"What do you think?" Charlotte asked, eyeing the crowd of brilliantly gowned ladies and splendidly dressed gentlemen gathered in the ballroom at Somersville Manor.

"Of what?" Eliza replied.

"You know perfectly well what I am asking, Eliza. There must be at least eight eligible suitors in this room. I have not seen you do more than nod to any one of them. Smile. Or at least take the frown from your face."

Eliza lifted the corners of her mouth, but she knew the expression-fell far short of genuine. She had nothing to smile about.

Julian had refused to marry her. Oh, he had couched his refusal in noble terms: he did not want to leave her a widow if he was killed in battle. But his answer was no.

She felt absolutely ill watching him smile indulgently at another young lady flirting behind her fan. Miss Whitcomb could not be a year older than her, but was obviously a diamond of the first water-petite and pretty and demure.

Three things Eliza would never-could never be.

Julian had signed Eliza's dance card for the dance after supper, thereby ensuring they would not spend the supper hour together. At a guess, she would say he was purposely avoiding her. And no wonder.

She had embarrassed herself and him with that unwanted proposal. The scene in Julian's rooms replayed painfully in her mind, as it had a hundred times since she had endured it four days ago.

"I want you to marry me," she had said, throwing her arms around Julian's neck.

She had felt his body stiffen, felt the rejection without words being spoken. He had reached up to grasp her wrists and remove her hands, then held them securely before him. After a long pause, during which he studied the toes of his Hessians, he had looked into her eyes and said with gentle humor, "It is the gentleman who usually proposes, my dear."

"I am afraid you will not ask. At least not soon enough to do me any good."

The muscles in his jaw worked, and his face turned to stone. "Who was he? Who dared-"

His hands tightened on hers until she cried out in pain. He let her go and took a step back, but she could feel the tension radiating from him, feel his dark eyes boring into hers. What had she said wrong? Why was he so angry?

"Who was the man?" he demanded, his voice menacing.

She had no idea what he was talking about. When she stared up at him, confused, he came to his own conclusion.

"Marcus! Damn him! That he should dare to bed my own cousin! How did he get you alone? When is the child due?"

"Child? Dear God, what are you saying!" Then it dawned on her what she had unwittingly said. I am afraid you will not ask. At least not soon enough to do me any good. Julian thought she needed a husband because she was pregnant!

He had already reached the door, muscles flexed and bent on mayhem, by the time she caught his arm.

"Wait, Julian!"

"Don't try to stop me!" he snarled, shaking off her grasp. "If Marcus was fool enough-"

"He did nothing! It was Nigel!" she cried.

Julian let go of the doorknob and turned to her. The blood drained from his face, leaving it white and drawn. "My own brother defiled you?"

"He only kissed me," she said, her voice quavering. "I dropped a pot of flowers on his head and ran away that same night. Captain Wharton merely helped me find my way to you." The captain had kissed her as well, but she did not think now was the time to confess it.

She edged between Julian and the door, then stepped close enough to notice a tiny scar cutting through his eyebrow. He had never looked more virile, more dangerous, or more attractive. She felt so lightheaded, she thought she would swoon. This was how she had always imagined it would feel to be with him. She shivered as his dark eyes focused on her.

She laid her hands against his iron-muscled chest and said, "I am not safe with your brother, Julian. And I have nowhere else to go. That is why I asked you to marry me. And ... because I love you."

Her stomach dropped when he winced at her declaration of love.

"My poor poppet," he said, drawing her into his arms and pressing her head against his shoulder with his open hand. "I am so sorry."

Poppet! That was a name for a child-the child she had been two years ago, when he had last seen her. She was a woman now, one who loved the feel of his strong arms around her, the beat of his heart, the smell of his shaving soap. She had to make him see her as she was.

"Julian, please. I will make you a good wife. I promise I will learn to curb my tongue. I will-"

His fingertips pressed against her lips, forcing her to silence. "Shh, Eliza. Don't say any more. I cannot marry you, child."

She stared at him accusingly until his hand fell away. She swallowed past the sharp-edged lump in her throat and rasped, "Why can't you marry me?"

