of the ship nosing a watery trough up the Thames. It had been a tedious voyage; save for a storm that she'd been convinced would destroy them all! But now she was here at last. At Last! She knotted her hands in the folds of the reticule she carried; a letter crackled softly in the velvet bag. It was her future, the letter to Maman's cousin Marie Jonas. Marie and Elysia Dubois had fled Paris during the bloody Revolution that had cost so many lives. Marie had married an English baron, while Elysia had wed the dashing American captain Joshua Sinclair and left England behind forever.

Perhaps, Elysia had worried what might happen one day, for, when Leonie was still an infant, she'd written a letter to her cousin about her daughter. She'd kept Marie's reply, her promise to stand as godmother to the child she hoped to one day meet. That letter was old, the pages yellowed and the ink faint, but it would serve as a letter of introduction to this godmother Leonie had never met.

And now the time had come. So many fears, so much pain and heartache behind her . . . but she would let nothing stand in her way. Not now. Not after so many years.

Coming to England was not just the start of a new life; it was an act of vengeance. For nearly twelve years, she had hated the earl of Whitelaw. At times, it had been all that let her feel alive.

Leonie's hands tightened on the ship rail as the London docks grew sharper in the gray mist that cloaked the river and hazed the forest of tall, swaying masts that looked like so many reeds choking the waterway. So close, so close. It was nearly time now . . . all the planning, and now she was here at last. Maman would have wanted her to come to England.

It had been eleven years since her death, eleven years since Leonie had watched helplessly as Elysia bled to death in the childbed. Her infant son had lived only a few minutes more than his mother. Whitelaw's babe drawing only a few gasps of air. They were buried together, a simple grave in a corner of the cemetery where paupers were granted space for their eternity.

At twelve, Leonie had found herself orphaned and alone. There had been no relatives to take her in, no one but the kind nuns at the foundling home. As Elysia had done once, Leonie taught French to students, saving every penny she earned through the years. Even after her eighteenth birthday, she'd stayed on, saving her money, a goal firmly fixed in her mind, her sworn revenge keeping her strong.

It was the death of her mother that had formed the need for vengeance, formed the burning desire to find Whitelaw and, if nothing else, confront him with his crimes. Why should he be allowed to forget the woman he had raped or the old man he had killed? Did she not live with their memories every day, the pain as fresh at times as it had been when she'd lost them? Yes, and Whitelaw would soon find a reminder of what he'd done on his doorstep.

In the reticule with the letter to Marie Jonas was a document with the old charges against the earl. It bore the seal of the Georgetown magistrate where it had been filed so many years before_the only proof of Whitelaw's crime. A charge of murder still held weight even after so long, though the death of a freed slave had not been important enough to halt Whitelaw's flight.

It was the careless indifference that rankled most, the earl's arrogant claim that the old man had assaulted him. It had been a farce, a travesty of justice. But Leonie intended to see that he acknowledged his acts, to expose him for the cruel killer that he was and to seek justice for the wrongs done not only to old Paulie, but to her mother and an innocent babe.

The nuns had taught her a great deal about atonement for sins committed, and she would educate Whitelaw. He would have his name shamed in the society he kept, and endure the scourge of public scorn. I just hope he's still alive to suffer it! She thought fiercely.

A chill wind blew across the decks, but she paid no heed to it, or to the sidelong glances she received from some of the deckhands. Most of the passengers aboard the ship were from America, but the Liberty had briefly docked in Liverpool the day before, and several men had boarded for the trip around the southern coast of England to London. For the most part, they seemed unremarkable, though she had noticed one man in particular who did stand out.

He was tall; with long, gleaming dark hair he wore tied back in a ponytail. And he had an inbred charm that was unmistakable. He remained aloof from the others, keeping company instead with the captain of the vessel as if they were old friends. Yet once having taken notice of him, she found she was always very much aware of when he was on deck and when he was not, though she would have denied it if anyone had taken notice of her interest in him. It might be his self_assurance, or even his lean good looks, but she couldn't seem to stop watching him whenever he was near.

He was dressed casually in tight fitting buff trousers and kneed_high jackboots, his white shirt and open coat giving him the appearance of a country squire. There was something primitive, predatory about him, as if he was a man accustomed to command and instant obedience.

Leaning against the wall of the deckhouse, he was engaged in conversation with the first mate, but happened to glance up and catch her staring at him. A smile tucked the corners of his mouth inward, and he inclined his head in her direction to acknowledge her gaze.

Leonie flushed and looked casually away, as if she'd only been searching for a companion. Fortunately Mr. Carson, a fellow passenger who had boarded only the day before but had already made himself known to her, chose that moment to approach her at the rail, his smile wide and friendly.

As the ship glided down the Thames, the decks were frenetic with activity; ropes hummed through the shrouds and canvas snapped with heavy weight. A brisk wind tugged at her skirts and threatened to loosen her hat. Leonie grabbed at the ribbons to hold her hat in place and managed to smile. If she hadn't been caught staring so rudely at another passenger, she would have been quite cool to Mr. Carson. Since boarding the Liberty, he had seemed to take a special interest in her, dogging her steps every time she came above deck.

"Yes, it's so easy to miscalculate, especially when the vessel arrives ahead of schedule." He hesitated, his brown eyes observing her with obvious admiration. "London is a huge, busy city, and it's very easy to get lost or taken advantage of if you aren't familiar with the streets and byways. Perhaps I could see you to your destination, if it wouldn't be too presumptuous of me to suggest it."

He moved closer, his tone shifting. It became more intimate, husky and cajoling. Just his supposition that she would be susceptible made her answer sharply when he offered again to take her in his own coach.

Undeterred, he smiled broadly. "You have come all the way across the Atlantic alone. I didn't think you would consider yourself in danger being alone with me in a public coach. But since you're reluctant__"

He bows slightly. "I beg your pardon if I offended you, as it seems I have. Here, do let me loan you my city directory. Hired hacks so often take advantage of visitors to London, and he may well try to over charge you since you are unfamiliar with the streets."

When she hesitated, he smiled disarmingly. "I have a sister I would wish protected, Miss Sinclair. I would hope some gentleman would be so kind as to offer his assistance should she be in need of it. I want nothing in return but your safety."

"It is a map of main streets and routes in London. See, here is the Tower, and this is Parliament over here . . ." He traced the route with his fingertip. "If you know your destination, you'll be able to find the general area on this map, then not allow any dishonest hackman to take you the long way around."

