He laughed, and her cheeks flushed bright red. She glanced away, confirming that the brief peck he'd bestowed had been her only experience.

To his great surprise, it bothered him to imagine her wasting away at Kirkwood. She was like a wilting flower, her best years behind her. With no dowry and no prospects, she'd never be able to alter her path so it would probably be highly beneficial for her to participate in an amour.

Why shouldn't she? It wasn't as if she was hoarding all that virginity for a bumbling spouse, but he wouldn't be the one to take it from her. Even if she begged to give it to him, he never fussed with innocents.

But she ought to be thoroughly kissed, and if he pushed the issue, he'd get his wish. He'd send her fleeing, and she wouldn't return.

He stepped in again, his body pressed to hers all the way down.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking worried.

"You should have a taste of what you're missing. It might change your mind."

"You could never change my mind."

"Would you like to bet me?"

He slipped an arm around her waist, those pesky sparks suddenly sizzling. The sensation produced a giddy sort of joy he'd never encountered before and didn't care to encounter ever again, but it was intriguing nonetheless.

He dipped down and brushed his lips to hers, then he drew away, and he felt very discomposed. It had been sweet and thrilling in a manner he didn't comprehend, and the strangest rush swept through him. He wanted to kiss her all night.

"Let me go!" she scolded.

"No."

"I can't stand here kissing you."

"Why can't you?"

"I don't even like you-and you don't like me."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"It's not appropriate."

"I'm proving a point, Miss Fogarty, remember?"

"What point?"

"I'm proving that you should consider my offer."

"I've told you I never would."

"And I've told you that I never listen to women."

"Mr. Drummond!"

"Hush."

He dipped down and kissed her again, and this time it was no chaste brush of his lips to hers. This time, he kissed her as if he'd been waiting to try it his whole life.

In the entire history of kisses, he wouldn't have described it as being overly passionate. He didn't run his hands over her torso, didn't stroke her breasts, or flex his loins to her private parts.

He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more. She spent a few seconds attempting to deflect his advance, then she joined in, throwing herself into the embrace with a bit of reckless abandon.

The longer he continued, the more satisfying it was. He'd planned to teach her a lesson, but his purpose was swiftly lost in the fog of the moment. He had no ulterior motive. He merely yearned to get as close to her as he could-and stay there forever.

When he caught himself growing too aroused, when he caught himself wondering if he should carry her over to his bed, he realized he was in trouble.

He would never proceed to fornication. She wasn't a doxy, and in the society where he was currently located, carnal behavior had to be rectified by a hasty wedding. He refused to be ensnared in her world and would leave as quickly as he could.

Still though, it was with a great deal of regret that he slowed and pulled away.

They froze, awkwardly gaping, and there was the oddest charge in the air, as if the universe had been watching them, as if they might have altered their fates. The impression was so eerie that he almost felt he'd been bewitched.

If he'd believed in superstitious nonsense-which he didn't-he'd have raced out to find a white witch, would have bought a charm to ward off Miss Fogarty's potent appeal.

"That was quite...nice," she murmured, obviously stunned.

"Yes, it was."

"You shouldn't have done it though."

"I'm not one to dilly dally. If I see what I want, I take it."

"You want me?"

She seemed amazed, as if it had never occurred to her that she might be enticing to a man. In light of her reduced circumstances, she'd likely never had the chance to learn that she was, but he didn't really want her. Some other fellow might, but not him.

"Yes, I want you." Crudely he added, "But then I'm partial to anything in a skirt."

"You'd kiss just anybody?"

"Yes. Just anybody."

"Yet you've propositioned me. Not anybody else. Me."

"It's because you need something from me, and you have something I'm very interested in having."

"My virginity?"

It had to be the only occasion she'd ever spoken the word virginity aloud. She flushed such a hot shade of pink that he was surprised she didn't ignite.

"It's not as if you're husband-hunting. You're hardly saving it for a spouse."

"So I should give it to you?"

"Yes. To save yourself. To keep your place here."

"What you're suggesting is wrong."

He shrugged. "The preachers say it is, but I never listen to them either, and on this topic you should ignore them too. Women choose many options to protect themselves. They usually marry, but if they can't, they cheat and steal and sin. Why not you?"

"I told you I can't," she insisted.

"Then what will happen to you?"

"Don't send me away. Let me remain at Kirkwood."

"I could let you remain, but there's a price for my mercy, and you're not inclined to pay it."

She gazed up at him, her pretty blue eyes poignant and wounded. She looked young and lost, and her woeful condition tugged at heartstrings he'd thought had been ripped away decades earlier.

Suddenly he was eager to supply all kinds of masculine benefits that would bind him to her in ways he never intended. He wanted to shelter and help and aid and support. He wanted to...to...care.

The very fact that he was considering such a thing scared him to death.

