Tonight?

The surge of expectation should dismay him.

He should head to the house, forage something, perhaps steal a few delicacies to sustain him and Antonia later. Once she arrived, she was staying until he'd taken his fill.

Which might require the next six months, the way he felt right now.

Ignoring the dull protest of tired muscles, he rose and stretched. He set off for the house at a lazy run.

The kitchens were more crowded than usual. The household returned to its routine. For all his selfishness, Ranelaw didn't wish fatal illness on anyone. But he regretted that the interval drew to a close when Antonia was free to meet him with minimal risk of discovery.

The maids were inured to his presence. At first they'd treated him as an interloper for all their politeness to someone of superior station. But he'd kept his hands to himself even as he'd flirted outrageously. Odd that he wasn't tempted to tumble one or two. There were some pretty girls belowstairs and a few had indicated willingness. But he had more than enough seductions to deal with already.

"Here you are, my lord. Some of last night's roast beef and a wedge of the estate's cheddar." Mary, his favorite among the maids, slid a pewter platter before him, piled with bread and fruit as well as meat and cheese. "And some ale to wash it down."

"Thank you, Mary. I'm famished." Under the girl's approving regard, he tucked in.

"I do like a man with a big appetite."

Usually he'd pursue the heavy sexual hint. Not today. Today he had more important things on his mind. Like where in bloody blazes Antonia was.

For discretion's sake, he couldn't ask outright about Miss Demarest's dour companion, so he took the roundabout way. He inquired after ill family members. Then ill guests. And gradually worked around to Cassie.

All this beating around the bush made him nostalgic for open dealing with an honest whore. For all that, he wouldn't shame Antonia more than he already had when he'd bribed the grooms. It was odd, her reputation was more precious now he'd had her than when he'd lusted from afar.

To his regret, today he still lusted from afar.

He downed a deep draft of ale and glanced at Mary. "What about pretty little Miss Demarest? Is she better today?"

"Must be, my lord." Jean, another maid, piped up from where she kneaded the bread. "Up and left first thing without stopping for so much as a crust for breakfast. Didn't half cause a flurry below stairs. But that companion of hers, that nice Miss Smith, she wouldn't delay even an hour to say good-bye to Lady Humphrey. Not that Lady Humphrey will mind having more of her visitors gone. It's been a rum sort of house party, it has."

A bristling silence descended. Ranelaw realized he stared at Jean in furious shock. He forced himself to pick up the ale and drink, although he tasted nothing.

The birds had flown.

When he put down the tankard, he struggled to keep his voice even. "I thought the chit was at death's door."

"She's been improving, although I must say the poor mite looked peaky when they bundled her into the carriage. Nigel carried her down the staircase. She couldn't walk on her own."

"Aye, and a sweet armful she was too, beggin' your pardon, my lord," Nigel remarked from the corner where he polished a silver food cover.

"She's a diamond." Ranelaw raised his tankard in a toast to Miss Demarest. And to Miss Smith, who escaped him.

Damn her.

"I suppose they're bound for London?" he asked with forced idleness. To his own ears, his comments sounded too interested to be casual. None of the servants seemed to notice.

"Not sure, my lord." Nigel critically regarded his reflection in the silver. "I imagine so. Or perhaps they're taking the lady home to the country."

Double damn.

If they'd slunk back to Bascombe Hailey, his plans-for both women-must wait. Perhaps until next year.

He should be fuming that Cassie escaped. All he saw through a fog of blistering temper was Antonia staring up at him, her eyes pools of shining mystery as he pounded into her.

She had no right to run. She knew they weren't finished. The lying- Then with a jolt of grim awareness, he recalled she hadn't agreed to meet him.

He'd been so certain of her. Yet again arrogance led him wrong. He bit back burgeoning rage. "It's time I left too."

More than time. Morecombe still wasn't himself but he'd resumed his duties yesterday. His valet could travel with the luggage while Ranelaw rode to make extra speed. First he'd try London, then worry about Somerset.

Burning to overtake the women, he left the kitchen and mounted the steps to his room two at a time. His heart raced with the thrill of the chase.

If Antonia thought her dawn departure left him flat, she had an unpleasant surprise ahead.

Chapter Fourteen.

With a curse, Ranelaw dismounted outside the prosperous inn. The summery weather had deteriorated into a cold, blustery night more like February than May. He had a sudden sour recollection of his thwarted plans to take Antonia swimming.

