A bitter laugh escaped. "Now who's being romantical? No, he called me a filthy slut and said I was dead to him." Just speaking the words felt like slicing her skin with razors. "As far as family and neighbors were concerned, I literally was dead. My father put it about that I caught a fever while visiting France with a cousin. When he disowned me, he informed me that my gallant lover was married."

"The sod claims he still loves you." Nicholas's voice dripped disgust. "He went to your family home, but your brother told him you were dead."

She was too inured to Johnny's weakness to be either surprised or angry. How typical that after wrecking her life, he pined artistically for ten years.

"Johnny's just wallowing in the drama." She didn't have to pretend ruthlessness. "No man treats a woman he loves as he treated me."

Nicholas's hands tightened on his glass until the knuckles shone white. "But do you love him?"

Odd, before this she'd never believed Nicholas had much truck with the idea of love. She stared him direct in the eye and spoke with complete certainty. "I don't love Johnny Benton. I didn't love him at the time, although I convinced myself I did. What I loved was the excitement of playing at grand passion." Her voice lowered into self-loathing. "I was stupid to run away with him. I realized my mistake within a couple of days. And it was a mistake I couldn't fix by offering my parents contrition and the promise of better behavior."

Nicholas frowned into his wine. "You were very young."

"Old enough to know better," she bit out. "At least my father prevented a scandal. He kept everything quiet. In all these years, I've never heard a whisper. Not that hushing everything up would have been difficult. Almost nobody outside neighbors and family knew I existed. I didn't go to school, I had governesses instead. I hadn't been to London. Goodness, I hadn't been as far as Newcastle."

His regard was searching. "No wonder you felt stifled. It's cruel to shut a high-spirited, intelligent female away like a pariah."

"That's very progressive of you," she said with a hint of cynicism. And surprise. Yet again Nicholas confounded her easy expectations. She'd never pictured this reprobate as an advocate of women's rights.

"I have a gaggle of sisters and half sisters. I know the trouble an inadequately occupied woman can cause. If your father possessed a modicum of sense, he'd have realized a dazzling creature like you needed a wider stage."

Her heart stuttered at his swift defense. Still Nicholas sought to excuse her rashness. And called her a dazzling creature besides. "Thank you."

He touched her cheek with a glancing caress that she felt to her toes. "You're welcome, my darling."

He'd called her his darling once before, when he'd kept her from running headlong into Johnny at the Merriweather ball. The endearment still set her trembling with yearning. Before she could summon any response, pleasure, gratitude, protest, he continued. "Given nobody knew, why didn't your family take you back?"

"Because I'd rebelled and had to pay the price," she said bitterly. She swallowed to ease her tight throat. The pain of her banishment stabbed, even a decade later. "My father didn't want a headstrong trollop as his daughter."

"So he abandoned you to Benton?" Censure weighted Nicholas's question.

She shrugged, although she felt anything but indifference when she remembered that awful day Lord Aveson slammed into their shabby room in Vicenza. He'd been so determined to forbid her from coming anywhere near the family again, he'd undertaken the arduous journey through Italy to tell her himself. He wanted no doubts in her mind that he'd ever relent and accept her back at Blaydon Park.

He vastly underestimated his daughter's understanding. Antonia immediately realized when he arrived and addressed her as if she were lower than the dirt beneath his feet that her actions forever severed all links between them. The revelation of Johnny's secret marriage had tolled the final grim note in her grand adventure's death knell.

As long as she lived, she'd never forget the repugnance in her father's face when he surveyed their squalid bower. He'd found her half dressed trying to mend one of Johnny's shirts so he was fit to be seen on the street. Johnny lolled in their tumbled bed as the sun rose toward noon.

"My father flung some money at me and told me not to contact anyone from my former life. He told me . " She swallowed again as excruciating recollection surged. "He told me he'd shoot me himself if I dared approach the family."

His face vivid with compassion, Nicholas sat on the bed and took her hand. Immediate warmth flowed into her, combating icy desolation. "But what was to become of you?"

"I doubt he cared."

Nicholas frowned. "What about your mother, your brother? Surely they weren't so inflexible?"