"Ah, tell the driver to take you to Mayfair. Here. Go by way of these main roads and you should get there quite quickly." He traced a route with his finger, and then smiled as he pressed the small map into her hand. "Keep it for now, but do be kind enough to return it to me, if you will, once you've used it. Have it delivered by post or messenger if you like to the Carson in Shoreditch. It's a public house owned by my brother."

"Thank you, sir, for your kindness," she said as she tucked the directory into her reticule. Perhaps she should not be so suspicious, she thought, but a woman traveling alone dare not attract too much attention. Why most of this voyage had been spent in her cabin, a stuffy corner not much larger than a water closet and smelling very similar.

As the Liberty edged close to the dock, the decks grew quite crowded and loud, and Leonie realized that, in the press of the crows and crew, James Carson had vanished. It was faintly surprising. He seemed so insistent, and now he'd just disappeared in the chaos, leaving her alone to make her way ashore.

Leonie dismissed Carson from her mind when the hack rolled to a halt before the buff stone facade of Lord Jonas's Mayfair home. It was imposing, a veritable five_story tower with staircases that curved up each side to the entrance. It was a house that radiated power and position. It was this kind of house, this kind of wealth that bred men like Lord Whitelaw . . ."

She was shown into the entrance hall and asked to wait, and the butler who greeted her looked down his long thin nose at her as if she were an interloper. "Lady Jonas is not accepting visitors, I fear," he said coldly. "However, you may leave your card."

But Leonie was not to be denied. "I will wait in the parlor." She made her tone as lofty as his, with just a touch of arrogance. "Please be so good as to direct me. Lady Jonas will be pleased to see me, I assure you!"

There were few, she thought, things more intimidating than a proper English servant. He regarded her as if she were an insect, but at last briefly inclined his head, and beckoned to a young maid. "Show Miss__" He studied the card she'd given him for an instant, then continued, "Sinclair into the small parlor to wait, Hester."

The small parlor was not really small at all. Richly furnished, there was a warm fire in the grate and thick rugs on the floors. Plush settees upholstered in embroidered velvet were placed before the hearth. Ornate vases and Dreden figurines adorned baroque tables that gleamed with the sheen of highly polished mahogany. Fresh flowers spilled from crystal vases.

Leonie felt suddenly awkward and graceless in such a room, and wondered with a spurt of panic if she could truly pretend to be what she was not. How could she keep up the masquerade? And while she may dislike deceiving her own godmother with the charade, she had little choice. She had to be the woman she posed herself to be, or she would never be able to fit in the society of those surrounding Whitelaw.

That was, after all, her goal. To do less would be to fail. But the success in her plan hinged on her acceptance here, with Marie Jonas. Tension made her nerves taut, and she drew in a deep breath to steady herself.

A light laugh preceded the appearance of a tiny dark_haired woman in the doorway. Leonie Sinclair? Could it be?" she cried, and moved swiftly toward her. "I cannot believe it! You did come, after all. Oh my, you are the very image of your dear mother . . . my lovely Elysia."

Unexpected tears stung her eyes as Leonie was drawn into a warm embrace. There was none of the awkwardness of their written correspondence, and no question of being accepted. She found herself seated on the settee answering questions about her mother and her life. She left out any incriminating details, saying only that Maman had died of a fever. It was difficult not dissolving in tears, but Marie proved to be more pragmatic than her bubbly nature promised.

"It is a dreadful thing, but life is not always kind, I have learned," she sighed in her accented English. "My poor Elysia. She was always so beautiful, so bright. I adored her, you know. Just as I will adore you. Your mother's marriage was so romantic, and your father_ Ah! So handsome he was," Marie said with a smile. "And so in love with Elysia! But of course, every man who met her fell in love with her. She was so beautiful, how could they not? Once, before she met your dear papa, she said her face was a curse, not a blessing. But I am glad that it proved not to be true."

"Ah, my lovely one," Marie was saying, "you will be the toast of all London, I am quite certain. With those marvelous green eyes and that lovely blond hair, you will break the hearts of all men, and perhaps marry a duke or even a prince one day!"

She laughed, her dark head tilted to one side like a saucy little bird, and Leonie found herself smiling back at her. Why had she worried so? In a matter of minutes, it seemed, she had been both accepted and loved. She had no false illusions_she would never marry into the nobility. There was no dark Duke or breathtaking prince in her future. There was only Whitelaw, and the revenge she had sworn.

How her life was about to change_and so drastically. It was going to be novel, this pampered existence, and she thought suddenly of her mother, and how she had once lived in a lovely chateau in the French countryside, the pampered, petted daughter of aristocrats. Upheaval and tragedy had displaced her, but she finally found happiness, however briefly. Nothing lasted. Everything changed.

Leonie's smile deepened. After years of watching from the other side while people moved in a privileged world, she was at last a part of it. The years of scrimping and saving, planning for this, had come to pass. Could she do it? Could she fit into his world long enough to exact some kind of retribution against Whitelaw? God knows, I wanted it long enough, she thought fiercely.

Sunlight streamed through the long window onto the green baize table where the last card had been played, and the victor was collecting his winnings. Adam Pierson sighed, unhappily aware of the fact that he had somehow lost more money this afternoon to the earl of Whitelaw than he could comfortably afford. It was providence that his old friend would not press him for payment, but there was still the other problem. Lady Trevegne!

"Swords at dawn? Why would you want to bother?" Duncan Macleod_a reluctant Lord, and earl of Whitelaw_regarded Adam Pierson with a slight frown. "Can you not make amends in some way . . . it is hardly worth__"

"So I thought." Adam Pierson gave his companion a glance of hopeful appeal. "Unfortunately I lack the skill you have with a sword. Lord Trevegne's liable to call me out about this little tart, you know!"

"Hmm, yes. But he does not seem willing to deal with her on this_he's insisting he deal with me. Any chance you might consider being my second, if I change the weapons to pistols?"

"And take your place when you suddenly fall ill?" Leaning back in his chair, he stretched lazily. "You've played that game before. I have no desire to meet anyone at dawn unless it's a comely wench with light skirts and a winsome smile."

Talbot, the proprietor of White's, came to sweep ashes and crumbs from the top of the green baize table, obliging and efficient in the art of catering to his patrons_and always on watch for a stray coin.

Macleod stifled a yawn. It was early. Or late, depending upon how you looked at it. He'd entered White's at about three in the morning. It was now early afternoon. His interest had begun to wane several hours before, after winning several thousand pounds off a young lord, but it was bad form to bankrupt a man at cards and not give him at least a small chance to recoup. Of course, Adam Pierson managed to win even more from the young lord, and in the end there was no other course than to suggest the card game end.

