"Definitely not."

"We're built differently."

"I've been told that we were."

"I'll join myself to you-here." He fingered her womanly sheath. "It will hurt the first time."

"Why?"

"There is a thin piece of skin, called your maidenhead. I will tear through it, and you may bleed a bit."

"Bleed!"

"And you'll be sore in the morning."

"Oh."

"But you'll heal fast, and in the future, you'll scarcely remember it."

She had heard gossip that it would hurt, but she hadn't heard there would be tearing, or that she would bleed. A wave of virginal alarm swamped her, and he noticed her trepidation. He kissed her very sweetly, very tenderly.

"Let me do it," he urged. "Let me know you like this."

When he looked at her as he was, when he spoke in that intimate tone of voice, she couldn't tell him no. There was no grander feeling in the world than having his attention focused on her.

She cradled his cheek in her palm. "Yes, I want it to be you."

"Promise me that you'll never be sorry," he said. "Promise me that you'll never regret doing this with me."

"I'll never be sorry."

He began again, leading her into the spiral of desire. Each time, the feelings rose more rapidly, the intensity increasing. She was ready and eager for what he was about to confer.

A new gleam came into his eye, a new tautness in his anatomy. He widened her thighs, his torso dropping between them, and he fumbled with the b.u.t.tons on his trousers, opening the front, jerking them down around his flanks.

There would be no stopping, she knew. Even if she changed her mind at the last second, he would have to proceed, and on realizing that she'd driven him to such a heightened state, she suffered a vain thrill.

He pulled her thighs even wider, wedging himself into her sheath. Her innocent body protested the strange situation, and she tensed.

"Relax," he whispered.

"I'm trying to."

"We're just about finished with the worst of it."

He smiled at her, and she smiled in return, but he didn't ease up or moderate the pace.

Dipping to her breast, he sucked at it, distracting her, enticing her, then he flexed with his hips, pushing and pushing again, and suddenly, he was inside her. She arched up, surprised by the odd result, but deciding it wasn't nearly as painful as she'd feared.

He was very still, letting her adapt, and as she acclimated, he started to move, slowly at first, then with more vigor. He would withdraw all the way, then shove in to the hilt, doing it over and over. With each penetration, it felt more natural, more satisfying, until she was enjoying the maneuver very much.

No words could describe the sense of intimacy they'd generated. Their joining was a dream come true, remarkable beyond her wildest expectations.

"Wrap your arms around me," he advised.

"Like this?"

"Yes, just like that. Hold me tight."

"I will."

"Don't let go."

I won't, she thought. I will never let you go.

His motions became less defined, more rough and tumble, and she recognized that the end was coming.

He grew very tense, and he thrust deep, seeming frozen with ecstasy, then he groaned with pleasure and collapsed onto her.

For many minutes, they lay together, silent, pensive, until he slid away and their bodies were no longer connected. He rolled them so they were facing each other.

They stared, neither sure of what to say, and she didn't understand why, but she felt as if she might weep. She wasn't sad-she was very, very happy-but she was extremely overwhelmed by what had transpired.

"I'm not a virgin anymore, am I?" she said.

"No."

"It was different from what I imagined. Different, but better."

"In the beginning, it's a tad awkward, but you'll get the hang of it."

"Sort of like riding a horse?"

"Sort of." He chuckled. "Are you sore?"

She stretched her legs and winced. "A bit, but I'll mend."

"I could order you a bath."

"Don't you dare."

It was the middle of the night, everyone abed, and while she would have loved to relieve the ache in a hot tub, she never would. Both because she could never let the servants know she was in his bedchamber, but also because she would never frivolously rouse them at such a late hour.

The fact that he would even consider it only underscored their disparate positions. It emphasized how foolish she'd been to ruin herself for him, but at the moment, when she was still in his arms, the heat and smell of their mating strong in the air, she wouldn't worry about it.

On the morrow, there would be plenty of opportunity to fret and stew.

He spun her away from him and spooned himself to her backside. A lazy hand was draped across her hip, his fingers tickling her belly.

Someday, he would grow weary of her, and they would go their separate ways. How would she ever return to being the woman she'd been before they'd met? How would she ever survive without him?

A few tears surged and dripped down her cheeks, and she was glad he couldn't see, for she didn't want to explain the myriad of emotions careening through her. He'd think she was a sentimental ninny.

It occurred to her that this was why people married prior to commencing an affair, that this was why they vowed to honor and cherish with friends and family looking on. There was too much at stake; there was too much to lose.

He nuzzled her hair, her nape.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"Very."

"Close your eyes."

"I can't. I'm scared I'll fall asleep, and I won't awaken in time to sneak out before anyone sees me."

The remark left her very sad. It was only appropriate that she depart, that they keep their liaison a secret, but the admission that she couldn't be caught with him made their behavior seem sordid and wrong, when she simply wanted to concentrate on how beautiful it had been.