"I'd humbled my father's pride. There was no chance of insinuating myself back into the family." She smiled sadly and returned the clasp of Nicholas's hand. Ridiculous really how his touch eased old hurt. "Without Godfrey Demarest, I don't know what would have become of me."

Abruptly a bristling silence descended. An unfamiliar expression crossed Nicholas's face, replacing compassion and warmth. An expression that lanced a chill through her. She couldn't be sure but it looked like a flash of pure hatred.

Briefly he wasn't the man who had made love to her. He became a stranger. A frightening stranger.

"Nicholas?" she asked uncertainly, tightening her grip on his hand.

"Yes?" He was back to looking like her ardent lover.

"Nothing." She must have imagined the loathing. She withdrew her hand from his and steeled herself to finish her sorry tale. "Without Johnny's protection, I couldn't stay in Italy. I came back to England."

She quailed to recall the horrors of that journey. She'd been heartbroken, frightened, almost penniless. Only once she left Vicenza did the full implications of her reckless actions sink in. When she ran away with Johnny, she'd told herself she was daring and brave. After her father disowned her, she knew herself for a foolish wanton, at the mercy of any man who looked her way.

This time she couldn't mistake the fury blazing in Nicholas's face. "That bastard Benton could have made sure you were safe."

"My father threatened Johnny with ruin if he set foot in England."

"No excuse. I wish I'd bloody shot the worm."

She'd forgotten what it was to have a champion. "Thank you."

He looked puzzled. "For what?"

Emotion pinched her throat. By admitting how his understanding comforted her poor bruised heart, she made her vulnerability too clear. "For . for listening to me. For not saying I deserved what I got. For . for standing up for me."

"Damned lot of good it does," he said grimly, snatching her hand and pressing a quick kiss to her palm.

"It's too late to change what happened," she said sadly, even as the flick of his tongue on her skin heated her blood. "My father died without setting eyes on me again."

"Can't you go back now?"

She shook her head. "I promised I wouldn't. I disgraced them, whether the world knows or not. My mother died not long after I eloped. My brother inherited. I'm sure he'd rather preserve the family name than welcome a wayward sister. Where could he say I'd been all this time? Too many questions would arise."

"Questions can be answered," Nicholas said sharply. "Your brother may not even know you're alive."

"Do you think I haven't told myself that? That I haven't longed to see my brother again? But my actions place me beyond forgiveness. I must make my way alone." She blinked away stinging tears and raised her chin. Her voice steadied. "I have a home with the Demarests. Luckily Mr. Demarest recognized me on the packet from Calais and immediately came to my assistance. I owe him my life."

It was pure chance that she'd shared the vessel with her second cousin, who returned from one of his regular forays into the Paris demimonde. Although they'd met only occasionally, he recognized her immediately. The Hilliard coloring made her noticeable, she supposed.

She'd never deceived herself that Demarest's kindness was anything less than a careless act of the moment, and in return she'd devoted years of service to his daughter and his estate. But the prodigal thoughtlessness that so often drove her to distraction meant also that he paid no heed to her disgrace. It had cost him little to offer her shelter, and in return, he'd enjoyed playing the gallant rescuer.

Nonetheless hehad rescued her, and from a dangerous and hopeless situation. She'd never forget that as long as she lived.

Nicholas stared down at the hand he held, his lashes shadowing his cheekbones. His thumb brushed her skin in a casual caress that set awareness swirling. She couldn't read his expression.

Was she wrong to sense tension in his stillness? He was angry on her behalf. Perhaps that was all it was.

She braced for him to rain down curses on Johnny and her father, although she'd long ago accepted responsibility for her downfall. She'd been fittingly punished, was fortunate her punishment hadn't been worse. To fend off destitution, she might have ended up selling herself. She suppressed a shudder. After Italy, her prospects had been bleak indeed. She'd grown up over those weeks of rough travel. Grown up and recognized her fatal weakness.

Which hadn't deterred her from falling into Nicholas's bed. A handsome face still incinerated her common sense. Despair knotted her belly even as she clung to Nicholas's hand like a lifeline in a stormy sea.

When he raised his head, his voice was gentle and his black eyes were impossibly deep. "Drink, Antonia."