For long moments no answer-no excuse-was forthcoming. Finally he said, "You know Napoleon has escaped from Elba."

She nodded.

"I must go back to war, Eliza."

"It could be months before-"

"Bloody hell!" He gritted his teeth and said in a carefully controlled voice, "Forgive me. You should not be subjected to such language. It is only that this situation-"

"Is a bit unusual?" she offered.

He responded with a rueful smile. "To say the least."

"I think-"

"Let me finish, please," he said, cutting her off. The humor was gone, and he was dead serious again. "You are too young to be a widow, Eliza."

"But you have never even been wounded badly," Eliza pointed out. "You are hale and hearty-"

"And headed back to fight again. No, Eliza. The answer is no." He tried to free himself but she threw her arms around his neck, clinging like a cat that makes a leap into space and sets its claws deep in the first solid object it finds. "Julian, please listen-"

His face hardened, and his dark eyes threatened violence. "I cannot be cajoled. Eliza, there are things you do not know ... things I cannot tell you-" He ruthlessly pulled her hands free and took a step back from her.

"Where will I go? What will I do? I cannot return to Ravenwood," she cried. "I am not safe there."

His lips flattened. His hands fisted. "I will speak to Nigel. Under the circumstances, he cannot object if you choose to live in your father's house. Would that be agreeable to you?"

It was not at all what Eliza wanted, but it would at least keep her out of Cousin Nigel's reach. And it was all Julian was offering. "Do you think Aunt Lavinia would be allowed-"

"Of course you may have your aunt with you, and as many servants as you need. Nigel will bear the expense. I will see to it."

Julian had ordered her to put back on her male disguise so she would not cause a scandal leaving his rooms. Which meant asking him to undo the buttons on her dress.

"How did you get them buttoned in the first place, if you cannot reach them?" Julian asked suspiciously.

Her color heightened. She knew better than to tell the truth. "It was not easy. Please, will you help me?"

He undid the buttons quickly and expeditiously, without any of the grazing touches and intimate caresses the Beau had employed. She fought back tears at this further proof that Julian did not see her as a desirable woman.

When the shoulders of the dress fell free, he hissed in a breath. And stopped.

She stood perfectly still.

His hands left the buttons and settled on her bare shoulders. He took a step closer, so she could feel the heat of him along her back, and laid his bristly cheek-dark with a day's growth of beard-against hers.

Her heart was thumping wildly. He would turn her around now and kiss her lips and acknowledge that he loved her, as she loved him.

"If things were different," he murmured. "If I were not already ... I am so sorry, poppet."

She made a sound of protest at the childish endearment and tried to turn to him. His grip on her shoulders tightened to keep her where she was.

"Please, Eliza. I am not free to love you."

"There is someone else?"

He gave her no answer, merely repeated, "I cannot marry you."

She moaned.

He kissed her temple and let her go. "When you are ready, join me outside." He was gone before she could plead with him further.

She had cried as hard as a person could and still not make a sound that would carry through the door. Somewhere between tying Julian's borrowed neck cloth and pulling on his Hessians, she had decided she would simply refuse to take no for an answer.

Julian would be with her for two weeks at the Braddock house party. He would see her at her best. There had to be a way to make him fall helplessly, hopelessly in love with her. If only she could figure out what it was.

She endured an awkward moment at the door to Julian's rooms, when she faced the Beau with puffy, reddened eyes, but she bluffed her way through it.

When the Beau walked away, it felt as though they had left something unfinished between them. In the hours it took for Julian's great-aunt Sophie to pack, Eliza had figured out what it was.

Her seduction.

Thank goodness Julian had arrived when he did. But she could not help but wonder what it would have been like to have the Beau kissing her when she was kissing him back.

When she and Julian finally reached Somersville Manor, there had been a very brief, very private-but very ugly-scene in the library between Julian and his brother. A swollen-nosed Cousin Nigel had left for Ravenwood as soon as his bags were packed.

Great-aunt Sophie had been enjoying herself immensely, and looked forward to meeting Aunt Lavinia, who was due to arrive within the week to join the party. She would stay to chaperon Eliza during her journey home-to the hunting box where she had grown up.

