She claimed, too, her hands raking over his massive shoulders and down, digging her fingers into the powerful sinews of his arms. Mine, she thought, as the muscles bunched and flexed under her touch.

And mine, she vowed, as she splayed her hands over his broad, hard chest. She would have him and keep him if it killed her. A monster he may be, but he was her monster. She would not share his stormy kisses with anyone else. She would not share his big, splendid body with anyone else.

She squirmed closer. He tensed and, groaning deep in his throat, moved his hand down and clasped her bottom, pulling her closer still. Even through the leather driving gloves and several layers of fabric, his bold grasp sent sizzling ripples of sensation over her skin.

She wanted his touch upon her naked flesh: big, bare, dark hands moving over her, everywhere. Rough or gentle, she didn't care. As long as he wanted her. As long as he kissed her and touched her like this...as though he were starving, as she was, as though he couldn't get enough of her, as she couldn't of him.

He dragged his mouth from hers and, muttering what sounded like Italian curses, took his warm hand off her buttock.

"Let go of me," he said thickly.

Swallowing a cry of frustration, she brought her hands down, folded them upon her lap, and stared at a tree opposite.

Dain gazed at her in furious despair.

He should have known better than to come within a mile of her. They'd be wed in thirteen days, and he would have the wedding night and as many nights thereafter as he needed to slake his lust and be done with it. He had told himself it didn't matter how much she haunted and plagued him meanwhile. He had endured worse, for smaller reward, and he could surely endure a few weeks of frustration.

He had to endure it, because he had a far too vivid image of the alternative: the Marquess of Dain hovering about and panting over his bride-to-be like a starving mongrel at a butcher's cart. He would be fretting and yapping at her doorstep by day and howling at her window by night. He would be trotting after her to dressmakers and milliners and cobblers and haberdashers, and snarling and growling about her at parties.

He was used to getting what he wanted the instant he wanted it, and to wisely ignoring or rejecting what he couldn't get that instant. He had found he could no more disregard her than a famished hound could disregard a slab of meat.

He should have realized that the day he met her, when he'd lingered in Champtois' shop, unable to take his eyes off her. He should at least have discerned the problem the day he'd gone to pieces just taking off her damned glove.

In any case, there was no escaping the truth now, when he'd given himself- and her- so mortifyingly eloquent a display. All she had to do was describe a bit of lingerie, and he lost his mind and tried to devour her.

"Do you want me to get off your lap?" she asked politely, still gazing straight ahead.

"Do you want to?" he asked irritably.

"No, I am perfectly comfortable," she said.

He wished he could say the same. Thanks to the small, round bottom perched so confounded comfortably upon his lap, his loins were experiencing the fiery torments of the damned. He was throbbingly aware that release was mere inches away. He had only to turn her toward him and lift her skirts and...

And she might as well have been in China, for all the chance there was of that happening, he thought bitterly. That was the trouble with ladies- one of the legion of troubles. You couldn't just do the business when you wanted to. You had to court and persuade, and then you had to do it in a proper bed. In the dark.

"You may stay, then," he said. "But don't kiss me again. It's...provoking. And don't tell me about your sleeping apparel."

"Very well," she said, glancing idly about her, just as though she were sitting at a tea table. "Did you know that Shelley's first wife drowned herself in the Serpentine?"

"Is my first wife considering the same?" he asked, eyeing her uneasily.

"Certainly not. Genevieve says that killing oneself on account of a man is inexcusably gauche. I was merely making conversation."

He thought that, despite the torments, it was rather pleasant to have a soft, clean-smelling lady perched upon his knee, making idle conversation. He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He quickly twisted it into a scowl. "Does that mean you've left off being cross for the moment?"

"Yes." She glanced down at his useless left hand, which had slid onto the seat during their stormy embrace. "You really ought to wear a sling, Dain. So that it doesn't bang into things. You could do it a serious injury, and never notice."

"I've only banged it once or twice," he said, frowning at it. "And I noticed, I assure you. I feel everything, just as though it worked. But it doesn't. Won't. Just lies there. Hangs there. Whatever." He laughed. "Conscience bothering you?"

"Not in the least," she said. "I thought of taking a horsewhip to you, but you wouldn't have felt a thing, I daresay."

He studied her slim arm. "That would want a good deal more muscle than you could hope for," he said. "And you'd never be quick enough. I'd skip out of your way and laugh."

She looked up. "You'd laugh even if I managed to strike. You'd laugh if your back were torn to shreds. Did you laugh after I shot you?"

"Had to," he answered lightly. "Because I swooned. Ridiculous."

It had been ridiculous, he realized now, as he searched the cool grey depths of her eyes. It had been absurd to be outraged with her. The scene in the Wallingdons' garden hadn't been her doing. He was beginning to suspect whose it had been. If the suspicion was correct, he had not only behaved abominably, but had been unforgivably stupid.

