Fortunately, he soon began to speak of other things, the theater, I think. I barely attended. It was all very disconcerting. And thrilling. And confusing.

If this is how gentlemen in town flirt, I will be obliged to develop a thicker skin. At least if this particular gentleman continues in this vein.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Bea lay atop her mattress, eyes wide open, staring into blackness. The rain continued to fall, but gentler now, pattering on her window, its quick rhythm matching the rush of blood through her veins.

Three doors down the corridor, Tip slept. At least she supposed he slept. She must be the only one foolish enough to still be awake.

Alone, wet and bedraggled, she had gone from the tower to the parlor to show her great-aunts that she was safe. She had not explained exactly how that came about, although certainly her appearance told its own story. Aunt Grace pursed her lips and remained silent. Aunt Julia wished her a good night's rest and said a bowl of porridge for breakfast would make her right as rain again.

Bea doubted it. The man she was now betrothed to was a stone's throw away. And she wanted him.

She ought to be exhausted, but her heart and body overflowed, drowning in the need to be close to him again, to feel him and assure herself that it had not all been a dream. Her skin still tingled everywhere he had touched her.

She turned over and slid her feet to the floor.

"Sleepless, even now?" the ghost said softly.

Bea drew in a slow breath. "You sound weary."

"It has been a long day, forsooth."

"I know what you did."

"What did I do, my dear?"

"You did all you could to assure this result." She stared at the window. The curtains were open, and she saw nothing but silvery drops sparkling on the pane against the night without. Yet she knew he stood there. "You taunted me in the parlor so that I would confess my feelings for him. When I did not oblige you in that, you frightened me so that I would accept him."

"You are wondrously clever, my dear, but regrettably softhearted. I fully intended to make you mine."

"I don't know that I believe you."

"It matters not. But I do regret that our betrothal should have been so brief."

She tilted her head. "Why did you do it? Don't you want to be free?"

"I want peace."

"But not love."

"Never." His voice sliced the stillness.

"Again."

Silence met her.

"You meant to say never again," she said.

"Wondrously clever," the ghost murmured, his tone smiling now. "Now go as you wish, and find your young lord. I will remain here, unmolested by human passions."

"Did you-" She must know. "Were you there the entire time?"

A moment's pause. "I found that I could not be."

Bea drew her wrapper around her shoulders. Casting a final glance toward the window, she stole out of her chamber. A dozen steps took her to Tip's door. Heart pounding, she grasped the latch and turned it. The door was unlocked. It creaked inward.

Across the chamber, Tip stood by the hearth. He wore only trousers and a deep green satin dressing gown tied loosely with a belt. Bea's heart climbed up her neck.

He seemed surprised to see her. An interminable moment passed before he turned fully from the fire to face her.

"Bea." His voice sounded very deep, the single syllable a question.

She took a fortifying breath, screwing up her courage. "I would like to do it again."

His gaze turned wary. "Do it?"

"Make love. Again. Now," she added to make certain he understood.

He stepped back. "Bea, as a gentleman of at least a modicum of remaining honor-"

"I would say a great deal of honor, given what you have sacrificed to save me."

He seemed to recoil. Bea's heart lurched into her stomach. He regretted it all. Why had she come? What could she hope to accomplish with this, except, perhaps, extraordinary pleasure with the man of her dreams?

"Be that as it may," he said tightly, "I would be taking advantage of you if I allowed it to be repeated before we are wed." His eyes seemed strange, evasive even as he looked straight at her, as though he weren't quite convinced of his own words.

Hope tingled in her. "But you do wish to repeat it?"

His brow creased. "How many times must I tell you- show you that I desire you for it to register in your thick head, Beatrice Sinclaire?"

"Perhaps several more," she whispered. "May we do it again now? Please?" Dear Lord, she was begging. But she couldn't stop. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her and move inside her. His words sent thick heat and a soft insistent throbbing between her legs.

He swallowed visibly, his throat jerking. Bea didn't know why the action should act upon her midsection like a torch. Perhaps it was because she had never seen his entire sinew-corded neck, his man's collarbone, and the tantalizing glimpse of his chest revealed where the dressing gown parted at the top.

She stepped forward.

He did not retreat.

"You won't make this easy for me, will you?" His voice sounded deliciously husky. Bea recognized that tone now. He wanted to do it again too.

"Why should I?" She moved toward him. "You haven't made it easy for me for years."

He obviously didn't like that. His gaze intensified, like the day before when they had quarreled. But instead of backing away as he had done then, he loosened the belt of his dressing gown and removed the garment.

"Allow me to apologize for that now," he said, draping it over a chair arm.

Bea froze. She had only seen a few men partially unclothed, mostly farmers, and none of them looked at all like Tip. Like a carved marble statue, but warm and alive, lean and powerful, with coiled muscle and smooth skin.

She breathed unsteadily. "My lord," she said on a weak breath.

"That is what they call me, yes."

Her gaze shot to his face. Was he laughing at her? He didn't look like it. He was most definitely not smiling, yet his tone recalled the teasing friend she'd known for years.

But her agitation would not be calmed. He was half-undressed and wholly breathtaking. She stood paralyzed.

Her confusion must have shown on her face.

