He smothered a groan. She obviously didn't realize how excited he was or she wouldn't tease. "Miss Smith, stop distracting me. We've reached our destination."

"Let me up. I want to see where we are," she said breathlessly.

"No great mystery. We're in the mews behind my house."

Her beguiling languor leached away. She stared up in horror. "I can't come to your house, Nicholas. I thought you understood."

He sat, drawing her upright even as he felt her resistance. "It's the safest place."

"Apart from the servants," she said acidly. "Who presumably possess eyes and ears and tongues."

He smoothed the pale hair that framed her flushed face. She looked thoroughly kissed and thoroughly annoyed. It made an enchanting mixture. A tide of emotion choked him. Something not altogether comfortable, something composed of protectiveness and admiration and a huge dollop of desire.

He welcomed overwhelming desire. After all, this attraction promised pleasure beyond his wildest dreams. But what he felt now went beyond mere attraction, set him teetering above a bottomless abyss.

"I've sent the servants away until tomorrow. Bob coachman knows I've brought a lady but he has no idea who you are. Anyway, he's as closemouthed as an oyster."

Praise heaven, the tension drained from her expression. "Thank you," she said in a low voice.

He leaned past her to raise the blinds. The world was awash with silvery sheets of rain. He could barely see the garden gate a few feet away. "We'll have to make a dash for t."

"Perhaps we should stay here."

He shot her a quick smile. "My plans require more space, beautiful girl."

He caught a flash of curiosity before she lowered her eyes. "Goodness gracious," she breathed.

Ranelaw retrieved his hat and placed it on his head. Antonia, looking enticingly rumpled, made an ineffectual attempt to order her clothing.

Gently he shifted her hands and hitched her bodice into decorum. The actions took longer than they should. Antonia wasn't the only one shaking with desire. He fastened the elaborate silver toggle on her cloak. It was a noblewoman's garment, not a companion's workaday covering. He beat back his curiosity. Questions could wait. Physical need couldn't.

Finally he pulled up the hood. "Ready?"

"Yes."

He read heat in her eyes. She wasn't merely consenting to a run through the rain. With that assent, she offered him surrender. The knowledge set his heart galloping like a wild horse.

He opened the door, kicked down the step and plunged into the storm. The water was frigid on his neck and face, pelting down with stinging force.

He laughed with the sheer joy of having the woman he wanted with him at last. Turning, he extended his arms. "Jump!"

Antonia hovered in the carriage doorway and stared at the tall man holding out his hands. Rain slicked over his fashionable hat, probably ruined it forever, and down the capes of his black greatcoat. He stood in a puddle, drenching his once-gleaming half boots in muddy water.

"Antonia! I'll catch you."

He sounded so strong, so steadfast. He didn't sound like the scoundrel who would shatter her heart. Although of course he would.

She had the strangest feeling that despite everything that had passed, this was the deciding moment. This was when she cast her fate to the winds.

Nicholas waited patiently, although he wasn't at heart a patient man. His eyes were steady, although he wasn't at heart a steady man either.

She smiled through the downpour. He smiled back with a devil-may-care insouciance that made her feel young and brave. She hadn't felt young and brave for ten long years.

Whispering a silent prayer, she drew a breath that tasted like rain and flung herself into Nicholas's arms.

Nicholas's arms closed hard and sure around Antonia and he swung her up against him. He wrapped the front of his greatcoat around her to shield her from the weather. Desperately she struggled against lapsing into a romantic stupor at this strong, handsome man carrying her. It was impossible. Her life had been devoid of girlish dreams since girlish dreams had nearly destroyed her. It seemed girlish dreams weren't so easily vanquished.

"I caught a mermaid," he said with a carefree laugh, striding toward the gate. The coachman splashed ahead to open it. She heard it shut behind them, enclosing her in a private world with Nicholas.

"A drowning mermaid." Antonia curled her arms around his neck and turned her face into his chest.

He'd told her she smelled like paradise. She couldn't smell half as wonderful as he did. Clean male with a hint of laundry soap. And fresh, fresh rain. Rain that she prayed would wash away her sins.

Today, slung high in Nicholas's arms as he headed through a dripping garden to a large white house, she felt virginal. As if he drew her out of the storm and into a haven of safety and peace. As if he carried her over the threshold like a bride.

The bride she'd never be.

Her arms tightened around his neck and she pressed closer. The rain's icy bite made her shiver. In contrast, Nicholas was endlessly warm. A shelter against the weather. A shelter against unwelcome qualms.

She'd promised herself one night of passion. One night without future or past before she returned to Somerset and a life of perfect and stultifying virtue. Nothing would steal this away. Nothing. Not God. Not the devil. Not society. Not even her vulnerable heart.

