"But I won't regret a thing," she told him, threading her fingers into the silvery strands of hair that grew in among the black. "I can't." Sliding her fingers deeper, she cupped his head and tugged him closer. "Not when I love you."

He groaned, and she felt a shudder go through him. Then, with the force of the storm still raging around them, he captured her lips beneath his own.

Pleasure a.s.sailed her-hot, heady, and instantaneous. Surrendering without so much as a hint of caution, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth more fully against his.

With her lips parted, she invited him in, eager to claim and be claimed, in any way he desired. Closing her eyes, she followed his command, letting him draw her deeper into a world of sultry heat and indescribable bliss. A moan hummed low in her throat, then another when he reached up and covered one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his palm.

Her body throbbed, shivery tremors racing in riotous arcs across her skin. Her nipples drew into taut peaks beneath the damp material of her gown, every new touch of his fingers leaving her in a welter of antic.i.p.ation for the next. She whimpered, unprepared for the yawning need that poured through her. Using slow, measured strokes and leisurely circles, he caressed her flesh in ways that left her flushed and half-mad with desire.

Their kiss turned frenzied, an ardent joining that drove the very air from her lungs. Growing bolder, she intensified their embrace, turning their kisses into an unspoken challenge to see who could bring the other the greater pleasure.

Point to Quentin, she thought on a gasp as he caught her lower lip between his teeth to worry the tender flesh in a gentle but incredibly erotic way. Releasing her lip, he soothed the abused spot with a warm, wet stroke of his tongue before taking her mouth again in a kiss that was both dark and enthralling. she thought on a gasp as he caught her lower lip between his teeth to worry the tender flesh in a gentle but incredibly erotic way. Releasing her lip, he soothed the abused spot with a warm, wet stroke of his tongue before taking her mouth again in a kiss that was both dark and enthralling.

She shuddered, her head lolling back as he scattered kisses across her cheeks and chin and throat. Apparently unsatisfied at having her still seated next to him, he drew her up and across his lap. Cradling her close, he plundered her mouth again.

Distantly, she sensed him unfastening the b.u.t.tons on the back of her gown, then tugging open the laces of her stays. Without warning, cool air wafted over her exposed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her bare nipples tightening in a way that was almost painful. But then she had no more time to think, helpless to do anything but feel, as he bent and pressed his open mouth to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-first one, then the other, savoring her as though he'd been invited to a feast.

Heat engulfed her like a fiery explosion, each draw of his lips, every devilish swirl of his tongue making her writhe with the most profound delight. And yet she ached, the place between her legs growing damp in the most amazing and disturbing manner. She shifted her legs, restless and craving more.

An enervating quiver chased over her body as he tongued one sensitive tip and suckled even more fervently at her flesh. Her senses spun, her nerve endings burning to the point where she feared she might actually turn to flame. Then his hand slipped under her skirts to introduce her to an entirely new level of torment.

Gliding slowly upward, he trailed his fingers along her calf and knee, pausing for brief moments along the way to draw tantalizing circles on her with the flat of his hand. She trembled when he reached her thigh. Catching her lip between her teeth, she waited in rapt suspense as he stroked her flesh.

A gasp burst from her throat, when she felt him slide his palm behind her to caress the bare curve of her bottom. He played there for several long moments, fondling her with a kind of possessive intimacy that was as shocking as it was intense.

Pleasure surged like a rising tide, a raw quiver crashing through her body, as his hand moved again and settled against her nether curls. Continuing to suckle deeply at her breast, he parted her most tender flesh and slid his fingers along her slick core.

She bucked at the sensation, undone by both his touch and her own sizzling need. A keening moan sang from her mouth, her surrender complete, as he opened her wider and sank a single finger deep inside.

Slowly, he raised his head. "Open your eyes."

Her lids stayed shut, breath soughing audibly from her parted lips. "II c-can't."

"Open your eyes, India."

Somehow she found the strength to look at him this time. "W-why?"

"Because," he intoned in a near growl. "I want to see you. I want to watch you reach your peak."

Her peak? What does he mean?

Then he began stroking her, gliding deep inside to ma.s.sage her willing flesh. He used the rest of his fingers on her as well, painting her with her own moisture until she thought she might go insane.

She gazed at him, staring half-delirious into his beautiful dark eyes.

