"Seven years," she replied.

He detected a note of wistfulness in her words. "You miss it."

She turned away. "Yes."

"And do you miss your husband?"

A flush stained her cheekbones, highlighting the freckles scattered across them. Her brilliant green eyes narrowed in reproach. "That is an impertinent question, sir."

"I specialize in impertinence, as you may have noticed. Last night at dinner I detected a note of unhappiness in your voice when you spoke about him." Jade. That was the color. Her eyes reminded him of Chinese jade.

She pursed her lips. "My husband and I had a marriage of convenience, sir."

"Ah . . . so you mean you do not miss him." He smiled.

She gasped and blushed a deeper shade of pink. "It is none of your business."

"Not that I blame you," he interjected. "He sounded like a rather dull fellow, a poor match for someone of your obvious wit and intelligence."

"Come now, my lord, none of your flummery." She tilted her head to look him in the eye. "Her Grace warned me about you, you know."

"Did she?" He quirked an eyebrow. "And just what did my great-aunt tell you?"

"That you were a rake and a scoundrel who left a trail of broken hearts in his wake."

His smile turned suggestive. "I do have that reputation."

"You sound rather proud of it."

"Why should I not be?"

"So you enjoy breaking hearts?" Her amazing eyes regarded him with undisguised interest.

"Do I?" The back of his neck grew hot. "That is a rather singular question, Mrs. Mallory."

"I do not see why you alone have license to be impertinent," she declared. "Well, do you?"

How quickly she had put him on the defensive. Thrust, parry, and riposte, indeed! "I don't think I've broken too many," he replied. "And certainly not on purpose."

"But if you know you might break your mistress's heart eventually, why do you do it?"

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Her gaze did not waver. "Why do you do it?"

"You mean . . . why am I a rake?" he asked, incredulous. Ye G.o.ds. No other Lady of Quality would dare ask him such a thing. "Do you always speak your mind, Mrs. Mallory?"

"I do when I think someone is evading my questions."

Touche! Bainbridge threw back his head and laughed. Lord, she intrigued him more with each pa.s.sing moment! "Then I shall have to be honest with you, ma'am, or you will never let me hear the end of it. The truth of the matter is that I enjoy women-and sampling the different pleasures they have to offer."

The blush in her cheeks spread over her entire face. "I see."

"Most of the attraction is physical; surely you can understand that, having been married."

She ducked her head, and did not reply.

Ah . . . the demure little widow had gotten herself in over her head. He chuckled. "I admire long legs, a lovely neck, and a slender figure with a high, rounded bosom. Nothing too overblown. A figure, in fact, rather like yours."

Her eyes rounded in surprise. Then her lips flattened, and she started to pull away from him. "Really, my lord. You are doing it again."

"Never say I didn't warn you. But I'm not finished."

"That's quite all right. You have satisfied my curiosity."

"Oh, come now, Mrs. Mallory," he reproached her. "You wanted an honest answer, and I am attempting to give you one. Or are you afraid to hear it?"

She straightened, a rebellious set to her chin. "I am not. Pray continue."

He slowed to a halt and leaned closer to her, close enough to smell her perfume, an exotic blend of sandalwood and gardenia. "I was saying," he murmured, "that most of the attraction is physical, but not the entire focus of my interest."

"Is it not?" Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

"No." He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. She shivered at his touch. His groin tightened. "I also favor a woman with a ready wit and more than a modic.u.m of intelligence. A woman who has seen something of life and knows what she wants. What do you want, Mrs. Mallory?"

She gave a visible swallow and looked up at him. "Then why not marry, my lord? Why not find a woman who attracts you on both points?"

He leaned closer still, until his mouth was inches from hers. "Now you are evading my question, so I'll ask you again: what do you want out of life? Really want?"

"I. . .Idon't. . ."

Her rosy lips parted. That was all the invitation he needed.