Duncan blinked against the cold sunlight that struck him as they stepped outside. It was much later in the afternoon than he had thought. Tradesmen had already made all their deliveries and traffic along St James Street was heavy. A beer cart narrowly missed splashing mud on them as it lumbered past. Puddles of water still stood along the paving stones from the recent rains. A fetid odor lingered in the air. He stepped over a brackish pool and left Adam trailing behind him as he crossed St. James and turned the corner. His mind was already on the beguiling prospect of a hot meal and warm bed when Adam grabbed his arm to pull him to a halt.

Duncan shook loose his hand, impatient and weary, and certainly in no mood to make polite conversation with any female of Adam's acquaintance. They were usually brainless society bells or women of loose character and looser morals. Not that he had any particular objection to the latter, but Adam was too damn enthusiastic.

"Satisfy your curiosity alone or at some other time." Duncan hailed a hack, and it rumbled to a halt at the curb. As the door swung open, he put a foot on the narrow run to step up and glance down at his companion. "Do you wish to ride to your lodgings?"

Duncan followed Adam's intent gaze. His brow rose. Marie Jonas was a lovely woman who had kept her beauty through the years. The young lady at her side had her head bent, her hat shadowing her face, but it was her form that drew his attention. She was lovely, though not so unusual as to warrant such rapt admiration, in his opinion.

"Adam, you've always been an easy mark when it comes to women. Have a go at her. Spare me all the details when next I see you. Curzon Street, driver. And take the shortest route, not the most profitable."

"As so many fools before you have also said, to their collective destruction. Keep your head." Duncan waved a dismissive hand as the hack lurched forward, then leaned back against the worn squabs that held strong hints of previous occupants. He was getting too old for this. Long nights spilling into mornings and afternoons were the mark of a jaded man. At thirty_two, he knew better.

Adam was incorrigible; he could see him out the window as the hack drew closer, its progress obstructed by a draft wagon blocking the road. Propping a boot against the far seat, Duncan watched idly as Adam approached the two women accompanied by their maid. They paused to speak to him, crisp morning light at last revealing their faces.

He frowned, struck by a sudden memory. Lady Jonas's companion was the woman from the ship_the Liberty. He'd seen her staring at him, and then he'd seen her talking to James Carson. So, she was acquainted with Lady Jonas, was she? A curious coincidence. But he wasn't a man who believed much in coincidences and this one seemed far too unlikely.

Yet she was a striking woman, with pale hair beneath a wide_brimmed bonnet and elegant bone structure. Tall and slender, she moved with languid grace as she turned to regard Adam with polite attention.

Duncan watched closely. She'd kept dangerous company for a woman new to London. Carson was not an innocent acquaintance. How well did she know him? It was a question that begged for an answer. She'd come from America, and he'd noticed her aboard the ship. How could he not? While he kept a close eye on Carson, the woman had seemed to keep an eye on him in return.

Now she was staying in Jules Jonas's home, a man known to be a fervent Tory, a contradiction at best if she was acquainted with Carson. Perhaps there was much more to what had appeared to be a casual shipboard acquaintance than he'd first thought. This situation required a closer investigation. Like Adam, he wanted to know more about her_but not for the same reasons.

Leonie eyed Adam Pierson with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. He was handsome enough, she supposed, with light brown hair and a rakish charm, but he reeked of cigar smoke and English ale. She had no intention of allowing herself to be even slightly involved with him despite his boyish appeal.

"It was very pleasant to see you again. Do leave your calling card. As I wished to show my cousin London, we made an appointment at the dressmaker's instead of having her to the house as usual. I insist upon being punctual."

Adam said hastily, "Yes, yes, of course, Lady Jonas, but I do wish to say how fortuitous this meeting is for me. I am planning a soiree, you see, and need expert advice. Your affairs are legend for being the most popular, and if it is not too bold, I thought perhaps you would be so kind as to make suggestions . . ."

He let the sentence trail hopefully, and Leonie hid a smile. This Adam Pierson was much too obvious. He'd not taken his gaze from her since hailing them, and now his hazel eyes were intent as he regarded her.

"When? Oh, I hadn't thought that far ahead yet. Shall I come round tomorrow morning, perhaps, and we can discuss details? I am certain Miss Sinclair will have some superb suggestions as well."

"You are a brash, forward young man, aren't you?" Marie's voice held a hint of reproof that finally penetrated Adam's intensity, and he gave her a startled glance, then a disarming smile and impudent honesty.

"Do you think so? But Mr. Pierson will not overstep his boundaries now, and word will be out that no liberties are to be taken with you. Believe me, it is a much better lesson than one could hope for, and to have Mr. Pierson at our beck and call could be beneficial. Too bad Whitelaw did not join us."

"Whitelaw?" Leonie's hand shook slightly, and she curled her fingers more tightly around the strings of her small reticule. A chill wind smelled of streets, rife with debris. She put a hand to her nose as if to ward off the stench while Marie continued blithely.

A feeling of nausea swept over Leonie, and her fingers were clumsy as she fumbled in her reticule for a linen scarf to press to her nose. Whitelaw! He'd been that close and she hadn't even known it . . .

"Probably because he's weary of being pursued by so many marriageable women." Marie laughed softly. "His reputation leans toward rakish, but if a hostess manages to get him to attend an affair, success is assured. He is quite sought after_and unmarried earl usually is these days. You'd be amazed at the lengths some hostesses go to in order to secure his presence at a ball or soiree. But a man who would some day be a marquis can take his time to wed, it seems."

"Yes, and perhaps sooner than one would think, as his step father had been an invalid for several years now . . . a most unpleasant man_do be careful ma petite, and beware of where you step. What was I saying? Oh, yes, Whitelaw is very closely acquainted with Mr. Pierson. They seem to attend many of the same functions."

"It would be a social coup. But never fear. I have already taken steps to ensure his attendance. Ah, here we are. Madame Dupre is most strict about punctuality. She's much sought after as a seamstress and will be able to fashion you some flattering gowns. Oh, this is going to be so amusing, Leonie! I'm so glad you've come to visit. I needed a new venture to occupy my time now that Marisa's future is assured."

Leonie smiled, and during the next two hours endured the prodding and poking of the seamstress as she measured her for new gowns, exclaiming over her unusual height and slender proportions. Marie had sent out invitations to a fete in Leonie's honor_thus the fitting of the gowns. Feeling slightly overwhelmed by it all, Leonie motioned to gain Marie's attention.

"Are you certain you wish to do this? I had not thought it important." Leonie frowned slightly. "It seems a great deal of trouble just to introduce me to your friends."