Eliza had spent the past few days being totally ignored by Julian. Charlotte was right, though. She should be wearing a smile on her face to prove to Julian that he had not broken her heart. Even if he had.

Her eyes widened as a tall, blond gentleman dressed in the uniform of Julian's regiment-the Prince of Wales's own 10th Royal Hussars-greeted Julian.

Him. What was he doing here? How dare he follow her!

Eliza gestured with her chin. "What is that soldier doing here, Charlie?"

"Who? Oh, Captain Wharton? I invited him. He does wonders for that uniform," Charlotte said, eyeing him appreciatively. "Do you not think him handsome?"

"The man is a rogue, a rake, a seducer of women," Eliza retorted. She ought to know. He had almost seduced her. If Julian had not interrupted them ...

Charlotte pursed her lips. "I see you have heard the rumors about Captain Wharton. I suppose he is something of a rake. But one cannot expect perfection in everything."

"Fiddlesticks," Eliza muttered. "He is coming this way."

Charlotte caught Eliza's elbow before she could escape. "Stay and meet him."

"I have-" Eliza cut herself off. Julian had warned that under no circumstances must she tell anyone, especially not the Countess of Denbigh, what had transpired to cause her delay in arriving at Somersville Manor.

Now here he was to remind her of her entire disastrous detour. She felt like telling Charlotte that the Beau's reputation did not do him justice. She knew firsthand how beguiling he could be. Why, the man could give lessons in seduction!

The man could give lessons ...

It was as though someone had brought a branch of candles into a darkened room. Here she stood, desperate to make Julian fall in love with her and without an inkling of how to accomplish it. And who should arrive but the most infamous rake in London. Captain Wharton was just the person to ask for advice! The Beau was practiced at seduction. He could teach her exactly how to win Julian's heart.

Her brow cleared, and her lips curved in a welcoming smile. "Captain Wharton. How lovely to see you again."

Since the moment he had entered the ballroom, Marcus had been captivated by the sight of Miss Sheringham. He was annoyed with himself for being so spellbound by the chit. She was not even pretty, with those odd-shaped, tawny gold eyes, and cheekbones that left hollows below, and a too-wide mouth.

And she was dressed all wrong.

The chit was wearing scarlet. Young ladies wore white, or pale pastels. He had seen the pointing fingers, heard the titters behind her back at the unseemly choice. He blamed the Countess of Denbigh for not taking her protegee to task. Unfortunately, the countess was as little inclined to follow the rules as he knew Miss Sheringham to be.

The square bodice was not cut low, but with Miss Sheringham's ample bosom, it did not have to be. The puffed sleeves sat at the very edge of her shoulders, leaving a great deal of deliciously bare skin. She looked like a courtesan in a roomful of virgins.

Her hair was stacked on her head in touchable, flyaway curls that dripped onto her nape, and she wore two-inch-high red satin pumps. With the extra height at top and bottom, she was taller than every unmarried man in the room, except himself. She had even surpassed Julian by an inch.

That had provoked a great deal more staring and pointing. Personally, he could not be sorry for either addition. He fought the urge to replace those curls at her nape with his lips, and he wanted desperately to feel how her body would fit against his when they were nearly the same height.

He had watched her from the second-floor balcony above the ballroom since the party had begun, long enough to know that no one except Julian had signed her dance card. He suspected the countess would inveigle her husband to dance once with the chit. But it was plain Miss Sheringham had not taken. Foolish, foolish gentlemen. They had chosen the pretty shells and left the pearl behind.

He could not resist such easy treasure.

You promised you would stay away from her. You made special plans to avoid her.

So why was he walking toward her now, like a moth drawn to flame, unable to resist the light. Like a lemming toward the cliffs above the sea?

Marcus could have been entertaining himself with a host of beauties. But none had her husky voice. Or her forthright gaze. They giggled and simpered and cast coy glances at him from above their fans. He found them insipid. And boring.

He wanted to hear her voice. See her eyes. Touch her silky skin. Put himself inside her.

"Captain Wharton," the countess said with a warm smile. "Here I was, ready to introduce you to a friend of mine, when I suddenly discover you two have met before."