He kissed her. Not a forceful kiss, for that would frighten her, but a gentle, teasing kiss designed to test her response, to draw her out. Or at least that was what he intended. She tipped her head back, her warm lips parted beneath his. Lord, she tasted good, like exotic spices and sunshine. Her sandalwood perfume enveloped him. Every nerve in his body flickered to life.

He shifted an arm around her waist; she trembled but did not resist. He pulled her to him, inordinately pleased to discover the narrow span that lurked beneath the acres of fabric she wore. A narrow waist, flaring hips, and more bosom than he would have imagined. Intoxicating. With a groan, he cupped her rounded bottom, pulling her hips against his.

She stiffened, gasped, then wrenched herself away from him, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes ablaze with green fire. Her fingers shook as she touched her swollen lips. "What I want, my lord," she spat, "is to live without fear of being seduced by an unprincipled rogue!" With that, she clutched her shawl around her shoulders and fled through the opening in the boxwood hedge.

The marquess stared after her, breathing hard, his erection pressing against the tight confines of his breeches. His blood sang through his veins. G.o.d, he wanted her. One kiss, and he wanted nothing more than to sheath himself within her, to claim her completely.

Madness! He was getting caught up in his own trap.

He shook his head, as if he'd just emerged from a dream, and exhaled in a long sigh. Never had he lost control of himself like that, save when he was a callow youth. What was the matter with him? Something about her response to his kiss had tempted him past the point of reason-and all he wanted right now was to kiss her again. He hadn't felt this great an attraction to a woman since . . . well . . . his current mistress. He grinned. At least he knew he hadn't lost his charm.

The marquess pulled out his pocket timepiece. The others would be back soon. At least he'd had time to put the first portion of his plan in motion, if not the most critical part. Resolving to seek out Mrs. Mallory later, he tugged at his rumpled jacket and started off in the direction of the house.

When his relations returned from their outing, the marquess found the duke surly, the d.u.c.h.ess near tears, Lady Elizabeth petulant, and the dowager up in the boughs. Without so much as a glance left or right, her face pinched in a terrible scowl, the dowager started up the stairs to her room. The duke offered to a.s.sist her, but she waved him away. The d.u.c.h.ess and her sister retreated to the drawing room and closed the door.

Bainbridge turned to his cousin. "What happened?"

"We tried to talk with her," Wexcombe replied with a growl. "Asked her to come and live in the dower house. Demmed stubborn woman won't see reason."

The marquess folded his arms over his chest. "You mean she won't accede to your demands. Devil take it, I told you-"

The duke cut him off. "I've had enough of this, Bainbridge! She should be at home with her family, not gadding about like a giddy schoolgirl."

"Wexcombe, you're about as subtle as a hammer to the head," the marquess said with a sigh. "You cannot use your rank and position to bully your own grandmother. Let me talk to her."

"I doubt you'll be able to do any better," snapped the duke. "You know what she's like once she has set her mind to something."

"I just hope you haven't made a mull of it. After all, you want to persuade her to enjoy your company, not escape it."

Wexcombe scowled. "I tried, Cousin, but I've never known anyone to be so willful."

"You haven't been going about it the right way. Persuasion is the key, not force. I'll see what I can do." With a nod to the duke, Bainbridge started up the stairs.

He knocked at the door to her room. "Great-Aunt Josephine? Are you in? It's Bainbridge."

The door opened a crack; the dowager's maid regarded him with distrustful eyes. "Her Grace is resting, my lord."

The marquess presented her with his most dazzling smile. "Please tell Her Grace that I would like to see her."

"A moment, my lord." The abigail closed the door.

A few heartbeats later, Bainbridge was ushered into the dowager d.u.c.h.ess's sitting room. The dowager reclined on the chaise before the fireplace, a blanket over her knees. The marquess's heart sank. Lord, she looked so drawn, so tired, so . . . old. She stared into the fire, her complexion ashen.

"h.e.l.lo, Aunt," he said softly.

Her dark gaze swiveled to his face. A spark of interest glittered there for a moment, then disappeared. She turned back to the fire. "Hmph. Are you here to take a turn at me, as well?"

