He kissed her just above her triangle of pale blond curls, her stomach drawing in tight, while a fist of aching need lodged between her thighs.

Then he was pulling down her trousers, stripping them to her knees before yanking one leg completely free, a shoe tumbling to the floor along with it. She didn't have time to say a word, or even think, before he dropped to his knees and kissed her again-in the last place she'd ever thought to be kissed!

Arching upward onto her elbows, she tried to reach forward, tried to tell him to stop. But in the next second, her body bucked against his mouth as he did the most incredibly wicked thing with his tongue. Suddenly she didn't want him to stop at all, knew it would have killed her if he did. Or she would have killed him, the ache throbbing like a heartbeat deep in her core, begging to be assuaged.

Sliding down again onto her back, she lay there atop the desk and let him take her with his mouth, whimpering and moaning with each new sensation. His palms slid under her buttocks, spreading her wider, angling her so she was totally at his mercy.

In those moments, she felt as if her very breath, her life, was completely dependent on his next move. He lapped longer, deeper, apparently relishing how wet she'd become, enjoying her every groan and quiver, as though he were dining on some succulent dessert.

She wasn't sure how much more she could stand, how far he could take her before she went mad. Her fingernails slid against the smooth wood surface of the desk, searching for purchase and finding none. She nearly roared with frustration.

"Please," she moaned. "Oh, please."

He paused for a moment, leaving her in even worse agony than before, especially when he slid a finger inside her and began to stroke. "Please what?" he asked in a deep devil's voice.

"Y-You know."

"Know what?" he teased, stroking her deeper.

"Don't be horrid," she panted on a moan.

He laughed. "But it's so much fun." Then he grew serious again, easing two fingers inside her so that her flesh pulsed around him. "Beg me, Claire. I want to hear you say my name while I drive you wild. Say it while I make you come."

She gasped, but couldn't stop herself. "Pl-Please, Edward. Please."

Smiling, he went back to his ministrations, sliding his fingers free again as he drew upon her with even more intensity than before. He swept her high, then higher still, his name on her lips often as he truly did drive her wild. Quaking in his grasp, she was nearly incoherent by the time he brought her closer. Opening his mouth over her, he raked her with his teeth in a way that sent her plunging hard over the edge.

Bliss shook her, her body trembling, rapture soaring through her as though she'd taken flight. A keening cry sang from her throat. "Edward!"

Then she couldn't speak, limp and lax and satiated.

Standing, he glided his palms over her body, caressing her with bold, possessive strokes that were a claiming of their own. Leaning over her, he took her mouth in another long, rapacious kiss that drew a fresh moan from her. He straightened and reached for the buttons on his falls, his erection straining visibly against the cloth.

A knock sounded at the door. "Your Grace, are you there?"

She and Edward both froze, his head whipping around as the doorknob began to turn.

"No!" he ordered loudly, his voice harsh and strained. "I mean, do not come in!" Turning in a protective move, Edward placed himself so that his body blocked as much of hers from view as possible.

The door opened the faintest crack, but not enough to see inside. "I am sorry to interrupt, but I have additional correspondence to be signed. I can come back later."

This time she recognized the voice. It was Mr. Hughes, Edward's secretary.

Her passion vanished. Suddenly cold and violently aware of her state of undress, she sat up and began tugging her clothes into place.

Edward took a few steps toward the door. "Yes, come back later. I am...busy at present."

"Oh, of course, Your Grace. So sorry to have disturbed you."

Hughes shut the door, his footfalls retreating in the direction of his office. Crossing the room, Edward reached for the key and turned it in the lock.

She'd just fastened her trousers and was searching for her shoe when he returned.

Without a word, he leaned down and picked up a small black leather men's dress pump. "Looking for this?"

"Y-Yes," she said, doing her best not to notice the very obvious erection still tenting his trousers. Accepting the shoe from him, she fit her stockinged foot into it.

"Your waistcoat is misbuttoned."

Her gaze flew to his. "What?"

"Your waistcoat," he said. "You've buttoned it wrong."

Automatically, her fingers moved to the garment, searching for the mistake.

"Here," he said in a gentle voice, brushing aside her hands. "Allow me."

Rather than argue, she lowered her arms to her sides. "How can you be so calm?" she murmured after a moment, unable to meet his gaze.

"My rigid control, remember?"

Of course, that's not the only thing that was rigid about him at the moment. She suppressed a blush at the thought.

As for his remark, she knew he was teasing, but she couldn't laugh. Another minute and he would have taken her. Another minute and she would have let him, and gladly. And then where would her plan have been?

Mr. Hughes, quite ironically, had saved the day. Or her virginity at least. So why wasn't she happier about it? Or at least relieved?