"Ah, but it is not just to introduce you to my friends, my dear. We intend to snare you a wealthy husband, just as my own Marisa has done. Of course, her marriage was arranged years ago, but before she settles into married life, I wish her to enjoy herself. But you_you have so much promise! Already there is interest. You saw your effect on Mr. Pierson, did you not? He was absolutely tripping over his own feet to talk to you. And as I said, he has extensive connections of the right sort. In London, it is imperative to be well connected." She paused, glanced at Madame Dupre and said a bit wistfully. "In France, it was much the same. But we did not worry about appearances so much as they do here, for we were all secure in our proper places! And, of course, we all knew we were lovely and well dressed!"

Madame Dupre joined her in soft laughter, and Leonie let her mind wander. If Adam Pierson was a close companion with the earl of Whitelaw, she fully intended to expand upon their brief acquaintance. Through Adam Pierson, she could learn much about her quarry. And quarry he was, though Whitelaw may not know it. Would he remember her? Would he even recognize the woman in the girl he had once known? Did he ever think of Elysia Sinclair, or had she been only one more woman he'd used and cast aside as unimportant?

Anger burned deeply, a low, smoldering blaze that never eased, never altered, and she thought of how delicious it would be to ruin Whitelaw. He would pay, in whatever way she could manage, for old Paulie's death as well as her mother's. Everyone in London would know what had been done. If she could, she would see him hanged for murder. But that was unlikely. Vengeance would have to be tempered with practicality.

"Child," Madame Dupre said with a puzzled look on her face. "You are so stiff, like a board! Please, you must not worry that I will stick you with a pin. I've not wounded many of my clients."

"Why must you take such vulgar modes of transport, Duncan? You have a perfectly lovely carriage_and four at your disposal. It's unseemly to travel about London in hired hacks."

Duncan leaned forward, gave his step mother the customary peck on the cheek. She smelled of lavender, a familiar, powdery fragrance he always associated with her. He straightened, a dark brow cocked.

"You might as well have." Lady Campbell flicked an elegant hand at the maid to show where she wished her breakfast tray set. When the servant had gone, she turned to regard her stepson with an arched brow. "I'm pleased you found time to visit me. I began to wonder if I had offended you in some way."

"Another man, perhaps, not that one." Duncan moved past his step mother to stare out the window into the garden below. Stone statuary graced fading flower beds, and a fountain trickled cold water from a jug held by a Grecian goddess. Venus, he thought, though Attila the Hun would be more appropriate for the Campbell garden.

He turned to face her. Thin sunlight streamed through the window, creating an aura around Lady Campbell that was almost ethereal. She resembled an elegant stone angel, save for the faint lines of strain that fanned from the corners of her eyes, Her hand shook slightly as she poured hot chocolate into a cup; rich aromatic steam rose in wispy tendrils. She didn't look at him, her attention focused upon the silver tray laden with biscuits, cake and serving ware.

He scowled at her obvious tension. "What has he been at you about? Don't deny it. You can't even look at me. God above, what tear is he on now that he's upset you?"

"It's that business with the East India company. The new docks that he's financing have gone beyond the budget, and he's convinced that Ian Macleod, your uncle, is involved in a scheme to ruin him."

"Given Ian's propensity for idleness, I find that accusation unlikely." Duncan shrugged when his step mother made a small sound of dismay. "You must admit all the animosity seems to come from the Campbell! While Ian may resent the fact that my step father inherited when fever took the first heir, he hides it well enough. And he's too bloody lazy to scheme."

"You shouldn't talk about your blooded uncle that way. Or your stepfather, for that matter. Really, whatever has gotten into you lately? You were once quite pleasant. Now__"

"Now I'm the reckless earl of Whitelaw, heir to a title and my stepfather's reputation. I can no longer afford to be pleasant. If Grandfather Campbell had only lived awhile longer, perhaps we could have all been set free. It was a damned nuisance that he contracted a fever and shared it with the only heir capable of decency. My step father's lucky star again, that he inherited after all."

Lady Campbell looked distressed, and Duncan cursed his harsh tongue. The same fever that had taken the sixth Marquis and an uncle had also taken his younger step brother, Malcolm, the true heir, an unexpected death his step mother still mourned and his step father cursed.

He crossed the small sitting room and sat beside his step mother on the striped brocade settee in front of the fire. "Forgive me. I'm in a wicked mood, ma mere. It has nothing to do with you. I'll go up and see him before I leave. I always do, don't I?"

"Don't let that get about, I want nothing to sully my reputation as a scoundrel and a rake, if you don't mind. It's much more convenient to have anxious mamas avoid me rather than push their horse_faced daughters in my direction."

A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. "Not even your sullied reputation will divert some, I'm afraid. Your presence at a fete had been requested by one of my dearest friends, and I trust you won't disappoint me."

"Which of your friends is ruining my evening with a room filled with chattering ninnies, may I ask? Or do you intend to surprise me_God, it's not Lady Macdonald, I trust."

"No, not even I would be so cruel as to make that demand of you. It's Lady Jonas. She's been my dear friend for some time. Her daughter was just presented to the prince and is to be wed next summer, but apparently wishes to enjoy the small Season. She also mentioned that her cousin's daughter from the Colonies will be presented. A charming girl, I understand. Quiet, and not prone to giggling or stammering. I find that refreshing these days."

Duncan thought of Adam Pierson and the young woman who had accompanied Lady Jonas. He was wrong. London was small enough for coincidences, after all. And it couldn't have come at a more perfect time.

"Since you ask it of me," he said, and saw his step mothers' surprise. "I'll let you fling me to the wolves. Just don't expect me to linger for the coup de grace."

"Yes, you should. But all will be forgiven if you pay particular attention to Lady Jonas' cousin. I've been assured she has excellent manners. Be charming enough to assure her success, but do not be too charming. No sense in giving the wrong impression to either the young lady or Lady Jonas."

"But you do it so effortlessly, and to such an effect, when you choose." Her smile was serene. "You surprise me, Duncan. I thought it would take much more to wring an agreement from you."

Unperturbed by his observation, she said, "Excellent. Now, be so good as to visit your step father before he sends Smithy down to fetch you. He's already in a rare mood. Try not to quarrel with him."

Rising to his feet, Duncan regarded his step mother for a brief moment. She sat erect as she always did, her bearing innately aristocratic, it was a posture he had come to associate with times of duress, an indication that the marquis was behaving toward her with more than just his usual perversity. He bent over the hand she held out to him.