"Not at all. May I sit down?"

The dowager made a vague gesture toward the Chippendale chair across the hearth from her; Bainbridge lowered himself into it and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Well, what is it, then?" the dowager asked, her wrinkled lips still pursed in a frown.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Jo," he said. "I had no idea they planned to do this."

"I should hope not," she snapped. "I should hate to have to disinherit you, as well."

"You don't want to do that. They meant well; truly they did."

The d.u.c.h.ess rose to a sitting position, her eyes flashing. "Oh, they did, did they? Cow-handed idiots, the lot of them! Think they can put me out to pasture like some broken-down nag. Balderdash. I won't stand for it. This is my life, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I let that popinjay grandson of mine dictate to me!"

A smile curled at the corner of Bainbridge's mouth. "None of your die-away airs now, ma'am," he drawled.

The dowager squinted at him, then guffawed. "Oh, Nicholas, they have me in such a pet. Pour me a gla.s.s of brandy-for medicinal purposes, of course."

"Of course." With a grin, Bainbridge rose and crossed to the washstand, where the dowager kept a bottle of smuggled French brandy and a gla.s.s in the small cupboard beneath it. That he kept her provided with the contraband liquor was their secret; if smuggled brandy kept her happy, all the better. He poured a small amount into the gla.s.s, then handed it to her.

"You're a good lad, Nicholas," sighed the dowager. The rings on her fingers flashed in the firelight as she took a sip. "I am relieved to see that someone in the family inherited my intelligence."

He folded himself into his chair. "But I am only your great-nephew by marriage," he pointed out.

The dowager harrumphed. "Then that explains it. A pity one cannot choose one's blood relations." She peered at her gla.s.s, then at him. "And how is Kit?"

His pulse leaped at the mere mention of Mrs. Mallory's name. His pulse and . . . other portions of his anatomy. He shifted on his chair. "I believe she is much improved, ma'am."

"Good. What do you think of the girl?"

One corner of his mouth twitched. He was sure the dowager didn't want to hear his salacious thoughts. "Girl? She is a bit old to be called that, don't you think?"

"Oh, bosh. At my age, everyone younger than fifty is a mere babe. Besides, she's only five-and-twenty. Hardly long in the tooth."

He raised an eyebrow. "And why are you telling me this, ma'am?"

"Well, because I want your estimate of her character," she bl.u.s.tered.

"She seems a pleasant enough lady," he hedged. "Then again, I must admit that I hardly know her." Though I find myself particularly eager to make her most . . . intimate acquaintance.

She took another sip of brandy, coughed, and fanned her face with her kerchief. "No, no, stay there; I am quite all right. I met her onboard the Daphne, bound from Calcutta. She nursed me through that most dreadful pa.s.sage; most of the time I was ill with horrible bouts of mal de mer. Eh . . . I do not wish to remember it too closely.

"Kit is a delight, Nicholas, and not only because she sees me as a person, not as a doddering eccentric whose presence is to be tolerated. She treats me with respect and genuine affection, which is more than what I've received from my own family of late. Now, what do you think of that?"

"Such a friendship is commendable, Your Grace."

The dowager fixed him with a pointed stare. "Then why does no one else in this house seem to agree with you?"

"Your Grace?"

"Oh, come now, Bainbridge, it's as obvious as this beaky nose of mine. Do you think me blind as well as deaf?"

"Neither, ma'am," the marquess was quick to reply.

"Well, my grandson apparently does. And I think I know the reason."

"And what would that be?"

The dowager snorted. "They think she's after my money."

"And you do not?" he inquired with great caution.

"You must believe Wexcombe's absurd prating if you think me so d.i.c.ked in the n.o.b, Bainbridge. Kit is not after my money; her late husband left her flush in the pocket. Do you think I don't realize what all this is about? This sudden push to get me to give up my independence, and the reprehensible treatment of my young friend?"

"You cannot blame Their Graces for being concerned for your welfare," Bainbridge gently replied.