"Yes, one must sense the opponent's energy to know what he'll do before he does it. Try to break free of my hands, and I'll try to keep you blocked."

Having seen her fight, he thought it was entirely possible that she knew what her opponents would do before they did. No matter how he moved his arms, she stayed with him as if glued.

"This is rather like a fighting waltz." He added footwork to the sticking hands, and they began moving across the wide chamber like dancers. It didn't matter whether he pressed forward, slid sideways, or fell back-she stayed with him, her smile teasing and her feet swift as a Scottish dancer's. He moved faster and faster until they were both panting, yet they stayed joined like a man and his shadow.

As his blood raced through his veins, he remembered the intimate dance they'd shared the night before. Desire grew until he could think of nothing else. But how to break free of her sticking hands and do something about it?

He mustn't plan his movements, since she could read his intent. Instead, he would think of that luscious mouth, that slender, flexible body, the generosity of her lovemaking.

Jettisoning conscious thought in favor of instinct, he dropped his arms, breaking the contact between their hands. Then he caught her around the waist and swept her from the floor. "Victory! Now there's another kind of two-person exercise we must work on."

Though she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, she panted, "They say it's dangerous to go from chi exercise to mating, my lord. The fire element might take over and damage one's internal organs."

He blinked, distracted by the vibrant female form in his arms. "Really?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "But I'm not sure I'd want to risk it."

He kissed the pulse in her throat. "Surely the danger will be past by the time I transport you to the chamber below."

She gave a gurgle of laughter. "I'm sure you are right, my lord." As he carried her down the pa.s.sage to their bed, she nibbled his ear, purring like a cat.

Laughing, they tumbled down together, stripping off their garments so they were flesh to flesh. Her ivory skin was like satin, infinitely touchable. He tried to kiss every bit of it as his hands roamed over her, remembering what she'd liked most.

She was a symphony of slender limbs and gentle female curves, except for the glorious richness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You're more delectable than Chenqua's banquet," he said huskily. "A feast fit for a king."

"I wouldn't want a king, unless he made love as you do." She nipped his shoulder as her hips ground into his.

"Mei-Lian." He separated her legs with his knees. "Beautiful Willow."

He entered slowly, in case she was sore from the night before, but she refused gentleness. Marvelously fit and strong, her body heated from the wing chun exercises, she was like a tigress who demanded equal wildness from her mate. They rolled from the blankets to the floor, oblivious to the chill of the stone.

He came to rest on his back, holding her on top of him. She gasped when he let her set the tempo of their mating, radiating delight as she experienced a new range of sensations, and the power of being in control. Until control shattered and pa.s.sion claimed her, body, mind, and voice.

As her breath slowed toward normal, he locked his arms around her and rolled again so that he was above. He allowed himself half a dozen slow strokes, exquisite almost beyond endurance, withdrawing barely in time. His climax left him panting and half-paralyzed with pleasure and exhaustion.

"You, my dear girl," he groaned, "are learning the ways of lovemaking far faster and better than I am learning tai chi."

She gave a rich chuckle that reverberated against his chest. "Then you must be a better teacher than I."

He rolled to his side, glad that they'd managed to end up on the. blanket, since he was too drained to move. "Or you are a better pupil."

She slid her knee between his and relaxed with a sigh of pleasure. "How splendid to be well suited."

Well suited was an understatement. He hadn't felt such physical fulfillment in years. Perhaps never- He cut off the thought. The past had no place in this moment.

They lay twined together until it began to rain. Drops of water fell through the light holes above to patter on the floor. Dreamily Troth said, "The poets call intercourse 'clouds and rain' because that's a symbol of the mating of heaven and earth. Clouds rise up from the earth to meet the rains descending from heaven."

"You mean that some of the pretty Chinese nature paintings I have are actually symbolic s.e.xual union?"

"It's a favorite subject for artists."

"I can see why." He stretched. "But now it's time to break camp and set off again, though I'm not sure if I have the strength to stand up, much less trek all day."

"There is a Chinese practice that might interest you." She sat up on crossed legs and began to comb her hair. "When men join with their wives and concubines, they usually do not release their ching-their seed. This conserves the yang, their male essence, so they may couple again and again without exhaustion, drawing strength from the female yin essence."

"Really?" He took over the combing so that he could bury his hands in her lush tresses. She tilted her head back trustingly as he worked the tangles loose. He took his time, enjoying the task, for he'd missed this kind of gentle domesticity as much as he'd missed having a beloved sleeping partner.

"I can't imagine how it works," she confessed, "but I'm told that when a man masters this technique, it creates both great pleasure and remarkable endurance."

He tried to imagine how that could be done. Perhaps it might be... possible. "Did you learn of this from your friend Ling-Ling?"

"She was an excellent source of information," Troth said demurely. "But there were also many books in Chenqua's library."

"I saw such a book in Canton." It had been pa.s.sed around with leers and embarra.s.sed snickers after dinner one night, along with the port. "I couldn't read the words, of course, but the pictures would be considered p.o.r.nography in Europe."