The Marquis was irascible as always, made even more petulant by his chafing against the infirmity that kept him confined to his chamber most of the time. His valet, Smithy, hovered nearby, tending him solicitously despite the old man's impatience.

"It's about time you had the decency to answer my summons," The Campbell growled, glaring at Duncan from beneath some heavy wild haired brows. "You've become damn insolent."

The Campbell's glare held evidence of his old vigor, but his hand shook as he gripped the coverlet over his legs with a knotted fist. "It may interest you to learn that one of our ships is apparently lost at sea with a valuable cargo. Or perhaps your business acumen isn't sharp enough to understand what that means to our financial interests."

The Campbell's jaw clenched; a muscle leaped beneath his pitted skin. "It should have been you who died instead of Malcolm. He was a fitting heir, with a true sense of his heritage. He at least had my blood! Damn you, you're a Macleod all right, and your step mother's favorite_a weakling, a profligate without proper appreciation for the Campbell heritage!"

Duncan's gaze was riveted on his step father, but he heard the soft click of the closing door that indicated Smithy had deemed it wise not to be privy to this particular conversation.

"I never know what the bloody hell you're talking about these days," The Campbell snapped. The bank of windows behind him filtered light that softened the marquis's sagging features but not his harsh tone. "You make these obscure remarks that are completely incomprehensible."

"Yes, so it seems. Do you refer to the China Doll, by any chance? It is reported to have gone down off the islands near Lubang. She was carrying a full cargo of spices and specie, according to my sources."

The Campbell snorted. "Which we can ill afford to lose. As you are a major shareholder in the company, and now the family representative, you must meet with the board! We have creditors who'll want an explanation for the ship's loss."

"Yes. Placate the board, Whitelaw. We must have time to recover from this loss. We can't risk losing investors." The marquis squinted up at his adopted son, his mouth set in a bitter slash. "I've often wondered if my father somehow knew the trouble it would cause me to have you on the board. If he'd only left me those crucial shares . . ."

As the marquis's voice trailed into silence, Duncan reflected that his grandfather had certainly known what he was doing. The former marquis had done what he could to curtail his heir's access to the family fortune. As no doubt the present marquis would continue to do to his own heir.

"No more so than he's exhibited to me. He has always thought the title should belong to the Macleod's. Especially after the death of my grandfather. 'The daughter's oldest son should inherit his estates, not the grandson,' he said. Rubbish!"

"So you claim, yet I've never heard a word spoken about it from Ian. He seems quite content up there in the highlands with his inheritance. He is the Macleod, what need has he to Campbell titles_English ones at that!"

The Campbell snorted. "Spoken like a true Scotsman, yet you have not been to Scotland since you were in nappies. And these English titles open many doors for you here in England."

He left the house, his boots echoing in the wide, empty cavern of the entrance hall, the gleaming black and white marble floor spotless and sterile. The quiet peace of the house was deceptive. Beneath the facade of serenity lurked a cesspool of anger and corruption. The marquis thrived on it. Until his illness, he had instigated scandal and schemes without a shred of restraint. Only his wealth and title had saved him from ruin.

It fell to his stepson and heir_the unwanted heir_ to walk a fine line between his step father's tainted reputation and the necessity of maintaining the facade without being tarnished by the same brush. Publicly he would not denounce his stepfather, but privately, he did all he could to show his contempt for the man the marquis had become. It had become a game of sorts between them. A serious game in which winner took all. It was just as bitter a regret for him as for his stepfather that Malcolm had died from the fever. There were times he felt trapped, imprisoned and raging against the invisible bars of his cell.

He welcomed strife, welcomed a challenge, and welcomed anything that would distract him. Why not? It was better than the reality of his situation, the trap that closed in around him a little more every day. It wasn't the mechanics entailed in the myriad technicalities of the vast shipping business that he found stifling, for that could be energizing if he was left to his own devices and decisions.

If not for his step mother, he would have damned the title and the money and left long ago, taken the Grand Tour that Napoleon had denied him until his majesty's invitation to lead an army against the Corsican. It was not as he had first envisioned touring the continent, with the smell of gunpowder and the stench of death in his nostrils, the screams of dying men drowning out everything but the instinct to survive. He had learned the art of killing, refined it, then been sent home to be civilized once the war ended.

Lights from thousands of candles and wall sconces illuminated the vast ballroom. Glittering jewels sparkled on bare bosoms and elegant coiffures. Music soared above the chatter and laughter of hundreds of guests, linen_draped tables lined walls and potted plants cast feathery shadows on the polish floor. Leonie scarcely recognized her cousin's ballroom. It exceeded her childhood dreams.

Nervously she ran a swift hand over the skirts of her new gown, the satin and tulle embroidered with tiny gold stars and ending in a graceful train. It was caught just beneath her breasts with a wide sash also embroidered with gold stars upon lush blue velvet. Matching slippers were adorned with stars sewn in glittering gold thread. The only concession to the cool night was a silk shawl of sheer white, spangled with more gold stars. Lily had dressed her hair, piling it in luxuriant curls atop her crown and allowing artful tendrils to fall over her forehead, temples and neck.

Astonished at the transformation, Leonie hadn't even heard Marie come into the room until she came up behind her, saying with delight. "How beautiful you are, petite. But you should hurry, for we must form the receiving line."

The light hand on her shoulder squeezed tightly. "You will be quite the thing tonight. No one will be able to resist not only your beauty, but your sweet charm. Just be yourself, and all will be well."

But would it? Leonie thought distractedly that if Marie knew the truth she would not be so certain of success. There were moments she considered leaving rather than disappointing her cousin, but still she stayed. She must face Whitelaw again, must see for herself the man who had brought so much pain into her life. She could never be free until he paid for his injustice.

Now that the moment was here, she wavered between anticipation and stark fear. Yet the face in her mirror looked composed, showed nothing of her inner turmoil. Abruptly she left her room to take the wide, curved staircase to the ballroom on the second floor. She waited, heart thumping an erratic rhythm. It was so crowded, a whirl of men in evening clothes and elegant coats, a glitter of jewels and flashing smiles in a sea of strange faces.

Finally she spied Marie in the receiving line. She was in her element, laughing gaily, reveling in the success of her first ball of the season. The guest list included most of the upper strata of society, and quite a few were in attendance. Lady Jersey and Cowper formed a gracious quartet with Marie and Marisa. Leonie knew them by reputation only. They were the ones who handed out vouchers for Almacks, their vaunted club, and it was the single_minded goal of many London mamas to have their daughters accepted by them.