He'd deserved to be shot. And she'd done it well. Dramatically. He smiled, recollecting. "It was neatly done, Jess. I'll give you that."

"It was splendidly done," she said. "Admit it: brilliantly planned and executed."

He looked away, toward Nick and Harry, who were pretending to be sleepily at peace with the world. "It was very well done," he said. "Now I think of it. The red and black garments. The Lady Macbeth voice." He chuckled. "The way my courageous comrades bolted up in terror at the sight of you. Like a lot of ladies at a tea party invaded by a mouse."

His amused gaze came back to her. "Maybe it was worth being shot, just to see that. Sellowby- Goodridge- in a panic over a little female in a temper fit."

"I am not little," she said sharply. "Just because you are a great gawk of a lummox, you needn't make me out to be negligible. For your information, my lord Goliath, I happen to be taller than average."

He patted her arm. "You needn't worry, Jess. I'm still going to marry you, and I'll manage to make do somehow. You are not to be anxious on that score. In fact, I've brought proof."

He slid his hand into the deep carriage pocket. It took him a moment to find the package he'd hidden there, and the moment was enough to set his heart pounding with anxiety.

He'd spent three agitated hours selecting the gift. He'd rather be stretched upon a rack than return to Number Thirty-two, Ludgate Hill, and endure that hellish experience again. At last his fingers closed upon the tiny box.

Still, his heart didn't stop pounding, even when he drew it out and clumsily pressed it into her hand. "You'd better open it yourself," he said tightly. "It's a deuced awkward business with one hand."

Her grey glance darting from him to the package, she opened it.

There was a short silence. His insides knotted and his skin grew clammy with sweat.

Then, "Oh," she said. "Oh, Dain."

His helpless panic eased a fraction.

"We're betrothed," he said stiffly. "It's a betrothal ring."

The clerk at Rundell and Bridge had made appalling suggestions. A birthstone- when Dain had no idea when her birthday was. A stone to match her eyes- when there was no such stone, no such object in existence.

The obsequious worm had even dared to suggest a row of gems whose initials formed a message: Diamond-Emerald-Amethyst-Ruby-Epidote-Sapphire-Turquoise...for DEAREST. Dain had very nearly lost his breakfast.

Then, finally, when he'd been driven to the last stage of desperation, poring over emeralds and amethysts and pearls and opals and aquamarines and every other curst mineral a craftsman could clamp onto a ring...then, in the last of what seemed like a thousand velvet-padded trays, Dain had found it.

A single cabochon ruby, so smoothly polished that it seemed liquid, surrounded by heartbreakingly perfect diamonds.

He had told himself he didn't care whether she liked it or not. She'd have to wear it anyway.

He'd found it a great deal easier to pretend when she wasn't near. Easier to make believe he'd chosen that particular ring simply because it was the finest. Easier to hide in his dark wasteland of a heart the real reason: that it was a tribute, its symbolism as mawkish as any the jeweler's clerk had proposed.

A bloodred stone for the brave girl who'd shed his blood. And diamonds flashing fiery sparks, because lightning had flashed the first time she'd kissed him.

Her gazed lifted to his. Silver mist shimmered in her eyes. "It's beautiful," she said softly. "Thank you." She pulled off her glove and took the ring from the box. "You must put it on my finger."

"Must I?" He tried to sound disgusted. "Some sentimental twaddle, I suppose."

"There's no one to see," she said.

He took the ring from her and slipped it over her finger, then quickly drew his hand away, afraid she'd discern the trembling.

She turned her hand this way and that, and the diamonds took fire.

She smiled.

"At least it fits," he said.

"Perfectly." Turning her head, she darted one quick kiss at his cheek, then hastily returned to her seat. "Thank you, Beelzebub," she said very softly.

His heart constricted painfully. He snatched up the reins. "We'd better get out of here, before the fashionable stampede begins," he said, his voice very gruff. "Nick! Harry! You can stop playing dead now."

They could play anything. They'd been trained by a circus equestrian, and they loved to perform, responding instantly to the subtle cues Dain had spent three full days learning from their former master. Though he knew how it was done, even he sometimes had trouble remembering that it was a certain flick of the reins or a change in tone they reacted to, and not his words.

At any rate, they were fondest of the role they'd played en route to Hyde Park, and he let them play it again, all the way back. That took his betrothed's attention away from him, and fixed it on praying she'd arrive alive at her aunt's doorstep.

With Jessica preoccupied, Dain had leisure to collect his shattered composure, and address his intelligence to putting two and two together, as he should have done weeks ago.

There had been six onlookers, Herriard had said.

Now Dain tried to remember the faces. Vawtry, yes, looking utterly thunderstruck. Rouvier, the man Dain had publicly embarrassed. Two Frenchmen he recalled having seen many times at Vingt-Huit. And two Frenchwomen, one unfamiliar. The other had been Isobel Callon, one of Paris' most vicious gossips...and one of Francis Beaumont's favorite female companions.

