"Chillingworth." With a genial nod, Lord Albemarle shifted his gaze to Francesca. "And this, I take it, is your new countess who I've heard so much about."

Gyles gritted his teeth and made the introduction. His hand lay over Francesca's on his sleeve; he squeezed her fingers warningly.

"My lord." Francesca acknowledged the introduction haughtily and made no move to slide her fingers from beneath the comfort of Gyles's warm hand. Lord Albemarle's eyes were too cool, his gaze too assessing.

His lordship smiled, fascinated, clearly intent on satisfying his curiosity, apparently unaware of the danger he was courting. She felt Gyles stiffen; she tensed herself, expecting him to excuse them with some cold remark-

"Gyles! How good to see you again." A lady, tall and imposing, appeared at Gyles's side. She was handsome in a hard, glittering way. Her gaze locked with Francesca's. "I did hear that you'd gone down to the country to get yourself a wife-I take it this is she?"

Silence stretched. Tense before, Gyles was now rigid; Francesca sank her fingers warningly into his arm. She held the woman's gaze.

Eventually, Gyles drawled, glancing briefly her way, "My dear, allow me to present Lady Herron."

Francesca waited, her expression serene, her head high. After a moment, two flags of color appeared in Lady Herron's cheeks. Less than cordially, she curtsied. "Lady Chillingworth."

Francesca smiled coolly, inclined her head, and looked away.

Unfortunately, toward Lord Albemarle.

"My dear Lady Chillingworth, I believe the musicians are going to favor us with a waltz. If you would-"

"Sorry, Albemarle." Gyles caught his lordship's surprised glance. "This waltz"-he put emphasis on the word so Albemarle would understand-"is mine."

With a curt nod to his lordship, another to Lady Herron, he stepped back. With a haughty nod for his lordship, Francesca followed. She ignored Lady Herron completely.

The instant Gyles drew Francesca into his arms, he knew they were in trouble. Thanks to Lord Albemarle, he was feeling too much like his barbarian self, his civilized mask thinned to a veneer. On top of that, one glance at Francesca's face, at the contemptuous light in her eyes, was enough to tell him that she'd guessed the connection between himself and Louise Herron. Through his hand at her back, he felt the tension vibrating through her, felt the ripple as her temper unfurled.

He steeled himself, inwardly swearing that whatever she said, he would not let her down; he would not, in this arena, react-

She looked up; the expression in her eyes was one of haughty disgust. "That woman is ill-mannered." Her gaze dropped to his lips; a moment passed, then her eyes rose to meet his again. The disgust was gone-something else, something very like possessiveness, flared in the green. "Don't you think so?"

Gyles found himself scrambling-mentally jettisoning the notion she was about to enact him a scene over his past liaisons, trying to grasp the fact that she was angry, yes, but not with him. And that anger, in this case, had given rise to... intent of a different sort.

The sudden surge of his reaction caught him; he tightened his hold on her. Without a blink, she stepped nearer. Her breasts brushed his coat, and she shivered and pressed closer yet.

He should have been praying all those watching would be struck blind; instead, he whirled her slowly down the floor, caught, willingly trapped, in the fire of her eyes.

Francesca understood-suddenly, blindingly-and instinctively reached for what she needed. Possessiveness, jealousy-she'd seen both in him, but never thought to find the same clawing need eating her from inside out. Tension held them, swelled and grew, like to like, reflected and intensified between them. It was she who shifted her hand to his nape, scored her nails lightly through the short hairs, he who held her so tight through a turn that their bodies sensuously rubbed, locked for one instant, then parted.

The tight sheath of emerald satin was suddenly constricting, a skin she needed to shed. They were both breathing shallowly, too quickly, when the music died.

"Come." Face graven, he kept hold of her hand, turned, and towed her toward the door.

"Wait." Francesca glanced back. "I came with your mother and Henni."

Halting under the archway, he looked down at her. "They'll guess you've left with me."

There was no question in his eyes, only a challenge. Francesca didn't hesitate-with a nod, she stepped past him.

