It couldn't be .

Shock rocketed through Ranelaw, settled like a lead weight in his empty belly. This description sounded nauseatingly familiar.

He must be mistaken. He was obsessed with Antonia Smith. Benton couldn't be talking about her. That was too much of a coincidence.

Anyway, the chit Benton sniveled over was dead. Had been dead ten years.

And yet.

Still difficult to credit, but Antonia hadn't been a virgin when Ranelaw took her. At least one lover lurked in her past. Disbelief warred with the impossible suspicion that Antonia's previous lover must be this lugubrious weasel.

How many women had eyes that particular shade of blue, which, curse Benton, he could picture immediately? Eyes of that unusual blue and hair like moonlight? Benton couldn't have described her more accurately if Antonia had stood before them in all her splendor.

No, it was absurd. She preyed on his mind and inspired him to ridiculous fancy.

But he couldn't leave it alone. If he added up the years Benton mentioned, she was the right age. Fear of a scandal might explain why she bundled herself in those god-awful rags, hid behind tinted spectacles, and played a humble companion when anyone with eyes could tell blue blood ran in her veins.

Then there was her anomalous treatment from the Demarests. Her bedroom was suitable for an aristocratic lady. However fond Cassie was of her companion, this seemed generous provision for someone little above a servant.

Antonia, Benton's lover? Ranelaw couldn't believe it. He refused to believe it. She was a thousand times too good for the worm.

Benton sucked in a shuddering breath, then to Ranelaw's absolute disgust, lowered his head to the table and burst into theatrical sobs. The maid rushed to his side, bleating comfort, but Benton was beyond consolation.

Ranelaw scowled at the rogue's heaving shoulders while his brain worked busily at what he'd learned. Could Antonia be Benton's lost love?

Surely not. After all, Benton mentioned a brother and Antonia had no family. There must be other women in England who could carve a rift in a man's heart so deep that it never knitted. Other women who were tall and blond and had eyes the color of the sky.

Striving to rein in his rioting imagination, he shifted his gaze from the overwrought Benton to the congealing remains of his meal. His gut insisted that Antonia was Benton's mysterious beloved. His brain insisted she couldn't be.

The Antonia he knew wouldn't have a bar of this man's overweening vanity. She was too shrewd, too suspicious, and she had a jaded view of humanity, or at least the male half.

What if that jaded view resulted from her affair with Benton?

Because Ranelaw couldn't mistake the source of Benton's guilt. Ten years ago, Benton had been breathtakingly handsome. Antonia at seventeen would have seen considerably less of the world than she'd seen since. She wouldn't be the first female to fall for a pretty face with no character behind it.

Had this bastard ruined her?

Ranelaw clenched his hands on the table. The yen for violence was a rusty taste in his mouth. He burned to beat the slug to a bloody pulp.

Steady, man, you don't even know he's talking about Antonia. You leap to conclusions faster than a hungry trout leaps after a fly.

Nonetheless his gut assured him he was right. His gut was never wrong.

The mongrel deserved to roast in the lowest circle of hell. What right had he to place his hands on Antonia?

Ranelaw closed his eyes as fury surged, bathing him in stinging acid. Benton had known Antonia. Benton had heard those husky moans she made in the throes of climax. Benton had felt her passage tighten around him.

Ranelaw couldn't contain his anger when he pictured her in Benton's arms. Innocent, unprotected, and brought down by this man's selfish passion.

Benton needed to die slowly and in excruciating pain. And Ranelaw wanted the pleasure of killing the spineless son of a whore.

But as he glowered at the sobbing craven, he couldn't summon the stomach to challenge him.

Ranelaw needed to know for sure yet he couldn't bandy Antonia's name around a common tavern. And who could say the name would be familiar? Long ago he'd decided Smith was an alias.

"Oh, my love, my darling," Benton was moaning into his folded arms.

Ranelaw closed his ears to more of the same while he tried to calm the chaos of questions bubbling in his head. Antonia as Benton's paramour? Imagination, surely.

"Sweet, sweet Antonia . "

Antonia?

What the blazes? Surely he'd misheard.

Even if he had, it wasn't as if no other woman was called Antonia, especially in society's upper echelons. This still wasn't unassailable proof, even while his gut obstinately insisted that of course Benton was talking about his Antonia.

His Antonia who perhaps had once been Benton's Antonia, God rot the bastard.

He felt suddenly trapped, suffocated. He needed to get out of here. Before he did something rash like murder this mongrel. Assuming Antonia was Benton's long-lost and supposedly dead lover was crazy. He couldn't breathe without thinking of her. She made him mad. Fresh air might clear his head.