He stepped away and eased her toward the door.

"You have to go now."

"I suppose I should."

"And don't come back."

"What if I need to talk to you?"

"Visit me in the estate office when there are plenty of other people around."

"All right."

"If you ever sneak in here again, I will assume you've changed your mind. I will assume you're ready to pay the price I require."

"I won't ever decide to pay your price."

"As I mentioned before, Miss Fogarty, a desperate person will embrace any unpalatable deed."

"I wouldn't. I'm stronger than that."

"We'll see, I guess. Remember though. If you show up in my room, I'll take what you're offering-even if you might not wish to give it. So don't force me to be that cruel to you, for I'm certain you wouldn't like to witness that side of me." He couldn't bear much more of her touching expression, and he repeated, "Go-or I'll make you stay."

"Goodnight," she mumbled.

He could have said the same, could have had a cordial farewell, but he glared at her, anxious for her to leave and not return.

She whirled away and hurried out. He followed her into the hall, watching until she was swallowed up by the shadows.

For an irksome moment, he nearly called out to her, nearly asked if he could walk her to Drummond Cottage. But it was a needy, clingy emotion, like one an adolescent boy might suffer when he had a crush on his first girl.

He shut the door and spun the key in the lock so she couldn't tiptoe back in and tantalize him. Then he slid into his chair and grabbed his brandy to once again quietly and privately survey his domain.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

What would you have me say, Mother?"

"I would have you say that you have a plan to rid us of him."

Augusta glared at Miles, and he glared back. They were in the parlor of the estate agent's cottage that, because Drummond men had lived in it for generations, had always been called Drummond Cottage. The place had been vacant ever since Walter Drummond had moved out, and it was in a horrid condition.

The windows were boarded over, the chimneys plugged with leaves and soot, and mice had gnawed at the woodwork. Augusta supposed she could have begun cleaning and clearing debris, but she'd never held a broom in her life, and she wasn't about to start.

Miles's glare intensified, and she realized he'd always assessed her with that same insolent disregard. It was her fault that he would exhibit disdain. There were many mothers who'd raised dutiful, polite boys, but she hadn't done that. When he was young, he'd seemed precocious and amusing, his antics filling up their dreary world with a humorous excitement that was definitely lacking.

Her husband, Edward, had been dull and conventional, and Augusta had been betrothed to him without being consulted as to what she wanted. It had been the summer Georgina's mother, Patricia, had run off with her debonair soldier. The fellow's regiment had been quartered in the area for several months, and it had been a heady time of parties and balls.

Augusta had met Sergeant Fogarty first, had fallen in love with him first, but Patricia was the one who'd been brave enough to elope with him. While Patricia had been riding to Scotland, getting herself disowned and disavowed in the process, Augusta had been promptly married to Edward.

Her dreams had been dashed, and though she understood it hadn't been Patricia's fault that she'd wound up shackled to Edward, she still blamed her. If Patricia hadn't stirred up all the fathers in the neighborhood where they worried their own daughters might act in the same scandalous fashion, Augusta might have avoided her fate.

There were many reasons Augusta hated Georgina, but mainly it was that she'd been permitted to reside at Kirkwood with no penalty being paid for how her mother had shamed them. Georgina was a constant reminder of Patricia's disgraceful tendencies, and Augusta had never fathomed why Georgina hadn't been dumped on her father's family. Why had the Marshalls been forced to offer her shelter?

She'd often requested that Georgina be sent to the Fogartys, but her husband had refused. So Georgina had stayed, and Augusta had been responsible for her. She'd never stopped resenting the fact that she'd had to mother the child of a sister-in-law she'd loathed.

Georgina looked just like beautiful, glamorous Patricia, and Augusta liked to make Georgina feel guilty for resembling her. Patricia had dared to seize what she craved, that being Sergeant Fogarty. The union had ended in a shambles, with them dying young and penniless, but at least Patricia had dared.

What had Augusta ever done? Not a single worthwhile thing.

She'd wed the man she was ordered to wed. She'd served as mistress at the tedious estate she detested. She'd birthed two ungrateful, spoiled offspring, and she was wallowing in the consequences of trying to be a good parent.

She'd doted on Miles, and Edward had repeatedly insisted that Miles would lead them to ruin and now he had. At this late date, it was pointless to chastise him. If she voiced one cross word, he'd pack a bag and leave and she wouldn't hear from him for months. She'd be left alone to deal with the catastrophe presented by Mr. Drummond's arrival.

"I can't guess how to rid ourselves of him," Miles said.

"It seems we're in a quandary."

"I can't believe he had the gall to show up here."

"It wasn't gall that brought him. He owns Kirkwood!"

She didn't want to let her temper flare, but honestly how was she to remain calm? Her son was a wagering profligate and spendthrift. According to Georgina, not even their clothes belonged to them anymore.