Leonie did not care if she received the wanted vouchers, but was almost sure that Marie had arranged for that to happen. Oh, but she truly felt guilty over all this subterfuge. Marie was far too kind and loving to be duped in this manner, and several times Leonie had hovered on the verge of confession. Only the memories of Maman's tragic death and the man responsible kept her still.

And now she would once more face the earl of Whitelaw. Fingers gripped her ivory fan so tightly it crackled a protest, and she relaxed before it broke. I must remain calm. It is the moment I've waited for all these years . . .

Pasting a smile on her face, Leonie moved forward to greet the two formidable Grande dames of London society. Oh, she thought in surprise when they greeted her quite graciously, they are very pleasant. Perhaps it is just their reputations that are intimidating, though they are assessing me quite openly.

"Will you remain long in our city?" Lady Jersey probed, her lace and ivory fan wafting a slight breeze over elegant features as she gazed at Leonie. "Lady Jonas informs me that you've only recently arrived from the colonies."

Emily Cowper leaned forward, fascination evident in her round face. Rumored to be the most accommodating of Almacks' patronesses, she seemed genuinely interested in the American colonies. "Tell me, how does our city compare to the colonies? Is it true that wild savages roam the streets of cities in America, or is that only one of those ridiculous rumors that so often abound?"

"As it happens, it's partially true. On occasion the natives have been known to visit the city, but for the most part, they prefer their own company. Can you blame them? However, it wasn't so long ago that uprisings and massacres indeed were visited upon American cities. The retaliation was quite harsh."

"Ah, I do not understand this colonial penchant for hostility." Lady Jersey remarked, blithely ignoring the recent war with France. She flicked her fingers in the air to show contempt. "One would think they would be too busy rebuilding their primitive capital to even consider retaliation upon savages."

Leonie delicately refrained from mentioning that British soldiers had burned Washington and the Capital before ravaging the countryside only five years before. She said instead, "These are hostile tribes of natives still inhabiting the wilderness, but they remain distant for the most part."

"How terrifying!" Lady Cowper gave a delicious shiver. "I cannot imagine such a horrid fate. All those brown men running about half_naked and abducting females_they have been known to do that, no?"

"You wouldn't think it so civilized if you were to walk past St. Giles Cathedral," Lady Jersey said dryly. "All those wretched women hanging about, and even the children ready to cut your purse_or throat_without blinking . . ."

A chill shivered down Leonie's spine, and she could not at once bring herself to turn and look at the man who had destroyed her childhood. She emptied her champagne and gave the glass to the footman. Her fingers tightened on the bone handle of her fan. She waved it idly back and forth, rigidly waiting. Hair on the back of her neck tightened; it felt as if the careful cluster of artfully arranged curls on her crown were standing erect.

Lady Jersey said, "He arrives late, and does not even acknowledge the receiving line. Is that Mr. Adam Pierson with him? Perhaps I missed his name on the guest list . . ."

Marie's chin lifted slightly at the implication, and though her mouth was smiling, there was a glint in her eyes. "I don't turn away pleasant company. Pierson's father is a baron, and Adam I find quite charming."

"Neither man has the best reputation," Lady Cowper said with a flutter of her fan, and her eyes held a speculative glow. "Yet he is so attractive, for all that he seems so . . . well, dangerous, I suppose you could say."

Lady Jersey lifted her lorgnette to gaze across the room. "You must mean Whitelaw! A handsome man, and yes, so dangerous. Quite the rogue, they say. Very adept with the sword, and a fair marksman with the pistol, and has been known to walk away from several duels, though of course, that's still frowned upon these days. How many commendations did he receive for his military service?"

A gleam of naked excitement brightened Lady Cowper's eyes. "One commendation was awarded for Whitelaw's courage in leading a charge against Napoleon's right flank in which nearly every man of his squad was killed but him. But, of course, I'm not surprised that he survived. He has a certain air about him . . . not just dangerous, but_savage. Yes, that's it! His skin is nearly as dark as one of Miss Sinclair's savages, don't you think? Oh, I wonder what he would look like half_naked. I'd allow him to ravish me, I vow!"

They all laughed but Leonie, who managed to force a stiff smile. No one even noticed her silence. But how could they know what had happened to Maman? Or that she was near dizzy with suppressed anger, anticipation and nausea at this reminder of it? Oh, I cannot do this! She thought, I cannot stand and listen to them talk about him as if he's gallant or brave, or even human!

But, of course, she could say nothing, and the talk of Whitelaw continued, lady Jersey once more ignoring the feelings of her companions as she said, "It was reported that Whitelaw disposed of the French at an alarming rate. A bold soldier_and an even bolder rake. He's cut quite a swath through not only actresses, but several highborn ladies. You do recall that scandal two years ago with Letitia Woodward? She's still in seclusion, I understand. Quite heartbroken, they say. Apparently Sir Walter has locked her away in the country since she was so imprudent as to make a public scene with Whitelaw. A foolish chit. At Least Lady Amanda was discreet. Discretion is everything."

"But do look at him." Marie said in a whisper that reeked of triumph. "Whitelaw could persuade any woman to folly if he chose. I think he's a devastatingly handsome man, and from one of the oldest families. Scandal barely touches them."

Leonie steeled herself to turn and look toward the earl of Whitelaw at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage. Surely he was not truly handsome after twelve years, when he had not been what she recalled as very appealing even in his younger days. Indeed, if not for his lineage and family influence in the shipping industry, even Americans would not have found his company especially desirable.

Nerves jangled, her stomach throbbed and there was a loud humming in her ears as she turned at last to look once more upon the man she hated. Yet she could not find him in the throng of satins, jewels and lamplight. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Whitelaw despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.

Bewildered, she stood stiffly as her cousin moved forward to greet another man. She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.

Leonie searched the crowd for the earl of Whitelaw, her eyes scanning faces restlessly, barely paying attention as Marie began the introductions. Only when the hated name penetrated her distraction did she realize that the man before her bore the same name.

"Yes, dear." Marie stressed the first word. "Surely you recall his name on the guest list. Whitelaw has honored us with his presence this evening, and we are most delighted."

She turned her gaze to look fully at the man before her. Her breath caught. Eyes of a startling caramel color gazed down at her from beneath black lashes, and Leonie recognized him at once as the man she had seen aboard the Liberty. Confused, it took a moment to find her voice.

His sensual voice had a husky, mocking quality that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles. Leonie did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response.

Panic swelled, coupled with an overpowering need to escape this room that had suddenly grown far to stifling; the music and laughter and smell of perfume threatened to suffocate her. But it was his touch that unnerved her most, burning into her skin even though the gloves. She snatched her hand away, saw the leap of surprise in his eyes, heard Marisa's soft gasp.