She frowned. "Fan-qui men are like giggling boys when it comes to s.e.xual relations. Taoism teaches that fulfilling s.e.xuality is essential to a harmonious life, so there are many texts describing how to achieve it."

Perhaps that was why Troth had an openness about s.e.x that would be unthinkable in a European virgin. "You didn't describe this part of Taoist theory. Tell me more."

"Females have endless yin essence, so a man should prolong their union to absorb as much as possible," she explained. "It's important to join with those of a happy, loving temperament, because lovers absorb energy from each other, and one doesn't wish to take on tainted energy." She smiled mischievously. "It is essential for a man to fulfill his partner, because that way he will gain the greatest yin from her."

He began braiding her silky hair into a queue. "I can see why Chinese women approve of this philosophy. But what about households where men have several wives and concubines?"

"To be truly master of his house, a man must keep all his women satisfied. That is why he withholds his ching, so he can fulfill his obligations. Ten times a night is considered a good number."

He gasped. "How many men perform regularly at that level?"

"Not too many, I suspect, but that's the traditional ideal. The books say that withholding yang produces a very powerful fulfillment called the Plateau of Delight. Releasing seed should be done only from desire to make a baby. That is called the Peak of Ching."

Enchanted by her scholarly manner, he said, "Fascinating. I shall have to experiment." And if Troth was right about the Plateau of Delight, he would be able to find his pleasure without withdrawing. European s.e.xual practice was beginning to look downright crude by comparison.

She glanced over her shoulder with a delicious smile. "I should think that learning how to do this would require much practice."

He grinned back at her. What a splendid, splendid prospect.

Chapter 21.

England December 1832 Troth's trunk of personal belongings arrived at Warfield Park two days before her hosts' annual Christmas ball. She'd thought the trunk must have been lost, but apparently it had just come on a slower ship than hers.

After the departure of the footmen who'd delivered the trunk, she knelt and unlocked it. Inside were mementos of her Chinese life, just as she'd packed them in the Elliott hong. Sadly she took out the embroidered scarlet gown that Kyle had given her. She had been so excited and pleased at his generosity. She set the folded gown aside, regretting that she'd never had the chance to wear it for him.

She rummaged through her possessions and retrieved the dozen of her father's books that she'd managed to keep after his death. She found comfort in lining them up on the shelf usually occupied by volumes borrowed from the Warfield library. Belongings helped define who one was.

A knock signaled the arrival of Meriel and her maid. "Time to prepare you for the ball," the countess announced. "The seamstresses worked all night to finish your gown."

Troth admitted them, bracing herself to be buffed and polished. She would have preferred to hide in her room and read during the ball, but couldn't. Though no one had said so in as many words, the ball was being used by the Renbournes to make a public statement that they had accepted her as a member of the family.

While Meriel curled up in a chair, the maid set to work on Troth's hair in a style ironically known as a la Chinoise, which meant brushing the hair back into a braided chignon, with delicate curls at brow and temples. Though the style wasn't very Chinese, with flowers from Meriel's conservatory woven into the chignon, the effect was pretty.

Next came the undergarments, including the padded stays necessary under an evening gown. Troth endured the tightening of the laces stoically. Europeans condemned Chinese foot binding, but any society that had invented the corset had a lot to answer for.

Last of all, the evening gown was dropped over her head and the ties pulled to mold it to Troth's figure. Much discussion had gone into choosing the fabric.

Mrs. Marks, one of Meriel's aunts-except that it turned out she was not an aunt, but some sort of cousin-had explained the rules of mourning to Troth. The death of a spouse required twelve months of sober clothing and behavior. Unlike China, where white was the color of mourning, here garments of dull black must be worn for six months, and the mourner should avoid social activities. After that came "second mourning," which could include somber grays or lavenders and touches of white.

Meriel had refused to order black garments for her guest, since Chinese customs were different, but she'd agreed with Mrs. Marks that for the sake of propriety Troth's first public appearance should be in second mourning. The dressmaker had produced a beautiful figured silk in subtle shades of lavender that complemented Troth's coloring.

Having left the design in the capable hands of Meriel and the dressmaker, Troth was shocked to look into the mirror and see herself. "I can't wear this in public," she said with a gasp. "It's... it's indecent!"

Meriel frowned. "Indecent?"

Troth had become somewhat accustomed to form-fitting European dresses, though she preferred the looseness of Chinese garments. She'd also been pleased to discover that the b.r.e.a.s.t.s that had seemed vulgarly large in China qualified as nicely proportioned here.

But that hadn't prepared her for a fashionable evening gown. She stared at the vast expanse of bare flesh, dismayed at the way the corset conspired to make her b.r.e.a.s.t.s look positively enormous. "This fits like a second skin and it has no top!"

"Because you're in mourning, it's actually cut rather high, as ball gowns go." Meriel tilted her head to one side pensively. "Chinese clothing is very different?"

"A woman's body should not be exposed to the eyes of any man but her husband. Even the throat should be covered. Female garments have high collars for that reason."

"Can you bear to wear the gown?" the countess said gently. "You look very fine."

Troth took a deep breath-which made the neckline even more alarming -and tried to see herself objectively, without embarra.s.sment. The gown was beautifully cut and fitted, and it made her look almost English, except for her eyes.