With unmistakable purpose, Nicholas marched inside. Anticipation ripped through her. On this gloomy evening, the house was dim and mysterious. Antonia gathered a vague impression of a black and white tiled corridor lined with closed doors, then an imposing entrance hall in white marble that reflected the torrential rain falling against the windows.

Nicholas climbed a curved staircase flanked by huge, dark landscapes. As promised, she saw no servants.

"Welcome to my lair," he murmured, shouldering open a door.

It was a joke, but she couldn't contain a premonitory shiver. The room was shadowy, chilly. The candles offered little defense against the darkness.

"Damn me for a thoughtless dog," he said gruffly. "You're cold. I should have waited, got Bob to fetch an umbrella."

"No, I'm all right," she said huskily. Nicholas had taken much the worst of the weather. Her cloak was damp but underneath, she was relatively dry.

He carried her to the huge four-poster bed and after whipping her cloak away, laid her down with heart-stopping gentleness. The thick mattress sagged beneath her weight and the pillows were soft beneath her head.

He shucked the sodden greatcoat and joined her. As he knelt above her, he looked serious and intense. She'd arrived expecting blazing passion that would incinerate all her qualms. His care made her yearn hopelessly for more than just this one night.

"That's a pretty dress," he murmured, his eyes skimming her with glittering approval. Everywhere he glanced, her skin took fire.

"It's old."

The soft rose gown was hopelessly out of date. She hadn't worn it before although she'd packed it for her elopement with Johnny. She'd often wondered why she kept it. Except that it was pretty and expensive and it indicated dour Miss Smith hadn't completely subsumed Antonia Hilliard.

When she dressed to meet Ranelaw, her hand had automatically fallen on the garment. It belonged neither to Johnny Benton's adolescent lover nor to Cassie's frumpy companion. It was a dress without history-today she wanted to be a woman without history.

A ghost of a smile flickered. "It's from before you were Antonia Smith."

Startled, she met his gaze, although he must know or guess her entire sorry story by now. "Yes."

His voice deepened into rawness. "I need to see you."

For a fraught moment, emotion vibrated in the air. What she felt was strong enough to shift mountains. "Then undress me, Nicholas," she whispered.

His Christian name emerged perfectly naturally. She stroked the side of his face with a gesture that conveyed the tenderness blossoming inside her.

He kissed her softly. It wasn't a passionate claiming. Instead it was like the kiss he'd given her by the brook in Surrey, the kiss that had nearly broken her heart. This was the kiss a man gave the woman he loved. She blinked back stinging tears. She tried so hard to armor herself against him, but he put her completely at his mercy.

He undressed her with a dispatch that would disturb her if she hadn't noticed how his hands shook with desire. She emerged from her trance when only her filmy chemise remained. It was white silk embroidered with pink roses, another relic of reckless Lady Antonia Hilliard. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in brazen disarray.

"Wait," she said in a thready voice she barely recognized. When she placed her palm on his chest, she felt his ragged breathing.

"Dear God, Antonia, don't torment me," he bit out.

"I need to see you too," she murmured, bunching his shirt in her hand and hauling him closer. "You're dressed for a duchess's garden party."

He laughed with the hint of self-deprecation that always beguiled. He caught her hand, pressing it again to the front of his trousers. "I'd shock the duchess."

"Any duchess worth her salt would lure you away for a private interview." Trembling with need, she fumbled with the front fall and slid her hand inside. His stomach tensed to rock hardness under her searching fingers.

At last, at last, she held his pulsing, heavy rod. Her excitement built, set her heart thundering.

"You drive me mad," he groaned, flexing his hips.

She firmed her grip, marveling at his heat and strength. It was like trying to contain some mighty force of nature. "Poor duchess doesn't know what she's missing."

With visible reluctance, he drew her hand away and kissed it. "What happened to my beautiful lady with the sharp tongue?"

"She fell under a rake's spell." She couldn't mistake his hunger. Her confidence surged along with her arousal. Rising on her knees, she ripped his neck cloth away. "Will you take off your coat or will I?"

With gratifying swiftness, he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the floor. He tugged his shirt over his head, ruffling his dark gold hair. He looked like an untidy angel. Except there was more devil than angel in this wicked marquess.

As she stared at his bare chest, her mouth dried with awe and blazing anticipation. She couldn't shift her eyes from the taut expanse of skin scattered with golden hair. She licked her lips and noticed how his feverish attention focused on the betraying movement.

"Take off your trousers," she said in a voice harsh with control. She expected him to object to her commands. But he immediately rose from the bed, tugging off his shoes with more haste than grace before shedding his trousers.