Aware of Marie's disconcerted stare and Marisa's gaping expression, Leonie maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Whitelaw was not the man she had hated for so long. But who was he? A brother? Cousin? Or perhaps he was a son . . . Whoever he was; he wasn't the man she had come to ruin.

And she had to collect her wits before she said or did something else foolish. Already, she had risked offending her cousin as well as Whitelaw. Her direct cut would not go unnoticed, nor would her ill_bred behavior. It was nearly unforgivable, and she must seek a way to make amends or she may ruin everything.

Leonie sought a quiet corner away from the crowd and din of revelry, and sank down upon a cushioned bench in an alcove across the hall. Her lovely gown was not made for sitting at all but for dancing and standing, yet at the moment she didn't care. Her head throbbed and nausea churned so that she felt as if she would truly be sick at any moment. She should leave, but how could she? To go upstairs now would be an insult to Marie after all she'd done, all the preparations she'd made and hopes for her beloved Eylsia's daughter to make a decent match.

A burble of hysterical laughter caught in her throat. How can I tell Marie that's the farthest thing from my mind? No. I must remain. Ah, I'm such a coward to flee . . .

She drew in a deep breath to calm herself. After all this time, if she was undone by so trivial a setback as the wrong Earl of Whitelaw, then she might as well have remained in America and let Maman's death go unavenged. Rising to her feet, she put a hand against the wall to brace herself as she smoothed her skirts and collected her wits.

Leonie's head jerked up. Whitelaw stood before her, his dark visage a mask of polite concern. She considered briefly, then stifled the impulse to flee and nodded.

How distressing to be reminded_and how dare he stand there staring down at her with that cool, confident smile on his handsome face, as if he knew how attractive he was, how intimidated he made her feel . . . how his voice seemed to reach down into her with the potent heat of fine brandy . . . "

"My step father once lived in Georgetown," He was saying, "but it was over ten years ago, He rarely speaks of his travels, but my mother tells me it's a lovely region."

His step father . . . his step father . . . God, it's his step father who raped and murdered . . . "Yes," she said, when the silence stretched to long, aware of his narrowed stare, the cock of his dark brow and his faint smile. "Parts of it are certainly lovely, though much of it is giving way to new buildings and construction . . . If you will pardon me, I do feel a bit unsteady yet."

But Whitelaw moved swiftly to cup her elbow, his hand easily supporting her as she eased back to the bench cushion. His hand lingered, fingers strong and demanding upon her arm.

Perhaps swooning would have to remain the convenient excuse for her peculiar behavior, she thought with angry distraction. She took several deep breaths to clear her head, aware of him so close to her, his hand upon her arm, the heat of his body a raw force that threatened to suffocate her. He was unnerving. And he was the wrong man.

Yet he was acquainted with the right man . . . Perhaps all was not lost. Through the stepson, she might yet reach her goal. To reach that goal she would do whatever was necessary . . . anything!

Shadows draped the recess beneath the stairs, and light filtered through potted palms into the alcove to barely illuminate Leonie Sinclair' face. Wide_eyed, she stared at Duncan in the thin light. A delicate fineness of bone structure rescued her features from the ordinary and made them striking. High cheekbones, a full mouth with well_shaped lips, and wide_spaced gray_no, green eyes were made unusual by a trick of fate. Adam was right. She was a prime article.

"I've seen better actresses in the pit at Covent Garden," he said when she did not reply to his observation, and saw her eyes widen absorbing dull light like a cheap mirror.

Little Cat! It was an unexpected response. He had anticipated the usual demur, the protests that she truly was of a delicate constitution_or maybe even a shy confession that she had wished to speak with him alone_but not this frank surrender and even more blunt admission that she did not desire his company.

"Am I that heinous?" He moved to sit beside her on the bench. She did not move coyly away, but gazed at him with a steady gaze. A pulse beat in the hollow of her throat; ivory skin gleamed softly in the pale light as she seemed to consider his question.

"Ah, I see. Well, then in answer to your question Duncan Macleod, having just made your acquaintance, I could hardly say whether you are heinous or not. Did you follow me just to ask that question, my lord earl?"

"Not entirely." His eyes narrowed, noting that brown lashes lowered over a gleam in her eyes she couldn't quite hide. For the first time that he could recall, he wasn't certain of a woman's motives. It was intriguing.

She turned slightly, giving him an excellent view of the tops of her breasts above the edge of her bodice_a deliberate ploy that revealed an enticing shadow between them. Tempting. Provocative. And damned distracting.

He dragged his attention slowly away when she said in husky, beguiling tones, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do not wish to court unnecessary gossip or nasty speculation as to our activities in a dark corner. Your reputation may thrive on such, but mine, I assure you, will not."

She rose from the bench and he rose with her, putting out his arm to delay her progress, stretching it in front of her so that she halted and turned to look up at him with a haughtily lifted brow.

"Only for a moment." He resisted the sudden impulse to touch a single pale curl that draped her bare shoulder; it drew his attention back to the pale gleaming breasts, rounded and perfect above her demure bodice.

She meant it. There was determination in her eyes, a hot, fierce gleam that convinced him. He let his arm drop and she moved past him without a backward glance to glide gracefully across the hallway and toward the ballroom.

Duncan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Twice in a space of a few minutes, she had given him the cut direct. It was as irritating as it was intriguing.

"I say, Duncan, looks as if the lady isn't that interested. I'm shocked." Adam Pierson loomed out of the dim alcove shadows, grinning like an idiot. "My first opinion of her intelligence had just been proven."

Adam glanced after Miss Sinclair with a thoughtful expression. "Not at all," he said with a shrug. "But the lady certainly is. If I were as plump in the pocket as you are, I'd have a go at her myself, but I need a wealthy wife instead of a beauty."

It would do no good to remind Adam that he had only himself to blame for his lack of coins; gambling whittled away what fortune he had inherited from his mother, while his father, the Baron Wilkenshire, habitually gambled away his own bank account. And then the tragedy of Adam falling in love with Lady Amanda. Not a difficult thing to do. It was just a stupid thing to do.

Duncan regarded him with a lifted brow. "Who said it was a business venture? However, since you mentioned it, you should make wise investments. If you did, perhaps you could afford Miss Sinclair or another lady of your choice."

Adam shrugged. "That's easy enough for you to say when all you have to do is crook your finger and females flock to you. It'd be simpler to understand if it was only your money, but from the sighs and moans of unrequited love I hear, you've something more to offer than mere coins."