"That's it," he coaxed, as he increased his stroke, rubbing her in a way that drew wild little pants from her lips.

Just when she thought she could take no more, he thrust a second finger into her and sent her hurtling over some invisible edge.

She wailed, her entire body convulsing, as the most-astonishing pleasure poured through her, rapture that bathed her in what felt like a dazzling golden light. She hung on, giddy and weak and utterly in love. She could do this with Quentin forever. Anywhere, anytime, he wished.

Suddenly he was kissing her, taking her mouth in ravenous draughts that left her no time to recover. Not that she wanted to, quite the opposite.

Removing his hand from between her legs, he shifted her, sliding her up and over him so she straddled his hips. His hand went between them, working to open the b.u.t.tons on his falls.

But even as he did, he suddenly stopped, his entire frame growing rigid. Breaking off their kiss, he turned his head away and sucked in a harsh breath. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," he cursed.

She frowned. "Quentin?"

Cursing again, he closed his eyes for a long moment, then ever so gently lifted her so that she was sitting beside him again. "I can't," he said between clenched teeth.

"Can't what?"

"Take you, that's what." He paused and gulped down a deep breath. "The rain appears to have lessened. Let's get you dressed, so we can be on our way again."

By Christ, what's wrong with me? he berated himself, as he took up the reins with shaking hands. he berated himself, as he took up the reins with shaking hands. How could I have forgotten for a single instant that she's a virgin How could I have forgotten for a single instant that she's a virgin? Worse still, how could he have been so lost to pa.s.sion that he'd been on the verge of taking her-in a curricle no less!

He knew he should offer for her. After the liberties he'd just enjoyed, she had every reason to expect a marriage proposal. But despite her protestations of love, she was young-too young to really know her own mind.

She hadn't even had a London Season. Hadn't yet been able to test her wings and take her pick of men. Did he have the right to step in and claim her before she knew who she was and what she wanted?

The barbarian inside him said yes yes. The civilized man disagreed. No No, he told himself, for her own good, and mine as well, I should set her free. for her own good, and mine as well, I should set her free. A few weeks from now, she'll thank me. By next spring, she'll be glad she hadn't let a whirlwind romance with a virtual stranger determine the rest of her life. A few weeks from now, she'll thank me. By next spring, she'll be glad she hadn't let a whirlwind romance with a virtual stranger determine the rest of her life.

And what of me?

What of him? I'm infatuated, that's all. I'm infatuated, that's all. Once she returned home, and he wasn't in her company for long hours each day, her allure would fade. Lovely, effervescent, and delightful as India Byron might be, she would quickly become no more important to him than any other woman. And when they next met, they would do so as ordinary acquaintances-albeit ones who had shared an intense, though brief, pa.s.sion. Once she returned home, and he wasn't in her company for long hours each day, her allure would fade. Lovely, effervescent, and delightful as India Byron might be, she would quickly become no more important to him than any other woman. And when they next met, they would do so as ordinary acquaintances-albeit ones who had shared an intense, though brief, pa.s.sion.

Watching the now-lazily-falling rain, he forced down a sigh. Shifting his glance, he saw that she was once again properly attired. Even her bonnet was back on her head, with the ribbon tied in a pretty bow beneath her chin. Reaching for his surtout, he draped the woolen garment over her.

"But haven't you need of your coat?" she protested in a soft voice. Her luminous green eyes met his, the impact of her gaze seeming to reach into his soul.

l.u.s.t. Nothing more than l.u.s.t, he told himself. he told himself.

"I won't have you taking a chill," he said, his words sounding gruff, even to his own ears.

Giving the reins a sharp snap, he maneuvered the carriage back onto the road and set out for the Pettigrews'.

With darkness having fallen, India followed Quentin inside through a servants' entrance at the rear of the house. Careful to be quiet, the two of them made their way up another back staircase, then down the corridor toward their rooms. Luckily, they didn't encounter anyone along the way. All the guests were downstairs eating dinner, while the servants were busy seeing to their needs.

Reaching the door to her bedchamber, she stopped, then gazed up at Quentin.

"I'll send word to your aunt that we have returned," he said. "I'm sure she'll be along to look in on you as soon as she can. In the meantime, have your maid bring you something to eat. You must be famished by now."