Grimly he passed the reins to the shivering groom and strode into the taproom, rubbing his gloved hands together to restore circulation. Only sheer stubbornness kept him on the road. Common sense insisted he rest, shelter from the storm. Especially as he could be on the wildest of wild goose chases. He had no idea if Antonia made for London. Even if she did, he couldn't confront her in the middle of the night. He knew she'd take measures to stop him climbing into her room again.

These days common sense was woefully absent.

As it was, he'd put off stopping as long as he could. But he was cold and hungry and his horse was exhausted. The beast needed a little warmth and a feed before Ranelaw pushed him the last fifteen miles to London.

The inn wasn't crowded. It was late and the night banished the locals to their own hearths. Only desperate lunatics like Ranelaw traveled in such weather.

Dropping onto a bench near the fire, he ordered sirloin with potatoes and a tankard of ale. He was grateful none of the scattered patrons paid him a moment's attention. When the plump tavern maid sent him a meaningful glance, he ignored her.

He had enough woman trouble.

The beer arrived quickly. Ranelaw took a deep draft to wash the dust from his throat and tilted his head back against the dark wooden paneling behind him. He wished to hell his thoughts didn't immediately run to Antonia.

After last night, how could she leave? If she'd attained such a pitch of desire that she gave herself to him, surely she was as much victim to this attraction as he. He'd considered the act a beginning. She obviously believed it was an ending.

Well, he had news for her.

He'd taken his time so far, given her leeway to choose without undue compulsion. By bolting, she changed the game. That and the incomparable pleasure he'd found in her arms.

He'd have her again. Soon.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a man slumped over a table across the room. A well-dressed traveler, like Ranelaw, drinking alone.

Something about the shape of his head and his dark curls struck Ranelaw as familiar. The last thing he wanted was a coze with some acquaintance. He was about to glance away when it was too late. The man turned his head and stared straight at Ranelaw.

Johnny Benton.

Good God, what a turn-up for the books. He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard even a whisper about the coxcomb.

During his short career at Eton, Benton had been a year below him. The season Ranelaw came down from Oxford, Benton had been the toast of the ton. He'd fancied himself a poet. More beautiful than Byron, although sadly nothing like as talented, Benton had broken hearts all over Town and probably beyond. He'd been considered the handsomest man in England. Potteries had struck medallions of his profile. A portrait at the Royal Academy had set off riots. Ranelaw vaguely remembered the fellow hying for the Continent in the footsteps of Byron and Shelley.

Pretending he didn't recognize the puppy, Ranelaw stared down into his ale. Unfortunately his distinctive coloring meant nobody could mistake his identity.

"Gresham? It is you, isn't it? By Jove, I don't believe my eyes."

With a sinking sensation in his gut, Ranelaw found Benton hovering at his elbow, clutching a brandy and eager as a hound welcoming its master home.

"It's Ranelaw now," he said coldly. At school, he'd been known as the Earl of Gresham, one of his father's junior titles. Calling him Gresham proved how out of touch Benton was.

Benton frowned. "The pater passed on, did he? My condolences."

"Eight years ago," Ranelaw said with a lack of emotion he didn't have to feign.

"I've been in Italy." Without invitation, Benton sat opposite Ranelaw. "Only back a week ago."

He'd clearly left his manners in Tuscany or wherever he'd been skulking. Ranelaw leaned back, took a mouthful of ale, and observed the fellow.

He seemed . less.

He was still too pretty for a man, with his ruffled black locks and Roman profile. But there was a soft edge to his features as if over the years, he'd enjoyed too much food and wine and easy Italian living. The flashing dark eyes, celebrated by society papers and not a few poetesses, were dull and sunken.

Ranelaw wondered briefly if the man fell victim to opium or drink. It must be a good decade since he'd encountered the milksop, but Benton seemed to have aged at least twenty years.

"Going home, are you?" Ranelaw frowned. "Your people are in Devon, aren't they?"

"Yes. I'm on my way south now." With an unreadable expression, Benton brooded into his brandy. Fleetingly he looked like the poetical swain who had conquered society ten years ago. "I had . business in Northumberland."

A difficult silence fell. What the devil was the matter with the blockhead? He acted as if his dog had just died.

"Do you want another drink?" Ranelaw asked reluctantly as the maid slid a full plate in front of him.

Benton continued to contemplate his empty glass. "Bring the bottle."