Abruptly he rose and scattered a handful of coins across the table. They landed with a rattle, but Benton didn't look up. He was too sunk in self-pity.

His belly churning with frustrated bloodlust and his mind buzzing with a thousand angry questions, Ranelaw strode into the freezing night and curtly ordered his horse.

Chapter Fifteen.

For a fortnight after returning to London, Antonia managed to restrict Cassie to quiet strolls in the park and a few small gatherings at the house. The girl's strength hadn't fully returned, but her determination to rejoin the social whirl was so powerful, that scarcely mattered. Antonia tried again and again to convince Cassie to return to Somerset to convalesce, but she became so upset at missing her first season that it seemed less injurious to her health to remain in Town.

Eventually Antonia reluctantly consented to accompany Cassie to the Merriweather ball. But only after extracting the strictest promise that if Cassie felt ill, they left.

Antonia was well aware it wasn't just Cassie's well-being that made her desperate to escape London. She'd be a hypocrite of the first rank if she pretended it was.

She'd hoped giving herself to Ranelaw would cool the heat in her blood. Instead it only stirred demons she thought she'd conquered ten years ago. Demons that now tormented her, broke her sleep, made her unusually intolerant of everyone around her.

Tonight she'd see Ranelaw. He had at least one spy in the household so he'd know their plans. She'd considered dismissing the entire staff, but that seemed unfair to the honest servants. Anyway, she had a healthy respect for Ranelaw's charm, not to mention his ready coin. She might as well stick to people familiar with the domestic routine.

Since their visit to Surrey, neither she nor Cassie had mentioned the disreputable marquess. He'd sent flowers and a note wishing Cassie a quick recovery, but Antonia hadn't remarked upon his bouquet among the hundreds Cassie received.

When they entered the crowded Merriweather ballroom, Antonia immediately scanned the throng, seeking a tall man with guinea gold hair. She told herself it was for Cassie's sake. She knew that for a lie.

The pressure around her chest eased when she realized Ranelaw wasn't present. He was such a striking man, she couldn't miss him.

Perhaps fate granted her one boon by keeping Lord Ranelaw away for the evening. Wild Antonia burned to see him, but her saner self had had time since that shattering encounter in the summerhouse to recognize the risks she took.

She turned to Cassie with her first genuine smile all night. "It's quite a crush."

Cassie looked ethereal and breathtakingly lovely in white silk, like a visitor from celestial realms. Antonia already noticed masculine heads turning in their direction. If she could divert Cassie's attention from Lord Ranelaw, a number of men here would make her cousin a suitable husband.

"It's going to be a wonderful ball." Cassie returned Antonia's smile.

Briefly Antonia forgot everything but the excitement in the girl's eyes. How wonderful to be so full of life and hope. She said a silent but fervent prayer that Cassie kept this joyful spirit, that nobody crushed her girlish dreams the way Antonia's had been crushed.

"Are you all right, Toni?"

Antonia realized she blinked back tears. Dear God, she needed to get a grip on her emotions or she'd make an utter spectacle of herself. She'd been on edge ever since leaving Surrey.

"Of course I am." She heard the betraying huskiness. If she wasn't careful, Cassie would suspect something momentous had happened at Pelham Place. "I'm just thinking how pretty you look."

Cassie thanked her very sweetly just before her coterie surrounded her. Most of her friends had called at the house during the fortnight-although thankfully not the Marquess of Ranelaw, which she knew irked Cassie.

Antonia lagged behind as her cousin glided through the crowd like a beautiful white swan. She'd never had a season, she'd broken all the rules before she entered the marriage mart. She wouldn't be human if occasionally she didn't envy these glowing, laughing young people.

You made your bed, my girl. Now you have to sleep on it.

She raised her chin, told herself to stop being a henwit, and made her sedate way to where she belonged, the chairs grouped in the corner. For one brief starlit moment, she'd become a woman who pursued what she wanted. That moment had passed.

The other duennas raised their heads and greeted her more warmly than she'd expected, although she soon realized they hankered after gossip about the house party. A chaperone's life was stultifying. Scandal was the only spice permitted these women.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift with the lilting music. In her imagination, a man's arms enfolded her as they whirled around the room. Surely nobody could chide her if her fantasy man possessed Ranelaw's features.

When she opened her eyes, it was inevitable she saw Lord Ranelaw bowing over his hostess's hand and making her blush and giggle like a debutante. Antonia's heart crashed against her ribs and her breath jammed in her throat.

For one forbidden moment, Antonia drank in his sheer physical magnificence. The powerful body, the gleaming gold hair, the perfect profile as precise as if carved from marble. If she had to fall, at least she'd fallen to a man who made the stars stand still with breathless admiration. His was a harder, more ruthless beauty than Johnny's, and all the more compelling for that.