She wanted desperately to look English. "I... I can bear it, if that is your wish."

"What matters is your wish."

Troth bit her lip. Though all of the adult Renbournes she'd met encouraged her to state her preferences, she still slid automatically into deference. But she was an English lady now, a viscountess, and ent.i.tled to have opinions of her own. "I... I wish to wear this gown because Kyle would have wanted me to look my best for his friends and family."

"Very good." Meriel opened a velvet-covered jewelry box and took out a magnificent necklace made of five strands of seed pearls joined by a series of gold plaques set with amethysts. "This might help with the neckline."

"How lovely." Troth touched the silky pearls with her fingertips. "Such splendid jewelry is allowed during mourning? "

Meriel shrugged. "We have bent other rules."

"Then thank you for lending this to me."

Meriel fastened the wide necklace around Troth's neck. "The necklace and matching earrings are yours, a gift from Lord Wrexham."

"From the earl? Why is he so generous when he scarcely knows me and would never have approved of my marriage?"

Meriel sighed. "It's a kind of mourning for him, I think. He can do nothing for Kyle, so he wished to do something for you."

Troth should have guessed that herself. Carefully she removed the gold studs from her ears and put in the swinging pearl-and-amethyst earrings.

Having her ears pierced had been enormously exciting. Earrings were one of the female things she'd craved most, but of course Jin Kang couldn't wear them. She didn't care that the new earrings would hurt because they were heavy and her ears were not fully healed. Tonight she was unmistakably a woman.

"There is another gift as well." Meriel handed Troth a heavy bangle-style bracelet, a hoop made from sinuous lines of gold.

Troth's gaze dropped to Kyle's ring, which had been cut down so she could wear it on her left hand. "This is the same design as my... my wedding ring."

"They're of traditional Celtic knotwork. Both ring and bracelet came from the family of Dominic and Kyle's Scottish mother."

Troth stroked the intricate, twining pattern. "Surely this belongs to you."

"Family jewelry is not owned but held in trust. Kyle would have liked you to have the bracelet, I think."

Tears stung Troth's eyes. "You are all so kind."

"You have enriched our lives, Troth." Meriel gestured to the maid. "I must dress now. I shall collect you when it is time to make an entrance."

The countess returned after a surprisingly short interval, looking stunning in a jade green gown that intensified the pale green of her eyes and made her hair shine like moonlight. Beside her was Dominic, who said, "You look quite amazingly beautiful, Troth. My brother always had excellent taste."

With a smile he offered his left arm. With Meriel on his right, he escorted his two ladies down the broad staircase and into the ballroom. In his dark evening clothes he was strikingly handsome, and achingly like his twin.

By this time Troth had seen enough of Dominic so that she would never confuse him with Kyle, but it was impossible not to imagine what it would have been like if she'd been entering her first ball on her husband's arm. When he looked at her, there wouldn't have been the pain that showed deep in Dominic's eyes. Instead, Kyle would have regarded her with a lover's intimacy and private promises.

Swallowing hard, she concentrated on meeting the other guests. The names and faces went by in a blur-a vicar and his wife, a general, a baronet and his lady, and surprisingly, a dark, bearded man wearing a turban with his well-tailored evening clothes. The guests were startled by her foreignness, but none seemed contemptuous.

And some of the men regarded her with unmistakable male interest. Once she'd craved that kind of attention. Now it made her nervous because she couldn't imagine having anyone but Kyle as her lover.

Her initial nerves faded as the music began. Meriel's aunts had decreed that Troth shouldn't dance because she was in second mourning, a judgment that Troth accepted with relief. Though she would enjoy dancing when the time was right, for now it was better to watch and make the acquaintance of the local ladies.

As the evening progressed, she realized that there was always a Renbourne near her, un.o.btrusively ensuring that she was not left alone to feel awkward. Kyle must have been greatly loved by his family to have earned the care extended to his widow.

After an hour or so, Meriel approached with her face flushed from dancing. "Troth, I thought you would particularly enjoy meeting our neighbor, Jena Curry." After performing the introductions, the small countess floated away. Troth was bemused to see that Meriel had shed her silk slippers.

Jena Curry was a tall, handsome woman with dark hair and eyes. Troth loved meeting women taller than herself, such as Jena and Kyle's sister, Lucia. "How do you do, Mrs. Curry? "

"Call me Jena, everyone does. Will you join me in a stroll through the orangery? The air will be fresher there."

Troth accepted the invitation. It was a relief to visit the peaceful orangery, with its blossom-scented air.

"I love this place." Jena touched a brilliant scarlet flower. "Someday we'll build an orangery at Holliwell Grange, though it will look odd. The Grange is far less grand than Warfield, just a large farmhouse, really."

"To have such beauty all year round is worth a little oddness. I love to come here. With the heat and the plants, it reminds me of South China."

"It makes me think of India." In a rustle of skirts, Jena settled on a bench surrounded by luxuriant plants.

Troth sat next to her. "You've visited India? "

"I was born there. My father was an officer in the Indian army."