He'd brought the town carriage. He handed her up, called a terse, "Home!" then followed her in. The instant the door shut, in the instant the carriage lurched and rolled forward, she turned to him, reached for him.

He reached for her.

She framed his face and their lips met, fused. She parted her lips, drew him in, invited, incited him to take. And he took. Greedy as she, as hungry, as urgent. Their tongues touched, tangled, dueled. She pressed closer, spread her hands over his chest, then found a stud and slid it free.

He pulled back, chest heaving, and caught her hands. "No. Not here."

"Why not?" She shifted against him, one knee over his.

"Because we're nearly home." He paused, then added, his voice gravelly and low, "And I want to peel this gown from you." He grazed one palm over the peak of her breast; they both watched the nipple pebble under the tight silk. "Inch by slow inch, and I want to watch as I do it." He raised his hand, speared his fingers through her hair, tipped her face up to his. Bent his head. His breath washed over her lips as he murmured, "I want to watch you. Your eyes. Your body."

His lips closed over hers, and she let him sweep her away, into a sea of hot desire.

The carriage slowed. He glanced out, then set her back on the seat. The carriage halted; they straightened their clothes. She felt as if her dress was barely on, barely capable of containing her. He descended and handed her out. Head high, she preceded him into the hall. She could barely breathe. With a nod to Irving, she headed on up the stairs. Gyles paused to speak with Wallace, then followed.

His fingers twined with hers as they walked down the corridor. By unspoken agreement, they touched no more than that-didn't dare.

"Get rid of your maid-you won't need her tonight."

Francesca slipped her fingers from his and opened her door while he walked on to his.

"Are you sure, ma'am?"

"Quite sure." Francesca shooed Millie to the door. The little maid went, reluctantly closing the door behind her.

The click of the latch echoed from the other side of the room. Francesca turned; she watched as, already coatless, Gyles pushed away from the shadows cloaking the connecting door. Their gazes locked as he approached.

Closed the distance, lifted his hands to frame her face, tipped it to his, then devoured.

They'd made love so many times, yet it had never been like this. She'd never been so greedy. So determined, so demanding. She taunted, teased-wanted more. Wanted him. He'd claimed her, branded her as his so many times. Tonight it was her turn. His turn to be possessed, to be the one taken-she would settle for nothing less.

She was prepared to settle for more.

Prepared to let him take the reins at the start, to acquiesce when, with their blood already up, pounding in their veins, he roughly drew back, turned her, positioned her so, bathed in the glow of the lamps burning on her dresser and the table by the door, she stood before him, facing her reflection in the long mirror.

"Inch by slow inch."

He'd warned her; now she watched, waited, as he unhooked her gown. His hands rose, pressing the back opening of the gown wide, then sliding the silk from her shoulders. The bodice fitted her well; he peeled the fabric from her curves. Her breasts suddenly felt cool, deprived of the heated silk, covered only by her fine chemise. He knew but only smiled at her quiver, leaving the gown in folds about her waist, urging her to lift her arms free.

She did, then didn't know what to do with her hands. Watching their reflection, she leaned her shoulders, now bare, back against his shirt-clad chest, then reached back and set her palms to his hard thighs, fingers gripping.

His expression hardened, but his gaze was fixed on her body, on her hips as he eased the gown lower. She kept expecting him to touch her, to set his hands to her chemise-clad skin to ease the nerves quivering beneath, afire with anticipation. Instead, he touched her not at all as, inch by deliberate inch, he pushed the gown lower, over her thighs.

Until, with a silken swoosh, it slid to the floor.

For one instant, they both gazed at the pool of emerald about her feet. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze and took in the tableau he'd created. Her hair was still up, startlingly black against the white of his shirt, a mass of curls cascading down to just brush her shoulders. Her arms were bare; from mid-thigh, her legs were, too. In between, the ripe curves of her body were veiled and mysterious beneath her thin chemise. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, its honeyed tones definite against his shirt, soft and feminine against the black of his knee breeches.

With her hands on his thighs, balanced before him, she felt like a prize, one he'd won.