As if sensing her attention, he glanced up and unerringly caught her eye. Her heart, which had just begun to beat again, slammed to another stop. Across the distance, that obsidian gaze seared her. He claimed her with his eyes and she, poor, gullible fool, couldn't deny his unspoken demand.

She bit her lip and hot color flushed her cheeks. Thank goodness, nobody spared a moment's attention for a drab companion. To break that silent intensity, she stared down at her hands twining in her lap. She prayed the desire settling hot and heavy in her belly wasn't apparent on her face.

She very much feared it was. At least to someone as finely tuned to her reactions as Ranelaw.

After a breathless pause, she chanced another glance and caught a flicker of a self-satisfied smile. Oh, yes, he guessed the torrid images flooding her mind.

Damn him.

Cassie danced with Lord Soames but her gaze was fixed on the doorway. She sent Ranelaw a brilliant smile over her partner's shoulder. Ranelaw bowed with a depth that indicated interest.

Antonia's heart plummeted. Cassie's fascination with this notorious rake hadn't faded. How could it? Ranelaw was an intrinsically fascinating man. Who knew better than she?

She'd forgotten how her stomach coiled with dismay at every flirtatious glance between Cassie and Lord Ranelaw. Why in heaven's name had she become involved with him? She was such a stupid jade.

Then he cast her a taunting glance brimming with heated promise, and she answered that question. With one look, he transported her back to Pelham Place and the blazing sexual need that had propelled her into his arms beyond sense, beyond will, beyond self-preservation.

She'd become involved with him because she couldn't resist.

She was grimly aware she joined a long line of women who embraced disaster for the sake of his lazy smile. A long line of women would come after her.

But nothing controlled the hard thump of her heart or the surge in her blood now she was in the same room as this depraved roue. Nothing stopped her skin aching for his touch. She'd wanted him from the moment she first saw him. Now, having known his possession, desire threatened to incinerate her where she sat.

The quadrille ended and Soames escorted Cassie back to her friends, lingering to talk to her. Antonia's glance sharpened as she observed the young earl. Soames was an eligible parti. He was in his twenties and she'd heard no vicious gossip about him. Compared to Ranelaw, he looked a callow boy. Unfortunately that was true for most of the men in this room.

Her mind buzzing, Antonia recalled entertainments they'd attended. Had Cassie shown any preference for the earl? She'd been too preoccupied with Ranelaw's courtship of Cassie-and his pursuit of her-to notice.

A waltz struck up. Ranelaw had respected Mr. Demarest's ban on the dance. Antonia watched him prowl the ballroom and couldn't help craning her neck to see which lady he favored.

Prior to their visit to Surrey, he'd made a point of dancing only with Cassie. Perhaps things had changed. Remarkably, he hadn't yet spoken to the girl.

Had his interest focused on some other woman? Was his flirtation with Cassie over? It seemed too good to be true.

Through her confusion, she watched him cut through the crowd like a shark slicing through deep water.

As he veered nearer, she noticed details she couldn't discern at a distance. Impossible to insist she wouldn't look. She was hungry for the sight of him. Had been since she'd fled the summerhouse.

His bright hair was longer and slightly disheveled, as though he'd run his hand through it. He looked tired, for all that he bristled with energy and determination.

She tried to stifle the instinctive impulse to comfort him. He didn't need comforting. Sharks were nothing but conscienceless predators, and God help any small fish swimming into their range.

She waited for him to select a partner yet still he advanced. Antonia devoted a bewildered moment to wondering what he was doing. Did he mean to slip onto the terrace?

All that lay in his path now was the gaggle of women who observed the festivities without partaking of them.

Oh, no.

Shocked denial pierced her as he strode nearer. Every step communicated his implacable determination.

He couldn't. Surely he couldn't.

He knew he couldn't single her out and expect her to emerge unscathed. He might be rash and selfish, but he was neither stupid nor spiteful.

She glanced to either side but none of the other chaperones noticed Ranelaw's approach. If he went through with this crazy plan, they would. So would every other person in this crowded ballroom. From this ballroom, the news would spread across polite society, branding Antonia a leper. Making people ask questions about Cassandra Demarest's chaperone. Perhaps even strip away her disguise to discern her true identity.

This was a catastrophe in the making.

Her heart drumming with terror, she lurched to her feet, ready to flee.

She was too late.

Ranelaw sent her a sly look under heavy eyelids and bowed deeply. As if she was an aristocratic guest and not merely the hired help.

"Miss Smith, may I request the honor of this waltz?"