"Before tonight, Bea, with me, had you ever touched a man?" His eyes retained that dark vibrancy.

Her mouth was incredibly dry. She had to moisten her lips to speak.

"Don't be silly," she barely managed. "Of course I had. Gentlemen have lent me their arms, helped me to mount my horse, taken my hand. Once I twisted my ankle by the Serpentine and my escort put his arm around my shoulders to assist me to a bench. And naturally I have danced with plenty of men. I have danced with you." Oh, Lord, she was babbling.

Tip gazed at her steadily.

She tried to swallow around the lump in her throat, without much success.

"You mean, have I touched a naked man, don't you?" she croaked. She couldn't believe her foolishness. She had given her virginity to him mere hours earlier, pressed against a stone wall for pity's sake, and now she could not speak ten rational words. She was hopeless. From babbling to tongue-tied. What an exceptionally talented seductress she was turning out to be.

Amazingly, he looked like he was withholding a smile. "You have not answered my question."

"No. Of course not," she replied promptly. "Well, only hands," she amended. One mustn't mislead under such circumstances. Miraculous circumstances, however they had come about.

His eyes shone like gemstones held before a candle. He moved to her, halting less than a foot away. The heat from his body dragged her senses farther into blissful chaos. He had bathed, and his hair was still damp. He smelled of soap and musky cologne that stole into her blood, intoxicating, weakening her with longing.

"Hands are a start," he said in a low voice. He grasped one of hers gently and drew it up between them. Holding her gaze, he turned it over and placed his mouth against the center of her palm.

Honeyed heat soaked her. It spun up her arm and all through her middle. She released a trembling breath. How could such a small caress affect her so thoroughly? Her fingertips curled, scraping across his whiskered jaw, driving the pleasure deeper.

"Touch me, Bea," he whispered against her sensitive skin, tracing her palm with his tongue in delectable circles.

"I-I don't know how," she gulped. Her gaze, suddenly shy, skidded over his shoulders and chest. "Or where."

He bent and kissed the soft inside of her wrist. "However you wish." His lips trailed a path of tingling delight along the soft flesh of her arm to the tender depression of her elbow. "Wherever you wish."

She loved the way his hair curled behind his ears to his neck, a little too long to be truly fashionable. She wanted to touch him there, and everywhere.

"Really?" Her voice wavered.

He straightened, and he gave her a delicious half smile. "Really."

She lifted her free hand, hesitating. He took in a breath, the pad of his thumb stroking her palm. She reached to the side of his face, slipping her fingers through his hair and around to his neck, the textures satiny and thick and so sublimely him. His chest expanded on another tight breath.

She slipped to the depression at the base of his throat, then lower. "Is this all right?"

"More than all right."

His skin was so hot, taut and smooth over hard muscle. She spread her fingers, her palm flattening, and shivers of need darted through her. Soft hair tickled the base of her hand, and she slipped her fingertips lightly down until she covered his heart. It beat strong and remarkably fast. Like hers.

Her thumb sought.

"You are so-" Her words caught, his flat brown nipple hardening beneath her touch. She stared. "Handsome." Male. Enthralling. Perfect.

"Thank you."

"I would like to kiss you like you kissed me yesterday." Her thumb stroked, and his hand gripped hers tighter. "It felt so good. May I?"

"Be my guest." His voice, rough and deep, rumbled in his chest against her palm.

Bea leaned forward and touched her lips to his firm flesh. He seemed to shudder. A thrill of purely feminine satisfaction skittered through her. She opened her mouth. He was hot and hard-muscled and he tasted wonderful-clean skin and perfect man. The man she had wanted forever. Her tongue stroked more boldly, and a sound of pleasure sounded from his chest.

She slid her hand along his ribs, under his arm and back. Muscles flexed beneath her touch.

Tip released her hand, sank his fingers into her hair and drew her up, ducking his head and taking her mouth with such sudden force Bea lost balance. His arm clamped around her and she grabbed at him, the strength of his body washing through her as his kiss devoured. His arousal was already obvious against her belly. She smoothed her hands along his corded arms, to his chest again, then around to his back, feeling, memorizing, making herself drunk on him.

His lips moved to her neck, freeing her to gulp in air.

"I want to keep touching you," she said.

"Never stop." His hands swept down her back. He scooped her up and Bea threw her arms around his neck.

He carried her to the bed, laid her down, and for an endless eternity of bliss, kissed her until she could no longer breathe. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her, but her body ached with need.

She broke free.

"Peter, make love to me now. I want to," she whispered, astounded at her brazenness. But he didn't seem to mind it. His eyes were like a forest at midnight, his dark, tousled hair tumbling before them. She reached up to smooth it back, and he caught her hand, pressed his mouth into her palm again, then bit down lightly. Bea gasped, her core clenching as though he touched her there. She wanted him to.

Her fingers curled around his hand. "Feel me, too. Please. Caress me."

He smiled. "Yes."

"Everywhere?" she said upon a breath.

His hand cupped her breast. "Everywhere."

Her nipple sizzled to life beneath his touch, hot coils of need descending swiftly. She reached for his waist, but he grasped her hands and pressed them into the mattress at her sides, and took the sensitive peak into his mouth. Through the thin fabric of her nightrail, he lapped her.

"Oh," she gasped, "my."