"Yes. It's a title. Women may claim to want only love, but beneath the simpering sighs and fluttering hearts, you'll find a tenacious desire to control. They just cloak it in vows of passion and loyalty."

"You would, of course, deny any involvement with the luscious Countess D'Argent, for instance? Or the ever so lovely Lady Montravers, neither of whom need another title when they have their husbands' names and money?"

Adam laughed when Duncan merely cocked a brow at him, then inclined his head toward the ballroom and said with a meaningful glance. "Here come the fairest of my lady loves."

Lady Amanda, daughter of a baron, the wife of the viscount of Cresswood, glided toward him on an inexorable course, her scent and smile promising pleasant diversions.

An insatiable lover, Amanda was still a beauty. It had been three years since they'd slept together. The parting had been amicable enough, with both moving onto other partners. Now she was wed to a viscount, her goal at last attained.

Another playful tap of her fan on his arm, and she released his hand to run her fingers up his sleeve in a light caress. "My, my, we do have our preferences straight. What makes you so certain you would kill my husband in a duel? You might__" she leaned close, her breath, a warmth against his cheek "only draw first blood."

"And let it be, Duncan Macleod?" Amanda laughed low in her throat. "I always said you were a dangerous beast." She drew back slightly. Excitement gleamed in those amber eyes, a golden glow that couldn't hide the sheen of barely concealed lust. Many were their nights together when he'd left her bed with claw marks on his back, marks she'd made in the heat of passion.

Now she leaned even closer, displaying the generous swells of her breasts. She rouged her nipples; they were clearly visible beneath the low bodice of her gown, and invitation and promise.

"I've missed you, Duncan," she murmured, and he took her hand from his sleeve to bring it to his mouth, lips grazing her knuckles lightly at first, then with his teeth. She drew in a sharp, excited breath.

She smiled. "He has his uses__and give him a silken whip and ropes and I can quite forget about how you can make me feel the same excitement_only without the toys."

"Require much more time than we'd have here," he cut in. He flicked the backs of his fingers against the soft curve of her cheek in a light rebuke. "Don't tempt me. I've enough temptations."

"Yes, so I saw earlier." Unperturbed by his refusal, quite confident in her own beauty and ability to arouse him, she tilted her head toward the ballroom. "That milk and water 'bitch' with no manners. Lady Jonas presented her as her protege, but I'm doubtful she'll be accepted. It will be surprising if Lady Jersey grants her a voucher for Almack's."

"Several hundred, but all purely personal. Do give it a try. It should be amusing to observe. I predict she will be quite overcome by your attentions, but hardly swept away." Again the folded fan tapped his chest playfully. "I recognize her type, Duncan. Ice runs in her veins instead of hot blood as in mine. You'll grow weary of trying to thaw her out and seek a warmer bed quite soon. My bed is always . . . very . . . warm."

The last was said huskily as she drew her hand from the slim column of her throat to toy with an ornate crystal_and gold_necklace circling her neck. Long fingers twisted the crystal pendant that dangled between her breasts, dragging it over plump swells to caress the rouged nipples so easily visible beneath her plunging bodice.

"Yes, my handsome, dangerous cavalier. I certainly do. Go now, for I see that the little colonial has present you with a challenge, you're determined to meet. When you tire of the cold, I'll be waiting."

Duncan left the alcove and reentered the ballroom. He hadn't bothered correcting Amanda. Let her think what she would. He had no intention of explaining his true reasons for being here. He just wished he knew what to think of Leonie Sinclair.

Was she a green_eyes little witch who had managed to wheedle her way into a society where she didn't quite fit? Or were there darker secrets that lay beneath the facade of a guileless American? Was she involved in the conspiracy and anarchy with James Carson? He was a rum one, and the reason for Duncan's brief voyage on the bucket known as the Liberty. Yet it didn't seem likely that Leonie Sinclair was part of the conspiracy. What would she have to gain? She wasn't English and had no vested interest.

Yet there had been deceit in those wide green eyes, a glint that promised hell to pay for the man bold or foolish enough to try to peel away the layers of guile to get to the truth. It should be easy enough to do. Yet it should have been easy enough to intimidate her. But Leonie Sinclair had not been intimidated, or even interested. She had been_indifferent.

He saw her on the dance floor, where she stood out in an endless sea of females clad in pale muslin or silk or satin. She wasn't the tallest woman there, or even the most beautiful, but she was definitely intriguing.

She had accepted a dance with Walter Stapleton, the youngest son of a landed baron, and Duncan watched as she performed the steps of the contredanse with fluid grace. The hem of her gown lifted around trim ankles as her feet moved across the floor, slippers glittering with golden threads that caught the light.

As the musicians ensconced upon a dais at the far end of the ballroom began playing a waltz, he approached Lady Jonas and her charges, a colorful flock of silken birds chattering like guinea hens when he reached them.

"Do you waltz, Miss Sinclair?" His question cut across their chatter like a knife. Instant silence resulted at the breach of etiquette in directing his request to her instead of her chaperone.

As he suspected she would, Miss Sinclair accepted his challenge and allowed him to take her arm and lead her onto the dance floor. She moved a bit stiffly in his arms, obviously uncomfortable, but kept a smile on her face as she gracefully followed his steps.

The waltz allowed him to hold her hand and put his free hand on her back, though social protocol demanded that he not slide it lower than her shoulder blades. Deliberately he slid it to the small of her back, fingers a light pressure against firm flesh instead of one of those corsets women had taken to wearing again. A bloody nuisance, in his opinion, and damn inconvenient to remove. Warm female flesh beneath thin silk instead of stiff whalebone was much more enticing.

He pressed it even lower and she took a jerky step away from him. Not releasing her hand, he turned her in the steps, at last moving his hand up her back again. She was stiff, unyielding, her face a set mask of white fury and blazing green eyes that narrowed up at him like a cat, spitting fury and uncertainty. Her tawny hair was piled atop her head and he found himself wondering what she looked like with her hair tumbled across a pillow, those lips parted and her eyes half_closed . . . A tempting thought.

Her head tilted back smoothly, so that her eyes met his in a steady gaze. "If you find me unresponsive to your charm, my lord earl, I can only assume that you wish to charm me. Is that the case?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. Her apology was too ready and too glib; he didn't believe it for an instant. "Apologies are easy, Miss Sinclair. What restitution do you offer?"

The waltz would be ending soon. He steered her toward the far end of the ballroom, a subtle move that she had not yet noticed. She arched her head to look up at him.