Her heart crashed against her ribs. His nakedness struck her silent. He seemed too beautiful to be human. Too beautiful for the earthy reality of lovemaking.

Inevitably her gaze leveled on the part of him she'd so recently touched. He looked impossibly proportioned, big enough to tear her apart. He was hard and ready for her. Her eyes widened with shock as she watched him grow even larger. No wonder she'd felt invaded in the summerhouse. She raised her eyes to his, expecting him to appear proud, superior, triumphant.

His gaze focused fierce and unwavering on her face. His shoulders heaved with the effort of dragging air into his lungs. At his sides, his hands clenched and unclenched as if he battled the urge to grab her.

With a start, she realized he wasn't basking in victory. Instead he was utterly captive to need. If she was helpless against this magic, so was he.

His unabashed hunger made her burn for the touch of his hands, the weight of his body over her. Once before, she'd known the fierceness of his possession. She ached to know it again. Her breasts swelled against the silk of her chemise. The fine material tormented her sensitive nipples, made her shift restlessly.

Still he didn't touch her. He just stood and let her stare. Or perhaps he poised in breathless suspense, awaiting her invitation.

"Antonia, for God's sake . " he forced out.

Aware she tormented him, she bit her lip. Anticipation made her belly twist and tighten. Hot moisture welled between her legs. She sucked in a breath that hurt and grabbed her shift in shaking hands. Clumsily she wrenched the final covering over her head.

Nicholas's face sharpened with hunger. His expression was so raw, she'd recoil if she didn't feel equal extremity. This was why she'd been unable to resist coming to him tonight, whatever the risk. This passion. This craving. This searing connection.

A dizzying sensation of power flooded her. She shook her hair back from her shoulders and inhaled so her breasts begged for his touch.

She swallowed to moisten her parched throat. She swallowed again and forced out the only words she needed.

"Nicholas, take me."

Chapter Nineteen.

Antonia's husky invitation incinerated Ranelaw's restraint.

Swiftly he crossed the room and covered her body with his. His hands closed around her hips. He peppered her throat and shoulders with a rain of kisses more savage than the tempest that rattled the windows. The tempest raged inside him. She stirred him as no woman ever had.

Through weeks of sleepless nights, he'd pictured her nakedness. In life she exceeded every fantasy, beggaring eloquence. She was glorious. Her form ripe and curved, the skin warm and creamy in the flickering candlelight. She promised an empire of pleasure.

He'd devoted more time than he wished to admit to wondering what color her nipples were. Pale pink? Dark rose? Brown? Her nipples were the rich red of summer raspberries. Puckered against her white skin, they were a sight to make a man grateful he was alive.

She protested under his frenzy, half laughing so he knew she didn't mind his eagerness. Through the thunder in his blood, he realized he must be crushing her. He struggled to leash the ravening beast as he raised his head to stare at her. She was flushed with arousal and her lips were lush and full after his rough kisses.

The sight of Antonia's nakedness, the vulnerability in her eyes, sliced at him with unfamiliar poignancy. He wasn't used to sex having this emotional dimension. He might be supremely confident in the physical realm but this night, this woman, demanded more. A more that he wasn't sure he was capable of delivering.

His hand mortifyingly unsteady, he reached out to stroke one tight peak, then the other. She released a whimper of pleasure and the pale areolas flushed darker pink. He already knew her breasts were deliciously sensitive but seeing her tremble when he touched her pearled nipples blasted arousal through him. And more of that unwelcome emotional need.

Ranelaw was a passionate man. Of course he wanted to possess her body. But every moment that passed bolstered the unwilling recognition that he also sought less tangible treasure from Antonia. Her strength. Her trust. The gift of her bright, passionate spirit.

"Beautiful," he whispered, dipping to kiss one quivering tip.

She arched toward him and her grip on his shoulders tightened. With voluptuous enjoyment, he sucked her nipple between his lips, drawing on it, circling it with his tongue.

He dipped his hand to the feathery curls at the base of her belly, stroking, testing, teasing. He scraped his teeth against her nipple and she rewarded him with a sobbing moan.

The freedom to touch her like this made him burn with satisfaction. She'd led him such a dance. Now she was in his arms. He still hardly credited it. He bit down on her breast before lifting his head.

Last time, he'd made love to her in the dark. This time, he intended to watch every reaction cross her lovely face.

"Don't stop," she begged hoarsely, pushing up into his hand and parting her legs to give him access.

"Never." Touching her was like basking in sunlight. Before this, his life had been so cold. He kissed a random path across the beautiful breasts that had haunted his imagination. "You don't know how much I want you."

"You've got me," she whispered.