But I am. Of course I am, she told herself.

"Claire."

She forced her gaze up to meet his. "Yes?"

"Everything will be fine. You're not to worry. Not about anything." Finishing with her waistcoat, he drew her coat closed and buttoned it too, giving the hem a quick, sharp tug to set it to rights.

"There. No one will suspect. Except for your hair." Reaching out, he combed his fingers through her locks-what little there was left of them. "I wish you hadn't cut it," he mused, rubbing the end of one short strand. "Your hair was so beautiful."

"It'll grow back."

"And so it shall." With a sigh, he lowered his hand. "I think you should set a date."

"Excuse me?"

"For our wedding. I want you to decide on the day, and likely sooner rather than later. If you prefer, we can wait long enough to arrange a formal church ceremony. It's what Society will expect, I am sure. Let's limit the guest list to no more than five hundred though. Anything additional will start to take on the trappings of an army encampment."

"But-" she said.

"And the talk will die down much sooner if we make the announcement now," he continued in a matter-of-fact tone. "Better to have this new scandal over with quickly and out of the way."

Like our wedding, she thought. Another duty fulfilled, another responsibility to check off the list.

Her heart sank to her stomach, realizing that he was just as adamant as ever about proceeding with their marriage. Perhaps doubly so because of the intimacy they'd just shared, and had shared in the past as well. But as intense as their passion, it didn't change any of the essentials between them.

She still did not want to be wed out of obligation.

And he still did not love her.

So even if her heart was shredding to pieces inside her chest, her decision about their union remained the same.

For a moment, she almost wished he would lie. That he would take her in his arms right now and spin some faerie story to convince her what it was she wanted to hear. She was vulnerable enough right now that she might let herself believe him, even if his words were nothing but falsehoods and deceits.

But he didn't take her in his arms.

And he spoke no words of love.

Because Edward Byron did not lie.

Thank goodness, he hadn't a clue how she really felt about him. Nor did she plan to enlighten him.

A deep weariness passed through her, along with a chill that made her think of January rather than the presently warm days of May. "I believe I'll go upstairs and change. I need to return to skirts, I believe."

"Cousin Wilhelmina would be aghast if she saw you in your current attire, so yes, go change before she and Mallory get home. Your hair is going to take enough explaining as it is."

He paused as if he might say something further about the wedding date. To her relief, he did not. "I shall see you at dinner then. I think it might be wise to stay at home tonight."

She opened her mouth to disagree, but realized that she wouldn't mind a quiet evening tonight. Along with a measure of time to consider exactly what she should do next. "Yes. All right."

Catching hold of her hand, he pressed a kiss against her palm, then released her. Escorting her to the door, he unlocked it and sent her on her way.

As soon as Claire was gone, Edward closed the door again, crossed to the nearest chair and sat down. Shutting his eyes, he fought for composure, willing the fierce arousal that still plagued him to subside. If not for Hughes's inconvenient interruption, Edward knew he would have taken Claire right there on the desk, despite the fact that she was a virgin. Truly, she drove him mad, scattering his senses to the point where all he'd been able to think about was having her, regardless of the location or the propriety or the consequences.

Lucifer's tail, what a place for a consummation-or rather a near consummation.

Any other girl would have slapped him, but not Claire. Then again, no other young woman of his acquaintance would have dressed in men's clothes, snuck into Brooks's Club, won at cards against a bounder, then come home to battle toe-to-toe with her fiance.

Despite his earlier fury, he couldn't help but admire her panache. She possessed the most indomitable spirit he'd ever encountered, almost fearless at times-proud, beautiful and determined. She would make him a magnificent duchess once she settled down-and once he got her to the altar.

He hoped she would do as he asked and set a wedding date. And one that wasn't too many months in the future, since he didn't know how much longer he could manage to keep his hands off her. Not that he'd done terribly well on that score today. Even now, he wanted to go upstairs to her room, strip her to the skin and continue what they'd started here in his study. Wouldn't she be surprised if he barged in. Maybe he'd even find her in her bath. His erection throbbed with renewed strength, reminding him exactly how unsatisfied he was and how long he'd been without a woman.

But he didn't just want a woman. He wanted Claire.

What was it she'd said about him being too controlled? With her, he wasn't nearly controlled enough. Just a touch of her sweet lips, the brush of her delicate hand, and all he could think about was losing himself inside her. He would never have expected it, but she had a way of stripping him of his civilized veneer and leaving only the man behind. An incautious man who'd been on the verge of tupping his fiancee on top of his desk.

Blister it, why had Hughes had to interrupt? And why do I have to act the gentleman now rather than going upstairs to do as I so badly wish to do?

But he wouldn't.