The girl sent Benton the same flirtatious glance she'd cast Ranelaw. But Benton didn't even look up as he spoke. She flounced off and returned to slam a full bottle of brandy on the table. Benton refilled his glass with a shaking hand. In his hurry, he slopped some on the table.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Ranelaw began to eat. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Benton showed no sign of moving on and was proving even worse company than anticipated. The fellow emptied his glass and filled it again, still with that prodigal clumsiness.

"You're drunk, man," Ranelaw said softly.

Benton shook his head and to Ranelaw's horror, a tear oozed down his cheek. "Not yet. But I will be." Before Ranelaw could think of anything to say, Benton fixed a bleary gaze on him. "Do you believe in the one?"

Ranelaw emptied his tankard and wondered how the hell to get rid of Benton. "The one what? God? King? Pope? The fucking Archbishop of Canterbury?"

Benton didn't react to the angry sarcasm. "The one woman. The girl who owns your heart forever. True love. Soul mates. You know, the one."

"No," Ranelaw said shortly.

He was trapped in hell. Was he hungry enough to make staying worthwhile?

"I do, damn it all." Benton drained his glass in a single swallow and filled it again with more finesse.

"I take it congratulations are due." Although if the bugger contemplated marriage, he didn't seem particularly jolly at the prospect.

"Bloody hell." Benton's hand clenched around the glass before he flung it into the grate. The crash made heads turn with unwelcome curiosity.

Ranelaw gritted his teeth. Much more of this and he'd tell the numbskull to sod off. It was the kind of flamboyant gesture that had made Ranelaw despise Johnny Benton when they were younger. For all that, he couldn't mistake that under the flashy dramatics, the man was genuinely distraught.

"Wouldn't she have you?" Benton's seething despair demanded some response, even from a heartless bastard like Ranelaw.

Benton focused burning eyes upon him. "She's dead."

Good God.

Ranelaw wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't been a chum of Benton's. But it seemed cruel to abandon the man to his sorrow. "I'm sorry," Ranelaw said, knowing his words were inadequate.

Benton's eyes swam with tears, which damned well embarrassed Ranelaw even if they didn't embarrass him. "She's the one I'll never forget. She's written her name in my heart. Has that ever happened to you?"

"Hell, no," Ranelaw said with sincere horror, while that inconvenient voice reminded him of his astonishingly profound emotions when he'd thrust inside Antonia. He gave the taunting voice the cut direct.

"Then I feel sorry for you." Benton filled his glass again but didn't lift it.

Ranelaw bit back a heated retort. How dare a broken-down wreck like Benton pity the magnificent marquess? He took a vicious swipe at his sirloin and heartily wished he'd ridden on to London.

Benton addressed his glass. "Through ten years of exile, I couldn't forget her. I did wrong by her and now I'm back to remedy my evil. I prayed she was still free, that she'd marry me, in spite of what I'd done."

Ranelaw refrained from asking what Benton had done. Frankly he didn't much care. The story sounded banal in the extreme. All this lachrymose emotion put him off his dinner. With a grunt, he shoved his half-full plate away.

The fribble still maundered on. "I rode up to that gloomy pile in Northumberland and asked for her. Her brother saw me. More than I deserved. Her father would have chased me off with a shotgun. When I stated my honorable intentions, he informed me the lady died shortly after our last meeting."

He looked up with such misery, Ranelaw, who grew increasingly impatient, couldn't bring himself to up and leave. Much as he wanted to. He struggled to think of something to stem the man's torrent of confidences, but weariness and turmoil over his own chaotic love life kept him mute.

Benton went on, his voice raw with desperation. "How can my heart's darling be dead a decade without me knowing? How can I make peace with her after wronging her so egregiously?"

Ranelaw winced at the word egregiously, even when slurred with drink. Couldn't the scoundrel talk like a real person? "Buck up, old man."

Benton's mouth quivered and he stared down at the table. Ranelaw had no doubt the fellow fought more tears.

"You don't understand. Only someone who has loved as I have would understand."

"I'm sure."

Benton was too upset to notice his audience's lack of enthusiastic support. "Gresham, if you could have seen her. She was seventeen when we met and there's never been a woman to match her. Tall, hair a perfect silver blond, eyes the blue of the sky at dawn, skin like a white rose, lips like soft pink petals, a form Venus herself would envy. A low, sweet voice like the music of a cello. Clever and wise and witty. A brave, proud spirit. Rode a horse like an Amazon. And she loved me, she risked everything for me, for all that I deceived her."