What had Jessica said that night? Something about how the gossip would have died down if she hadn't burst into his house.

But maybe it wouldn't have died down, Dain reflected. Maybe public interest in his relations with Miss Trent had swelled to insane proportions because someone had fed the rumor mill. Maybe someone had kept the gossip stirred and encouraged the wagers, knowing the rumors would drive Beelzebub wild.

All Beaumont would have needed to do was drop a word to the right party. Isobel Callon, for instance. She'd seize the delicious tidbit and make a campaign of it. She wouldn't need much encouragement to do so, because she hated Dain. Then, having sown the seeds, Beaumont could retire to England and enjoy his revenge at a safe distance...and laugh himself sick when letters arrived from his friends, detailing the latest events in the Dain-versus-Trent drama.

When the suspicion had first arisen, Dain had thought it far-fetched, the product of an agitated mind.

Now it made a good deal more sense than any other explanation. It did explain at least why jaded Paris had become so obsessed with one ugly Englishman's handful of encounters with one pretty English female.

He glanced at Jessica.

She was trying to ignore Nick and Harry's Steeds of Death performance by concentrating on her betrothal ring. She hadn't put her glove back on. She turned her hand this way and that, making the diamonds spark rainbow fire.

She liked the ring.

She had bought a red silk nightgown, trimmed with black. For her wedding night.

She had kissed him back and touched him. And she hadn't seemed to mind being kissed and touched.

Beauty and the Beast. That's what Beaumont would call it, the poison-tongued sod.

But in thirteen days, this Beauty would be the Marchioness of Dain. And she would lie in the Beast's bed. Naked.

Then Dain would do everything he'd been dying to do for what seemed an eternity. Then she would be his, and no other man could touch her, because she belonged to him exclusively.

True, he could have bought Portugal for what "exclusive ownership" was costing him.

On the other hand, she was prime quality. A lady. His lady.

And it was very possible Dain owed it all to the sneaking, corrupt, cowardly, spiteful Francis Beaumont.

In which case, Dain decided, it would be pointless- as well as a waste of energy better saved for the wedding night- to take Beaumont apart and break him into very small pieces.

By rights, Dain ought to thank him instead.

But then, the Marquess of Dain was not very polite.

He decided the swine wasn't worth the bother.

Chapter 10.

On a bright Sunday morning on the eleventh day of May in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred Twenty-Eight, the Marquess of Dain stood before the minister of St. George's, Hanover Square, with Jessica, only daughter of the late Sir Reginald Trent, baronet.

Contrary to popular expectation, the roof did not fall in when Lord Dain entered the holy edifice, and lightning did not strike once during the ceremony. Even at the end, when he hauled his bride into his arms and kissed her so soundly that she dropped her prayer book, no clap of thunder shook the walls of St. George's, although a few elderly ladies fainted.

As a consequence, on the evening of that day, Mr. Roland Vawtry gave Francis Beaumont his note of hand for three hundred pounds. Mr. Vawtry had previously written and delivered other notes of varying amounts to Lord Sellowby, Captain James Burton, Augustus Tolliver, and Lord Avory.

Mr. Vawtry did not know where or how he would get the money to cover the notes. Once, a decade earlier, he'd gone to the moneylenders. The way that worked, he learned- and learning it had cost him two years of wretchedness- was, in a nutshell, that if they lent you five hundred pounds, you were obliged to pay back one thousand. He had rather blow out his brains than repeat the experience.

He was painfully aware that he would have no trouble covering his present debts of honor if he hadn't had to settle so very many others before he left Paris. He wouldn't have had the present debts at all, he reflected miserably, if he had learned his lesson in Paris and left off wagering on any matter involving Dain.

He had won exactly once, and that had not been much of a victory. He had lost two hundred pounds to Isobel Callon when she insisted Dain had lured Miss Trent to Lady Wallingdon's garden to make love to her.

Vawtry had simply won it back when Dain, contrary to Isobel's confident prediction, had failed, when caught, to enact the role of chivalrous swain. He had behaved, for once, like himself.

Unfortunately for Vawtry's finances, that had happened only the once. Because not a week later, after vowing he wouldn't have Miss Trent if she were served on a platter of solid gold- after the incomprehensible female had shot him- Dain had strolled into Antoine's and coolly announced his betrothal. He had said that someone had to marry her because she was a public menace, and he supposed he was the only one big and mean enough to manage her.

Moodily wondering just who was managing whom, Vawtry settled into a corner table with Beaumont at Mr. Pearke's oyster house in Vinegar Yard, on the south side of Drury Lane Theater.

It was not an elegant dining establishment, but Beaumont was partial to it because it was a favorite haunt of artists. It was also very cheap, which made Vawtry partial to it at the moment.