Reality was quickly crashing down, and already, she hated her situation. She yearned to have him all to herself, with no jealous ward or prying servants to interrupt or condemn.

"Will I...I...see you tomorrow?" The possessive tone in her voice was embarra.s.sing.

"Let's meet for breakfast at ten. Wear your blue walking dress."

"I will."

He yawned, drifting off, and she knew she had to leave or she'd joined him in slumber.

With a stark cert.i.tude, she realized that this was how it would always be for them. She would covet and pine and love him, but in the end, she would always be alone.

As his breathing slowed, she rose, grabbed her robe, and tiptoed to her room. She went to the window and gazed out at the star-strewn sky. She said a quiet prayer for herself, for her sister. Then she sat in a chair, watching through the tedious hours until dawn. She was conflicted, wishing she could change her fate, but thankful too, that she'd had no choice in matter.

If she'd never known James Harcourt, if she'd never agreed to become his mistress, would her life ever have truly been worth living?

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Oh, f.a.n.n.y, would you look at that!"

"What is it?"

f.a.n.n.y glanced over to where her sister-in-law, Anne Sinclair, peeked out the drapes into the rear garden. Anne was Phillip's wife, as well as sister to f.a.n.n.y's husband, Michael.

"You have to see for yourself," Anne insisted, and f.a.n.n.y rose from the sofa and walked over to join her.

They were at Henley Hall, Michael's estate, and evening was fast approaching. The sky was a soothing purple, and the green colors of the park had deepened to a rich emerald. Supper was about to be served.

Phillip and Michael were huddled together on the verandah, seated on a bench, their heads pressed close. They were both new fathers, with Michael holding their little daughter Elizabeth, and Phillip holding his son, Charlie, whom he had named after Lord Trent.

It was nearly time for the babies to be bathed and put to bed for the night, so they were tired and irritable. Michael and Phillip had taken them outside, neither willing to admit that they wanted a few more minutes with the children before their nannies whisked them away.

The two men appeared to be entranced, joyous and content in their parenthood. They had a running argument over which baby was smartest, which was cutest or had first exhibited various signs of development, and their interest astonished her.

Prior to their marrying, Phillip and Michael had been the most unlikely types to revel in fatherhood. But who could ever know what a person was truly like?

Michael had spent a decade as a soldier, and Phillip had been a rake, yet they'd both adapted to family life as if they'd never wished to live any other way.

"It's strange to see them so domesticated," Anne pointed out. "Would you ever have guessed we'd tame them so easily?"

f.a.n.n.y chuckled. "No, and don't ever let them know that we consider them tamed. We'd never hear the end of it."

"They'd probably do something outrageous just to demonstrate that we're wrong."

Outside, the tender scene grew even more arresting as her father, Lord Trent, joined Michael and Phillip. He picked up each baby in turn, fussing over them as any admiring grandfather would have. His affection seemed so odd to her, so out of character for the man he was reputed to be, but as f.a.n.n.y was learning, he was a peculiar mix of bad behavior, low morals, and kind gestures.

Though he had b.a.s.t.a.r.d offspring scattered hither and yon, he'd sired no legitimate children during his long and unhappy marriage. Did he feel that the universe was testing him? Or that Fate had been particularly cruel?

She would have loved to ask his opinion, but they weren't at a spot in their relationship where she could probe for such intimate details. He was always extremely courteous, always thoughtful and cordial, but there was a wall of reserve around him that she doubted she would ever breach.

The nannies arrived, the babies carried off to bath and bed. Michael and Phillip followed after them, and Charles was left alone.

He stood staring out across the park, and for a moment-with him not realizing that Anne and f.a.n.n.y were watching-he let down his guard. He seemed so weary and forlorn that f.a.n.n.y was anxious to speak with him, to cheer him if she could.

"I'm going up to the nursery," Anne said. "Are you coming?"

"I'll be there in a minute."

Anne hurried off, and f.a.n.n.y went to the French doors and out onto the verandah. By the time Charles spun to face her, he'd composed his features. He flashed a lazy smile, the one that had broken hearts all over England.

"Ah, cherie," he said, "how lovely you look this evening."

"You're a flatterer, Charles."

"I definitely am."

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Of course. With your marvelous hospitality, how could I not?"

They'd been celebrating little Charlie's christening, and she'd invited Charles to attend, never imagining that he actually would. When he'd shown up, she'd been stunned and pleased to have him as a guest.

She had no other family but the small one she'd managed to build with Michael. Her nephew Thomas, along with Phillip and Anne, had given her the structure and home she'd craved for years.

Before meeting Michael, she'd suffered an enormous amount of adversity, mostly due to her illicit parentage. She supposed she should hate Charles for the misery his actions had caused her, but as they became more closely acquainted, she found that she couldn't muster any bitterness.