It might half kill him, but he would be patient awhile more. In the end, Claire would be his. Once she was, there would be no more talk about wanting her freedom. She wouldn't have the time or the need, not with him keeping her satisfied-first as his wife and later as the mother of their children.

Groaning at heated thoughts of exactly how they would make those children, he shut his eyes again and stared counting backward from a thousand. He'd reached the midsix hundreds before he decided he was steady enough to resume his usual activities.

Standing, he walked to his desk and realized he probably ought to set the surface back to rights rather than leave it to raise speculation among the staff. As he rounded the corner, he caught sight of an object lying on the carpet. Bending, he picked it up.

It was a small golden frame decorated with ivy leaves. Inside was a painted miniature of Braebourne, the stately house's honey gold stone gleaming in the sunlight. He'd had the picture on his desk for years, a reminder of his home in the Gloucestershire countryside. It had always been one of his favorites. Claire must have knocked it to the floor during their lovemaking. Smiling at the recollection, he went to put it back where he'd always kept it. Suddenly he stopped, rubbing his thumb over the gold as he thought again of Claire. That was when he remembered the miniature he had of her.

Years ago, her father had sent him a likeness of Claire to reacquaint him with his betrothed. At the time, he'd had scant intention of going through with the marriage and had tucked the small painting away in a drawer.

In this very desk, if he wasn't mistaken.

Setting down the Braebourne miniature, he began opening drawers in search of Claire's likeness. He was on his third one when he found it, hidden in the back. Untying the strings of a black velvet pouch, he let the miniature drop into his palm.

And there was Claire, smiling and lovely and looking so very young. She couldn't have been more than fifteen at the time, he realized. Still just a child. No wonder he'd run from the arrangement. No wonder he'd dismissed her and buried this portrait away where he wouldn't need to be reminded of his then-unwanted obligation.

But she wasn't a child any longer and he wasn't running from their betrothal now.

Ironically, she was the one doing the running this time. But he was catching up and would soon have her firmly in hand with her vows spoken and his ring on her finger.

I shall have a new miniature painted, he decided. This one of Claire in all her womanly glory.

As his duchess, there would be official portraits of her commissioned to hang in the family galleries, both here and at Braebourne. As for the miniature, however, that he would keep for himself. And he would place it right here on his desk. Or inside his pocket, were he of a mind.

Gazing again at the painting of young Claire, he was about to slip it back inside its pouch, when he stopped. Leaning forward instead, he propped the portrait next to the rendering of Braebourne, pleased by the result.

Once again surveying the mess he and Claire had created, he returned to his straightening up.

Chapter 18.

Over the next two weeks, Claire and Edward settled into an unspoken truce of sorts. For her part, Claire didn't engage in any new acts of rebellion. As for Edward, he refrained from pressing her further on the topic of a wedding date.

That first morning following her visit to Brooks's Club had been an unhappy one as she'd pleaded unsuccessfully again with Edward to let his brothers remain in Town. But despite her entreaties, and those of Mallory and the twins themselves, Edward had remained unmoved. And so, at exactly ten o'clock, a coach containing Lords Leo and Lawrence and their baggage had rolled away, leaving London far behind.

Claire found herself wondering when, or if, she would see them again, her conscience weighing heavy over the fact that she had gotten them banished. But then she had no time for further reflection about that particular transgression, since she had her own to explain. Beginning with her hair.

The moment Cousin Wilhelmina saw, she'd called for her smelling salts and fainted dead away into a nearby chair. Mallory, on the other hand, pressed her fingers to her mouth for a long moment and stared. Walking forward, she'd smiled at Claire, then leaned near. "It's just adorable," she'd whispered. "I only wish I had the nerve."

But over the next few days, Claire realized that Mallory was lucky she didn't, in fact, have so much nerve, since flouting social convention could elicit uncomfortable results.

For in spite of Edward's visible show of support, Claire found herself disinvited to several entertainments. Everywhere she went, people stared and whispered, and not in the sort of lighthearted way she'd experienced in the past. Not only was the Ton scandalized, many were openly disapproving; a few sticklers even gave her the cut direct.

Additionally, Edward's warning about Almack's proved true, when the patronesses withdrew her vouchers. With apparent gracious condescension-or so Claire was informed in the letter she received-the great ladies had decided to allow Mallory to retain her own vouchers, since she had done nothing untoward. Mallory, however, refused to use them, declaring that she would not attend the Wednesday evening dance, if Claire could not also attend. But at least Mallory was not being punished, since Claire couldn't have stood knowing she'd hurt her friend.

At first, she'd hoped the furor would unsettle Edward enough that he would change his mind and cast her out after all. But as always, he was unflappable, going on as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred.