"As for the Company of Rogues . . ." he said.

The gentleman on her other side turned and answered. "Schoolboy nonsense," Lord Charrington said, "but the bonds still hold, and prove useful at times. As in arranging this alfresco alternative to the deadly crush inside."

Lucy turned to David. "You're a Rogue, too?"

"Too young, and I didn't attend Harrow as they all did. Amleigh is, however."

The men began to tell schoolboy tales, but their wives must have heard them too many times, for Lady Arden moved the discussion on to principles of education.

Lucy considered friendship. How would it be if a group of the girls she'd grown up with had formed so close a bond? Wonderful, especially if it lasted all life long, despite distance, changes, and marriage, but she only had Betty, and now that Betty was married, it would never be the same.

She'd never realized until now how much she'd lost in a year.

Her mother had been a dear companion, and her father stimulating company. At his side she'd met a wide range of City men. She'd had Betty as a close friend, and so many other, more casual ones, all close at hand. She'd generally been so busy that finding time alone to catch up on her reading had been a challenge.

These days she exerted herself to avoid uncongenial company, and the only company she truly enjoyed was David's. But could he be considered a true friend if he kept secrets? Add to that, he made no secret of thinking she'd be miserable in his home area, and she feared he might be right!

As the group rose to return to the ball, Mrs. Delaney came over.

"Are you quite well, Miss Potter?"

Lucy supposed she had been silent for a while. "Perfectly," she said with a smile.

Mrs. Delaney smiled back, but seemed unconvinced. "I gather Maria Vandeimen is an old family friend, but we can never have too many allies. We're at Lauriston Street, number eighteen. If you need a friendly ear, or any other a.s.sistance, please visit. We're not gadabouts, even in Town."

Lucy thanked her and escaped, disturbed that her anxieties had been so apparent, and by the word "allies." A different concept to friends, and one that implied contests, even wars.

She remembered how perceptive Mr. Delaney had seemed and decided to keep her distance from that couple.

The next morning she tried to make sense of everything in her journal, but ended up drawing hearts and flowers. An artist, now, was she? Love seemed to turn the most rational person into a pigeon brain!

She forced herself to write.

I love him.

I believe he loves me.

I'm accustomed to London.

He lives in a distant place Of cliffs and mists.

Can love survive Such rude transplantation?

However, can a plant survive Without love?

There she had it. Love was a tyrant. It allowed no liberty. Now, she had to make him see that.

She was desperate to meet him and talk about all this, but the next night would be Clara's ball and there were many minor tasks to be done. Aunt Mary protested at one point that Lucy shouldn't feel obliged to help, but Lucy hardly felt she could flit off and leave her aunt and cousin in such a fret. She pinned her hopes to the evening, when they were to go to the theater.

They did leave the house at one point, but only to the shops in search of some particular flowers that might suit Clara as a headdress.

When Aunt Mary suddenly decided a string of artificial pearls would do, Lucy felt that was a better idea, but they returned home without a Wyvern encounter. Just as well, really, for it was hard to imagine how even the most ingenious gentleman could have wooed her in the busy shops and streets, and to pay him there would have shocked the ton.

She must wait for the theater. They would meet there.

As soon as she entered the box, she saw him across the auditorium. His eyes met hers, unreadable at that distance, but he inclined his head. It made her think of two opponents acknowledging their upcoming battle, but she still couldn't suppress a smile before looking away.

Stevenhope was in the Galloway box, seeming completely satisfied with Lady Iphigenia. Clara was right. The girl managed to look as if she hadn't a firm bone in her slender body. That first ball seemed so long ago. Outram and Stevenhope had almost come to pistol point over her in another world. Now she was in a new world, a new magical circle, and it was one that completely absorbed her.

The play was some vaguely medieval piece, but Lucy hardly paid attention. She was waiting for the first intermission. She left the box with her relations to stroll in the corridor, but Wyvern didn't come to her. She didn't even see him.

He couldn't renege!

When she returned to her seat, he wasn't in his.

Had he left the theater?

No. He was truly in compet.i.tion with her, and playing a game.

What should be her next move?

She almost didn't leave the box at the next interlude, but that would be no fun. As soon as she did, there he was, coming straight to her in the manner of an urgent suitor.

No, in the manner of one sure of possession.

A few other gentlemen had gathered around her and she was tempted to play a game in return, but she never had the chance. Wyvern walked through them as if they didn't exist and captured her lilac-gloved hand.

He raised it close to his lips, looking into her eyes, and simply said, "Miss Potter," as if his life was now complete.

Surely other suitors had done the same, but if so, it hadn't had the same effect. It was infinitely more powerful than poetry.

"Lord Wyvern," she said, which should have seemed inane, but didn't.

He tucked her hand into his arm and led her away. No one stopped them. Good heavens. He'd as good as stamped her with his mark. It was what she wanted, but it was still shocking.

"You're bold, my lord."

"I established my claim, as we agreed. I always attempt fair trade."

"As any good merchant should."

"Role reversal, Lucy? Do you intend to lord it over me?"

"I might if I could, but my s.e.x prevents me. As it does so many things." She hadn't meant to let that slip out. "When and where do I pay you?"

"In a while. So you can't be a lord. What else does your s.e.x bar you from?"

She suddenly wanted to give him the truth. "I dreamed of being my father's heir and successor."

"In business?"

"I see it shocks you, too."

"Yes. Unfair, perhaps, but it would be hard. I would rather keep you from all harsh winds."

She was startled by true tenderness in his eyes and needed to kiss him, but though they'd walked to the end of the corridor she saw no possible concealment.

Of course they could be outrageous and commit themselves here in the blaze of a dozen candles.

Then he pulled back one of the curtains that hung all along the wall. She'd thought them ornamental, but this one covered an opening and he slipped them quickly behind, into a narrow, circular stairwell. The only light was from below.

"Where's this?" she whispered.

"Probably for use of servants, but if we're lucky, none will pa.s.s this way in the next little while."

There had been only a few people in the end of the corridor, but they would have been seen. He was giving service to a scandalous degree, but Lucy didn't care. He was hers, and they would wed, and he would shield her from harsh winds.

The narrow s.p.a.ce only just allowed the two of them to stand together, so they were close, sharing warmth and subtle smells.

"This reminds me of Winsom's," she murmured.

"How?"

"The s.p.a.ce is narrow and you are large. I thought you dangerous then."

"And now I'm not?"

She met his eyes. "And now I know you are."

"You don't look afraid."

"I'm not."

She put a hand on his shoulder, perhaps to restrain him, though she could never hold him off. Perhaps simply to touch. "How much of a kiss do I owe for such ardent attentions?"

"You dictate the nature of the kisses."

"But I want to be fair."

"I did mighty service," he murmured, almost into her ear.

Dry mouthed, she whispered, "A long kiss, then."

"If you dare. Too long, and who knows where it might end?"

"Then I will be cautious," she said, giving him a peck of a kiss, only half teasing.

She tried to squeeze past him, but mostly in a game. As she'd expected, as she'd hoped, he caught her around the waist.

"Not so fast unless you want to trigger another duel."

Even in a game, she was captured by a man who could overpower her with ease. As she remembered. Her heart thundered and she was hot, dizzy, and breathless with hunger for more.

By accident or design she was now on a higher step. At a better level for kissing.

He nipped her ear. "You should pay in full."

"You wretch!" But it was a whisper. She could indeed exclaim in a whisper.

He licked where he'd nipped, then kissed behind her lobe in a secret place. The warm, moist touch seemed more wicked than any kiss on the lips. She realized she was stretching her neck as if asking for more, and that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s . . . her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were aching. Demanding.

"We mustn't . . ." she said.

"We are." He blew into the trailing curls at her neck, making her bite her lip.

"Let me go."

"I'm not holding you."

He wasn't. She turned slowly against him, looking at him, seeking the truth. She saw it, a need as powerful as hers.

"Why?" she whispered.

"This isn't what you want?"

That isn't an answer to my question. But the heat inside her was building. She cradled his head and kissed him, pressing herself against him. Such sweet relief. Such fierce hungers.

They sealed together, hotly intimate in a way she'd never experienced before. A wicked way. A perfect way.

This, this . . .

This was the mystery she'd never quite understood, taking over her body in fire and torment. She pressed harder against him. His hand pushed up her skirt, grabbed her thigh, pulling her leg up, opening her.

Shocking her, but she stretched wider, as wide as she could, her foot pressing against the far wall. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He'd freed a breast, was kissing there, sucking there. . . .

Oh, sweet heaven!

Then he thrust backward, hitting the wall behind, not far, not far enough, but far enough for air and sanity to return.

She stared at him, wanting to scream a protest, knowing she'd narrowly escaped the worst, but wanting, desperate for, the best.

He sucked in breaths, and simply said, groaned, "G.o.ddess . . ."

Lucy knew if she pressed forward, tempted, offered, they could do it here, now, in a staircase. She'd never begun to imagine such a thing, but she knew it now, could envision it, in a tangle of bodies and limbs so very like those Indian drawings.

No, no, not like this.