Actually, food was the farthest thing from her mind, her body still aglow from their pa.s.sionate encounter in his carriage. He'd been so silent on the journey back, though. Was it because of his frustration at having to put such an abrupt halt to their lovemaking?

Were it not for his restraint, she would have surrendered her virginity to him, and gladly. Maybe she should have told him that then. Mayhap she ought to tell him that now. As brazen as it might sound aloud, she wanted him to be her first.

Her only.

She was trying to find the words when he reached out and caught her hand inside his own.

"I want you to know that what happened between us this evening was my doing and mine alone," he said. "You are to a.s.sume none of the responsibility, do you understand? You're lovely, India. Sweet and delightful and innocent in every way."

"But I'm not," she said, recalling how she'd coaxed him to kiss her and the wanton manner in which she'd responded to his every touch. "N-not innocent, that is."

He smiled. "But you are, my dear girl. And that's how I want you to stay."

"But-"

"Go to your room, eat your dinner, and get some sleep. Everything will seem clearer in the morning."

She thrust out her lower lip. "You make me sound like a child."

A rueful laugh rolled from his throat before his gaze darkened with a sensuality she was quickly coming to recognize. "Never fear. I'm well aware you're a woman. A wonderful, mesmerizing woman, who will continue to grow more beautiful and enchanting with each pa.s.sing day."

Lifting her hand, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her palm for a long moment. "Sleep well, India. Dream of sweet thoughts and cherished wishes."

She trembled, wanting to throw her arms around him and hold him close. Instead, she forced herself to remain still, as he released her hand and took a few steps back. "Good night," she said.

"Good night." With a last look, he turned and strode away.

Setting a hand on the door handle to her bedchamber, she stood for a long moment before finally going inside.

She awakened early the next morning and rose from bed, anxious to dress quickly and go downstairs. She wanted to find Quentin so they could talk before everyone else joined them for breakfast. Otherwise, she knew she would be compelled to wait for an opportunity to speak with him alone-and risk missing the chance entirely.

Practically running, she flew down the staircase and into the main hall. One of the Pettigrews' liveried footmen watched her come to a gliding halt, her slippers skating lightly over the polished marble floor.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me if any of the guests have come downstairs yet?"

"One or two," the young man said with an encouraging smile. "Who are ye looking for, Miss?"

"The Duke of Weybridge. He's tall and dark with very brown eyes."

"I know 'im. But I'm afraid you've missed him."

"What do you mean? Missed him?" she asked, an odd clenching sensation flexing beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"He left not long after first light. Helped him out m'self with his luggage and such."

"Are you quite sure it was His Grace?"

"Can't miss the silver in that hair o'his. Aye, I'm sure it was him."

A buzzing rang in her ears, and she swayed.

"Here now, Miss, are ye awright?" He reached a hand toward her, as if concerned she might fall.

She drew away, collecting herself enough to meet his concerned gaze. "Yes. I am quite well."

Only she wasn't. Quentin was gone.

Chapter Eight

Your turn again," said a childish singsong voice.

Dragging herself out of her reverie, India stared at her seven-year-old sister, who was seated across from her on the schoolroom floor. "What?"

"It's your turn," Poppy Byron said with a measure of exasperation. "We're playing spillikins, remember?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I wasn't attending as I should. My apologies."

The younger girl's dark brows drew together. "You haven't been attending a lot of things lately," she muttered under her breath.

"What is that supposed to mean? And yes, I heard you."

Poppy glanced up. "Sorry. It's just that you haven't seemed yourself the last few weeks. Ever since you came back from that visit with Aunt Ava, you've been..."

"Yes? What have I been?"

"Sad. You never laugh anymore. Not like you used to. Why don't you laugh anymore, India?"

Lowering her gaze, she stared at the jumbled ma.s.s of wooden jackstraws scattered over the broad oak flooring. "I laugh when someone says something funny," she defended. Reaching toward a spillikin with a painted blue tip, she lifted one away. "And I'm not sad."

But she was sad, and they both knew it, no matter how hard she tried to conceal her feelings.

In the nearly three months since she'd returned home from the Pettigrews', she'd been melancholy.

At first, she'd tried to pretend nothing was wrong, going out of her way to be sunny and cheerful, as she threw herself into the usual round of family activities with an almost frightening zeal. Yet inwardly she was miserable, only allowing her real feelings to escape at night, when she was certain she was alone.