"I don't want . "

"Just a little wine." He extended his own glass to her lips. She took a couple of sips and was surprised when the claret's warmth soothed her tight throat.

He placed his wine on the bedside cabinet and reached forward to stroke his thumb across her cheek. Only then did she realize her face was wet. She'd tried so hard not to cry. Painful memories and, even more, Nicholas's unquestioning partisanship had defeated her.

Leaning forward, he softly pressed his mouth to hers in a kiss more of comfort than passion, although the promise of passion flickered behind the care. He cradled her head in one hand and ran his tongue along the seam until she opened. He tasted of claret and Nicholas. With an unhurried gesture, he took her wine and set the glass near his.

"I've never told anyone else about Johnny," she admitted. Surprisingly she felt lighter after her confession, although nothing could absolve her sins. "Not everything."

"Thank you for telling me." He kissed her again, the warmth balm to her wounded soul.

As she closed her eyes, traitorous tears surged once more. What right had this dissipated roue to rip at her emotions? He didn't pretend to love her. At least Johnny had convinced himself he cared.

Yet when Nicholas kissed her, he cracked her heart wide open.

After tonight, his magical kisses would become a memory. She could hardly bear to think she'd never lie in his arms again. She'd miss much more than his kisses. His touch. His voice. His intelligence. His laughter. And the powerful thrust of his body.

She had a dismal premonition that after leaving him, she'd feel empty until the day she died.

In that moment, she realized there was no similarity between shallow, self-involved Johnny and this man. Nicholas was the lover she'd dreamed of as a young girl, and still dreamed of as a mature woman.

He was the lover she'd waited for all her life.

She kissed him back with all the fervor in her heart. Her hands crept up to encircle his neck.

When he raised his head, they both breathed unsteadily. Her breasts swelled for his touch. She ached for him to take her again, so quickly he'd stirred her desire.

"Make me forget everything but you," she whispered, her lips so close to his that she felt like her breath continued the kiss. She closed her eyes as arousal overwhelmed her. It felt like much more than arousal. It felt like the bond true lovers shared.

"I promise." He flung the sheet from her, then, his gaze unwavering, he stretched out next to her like some reclining Greek god in a sculpture.

A beautiful, strong,virile Greek god.

His lips curved upward in appreciation. Unfettered excitement juddered through her. His eyes glittered with anticipation and as she flicked a glance lower, she saw other parts of him expressed anticipation too.

When he noticed the direction of her gaze, his smile turned wicked. "With every moment, I just want you more."

Her heart crashed painfully against her chest. She couldn't bear to hear such things. Not when tonight was all they'd ever have. She had to wrench herself back to reality before she drowned in this perilous bliss.

Desperately she struggled to find words to pierce the joyous abandon enveloping her. "You say that now but I'm sure you'll be glad I'm gone. The way I'm sure you're glad to be rid of every woman you tumble into this bed. Or at least once she's served her purpose."

She should have known she wouldn't shatter his sensual mood so easily. His lips kicked up at the corners. "Your purpose seems to be torment."

He cupped her breast in his powerful hand. She glanced down, and the sight of her pale flesh framed between his long, tanned fingers sent a thrill rippling through her. The self-protective impulse to keep him at a distance faded. They had so little time left.

He kissed the areola, then drew her nipple between his lips, rolling the tip against his tongue, then biting down gently. Her belly contracted with desire. He knew a thousand different ways to touch her. Each left her trembling and needy. She was defenseless against his physical mastery. It was as if he replaced her will with his.

Except today her will and his focused on the same goal. Ecstasy.

She stretched on a rack, caught between these teasing preliminaries and needing him to rush to completion. She moaned and shifted in encouragement. She needed to scotch the unhappy memories of the past. She needed his passion.

She needed . him.

He raised his head from her breast, his regard curiously intent. "And you're wrong-I've never brought another woman to this house."

With desire brewing like a summer storm, speaking was difficult. "What . what did you say?"

The question ended on a groan as he drew hard on her nipple and squeezed her other breast. From all directions, he assaulted her senses. He battered her with bliss.

"Mmm?"

He didn't sound interested in talking. If he kept suckling her, she wouldn't be interested in talking either. But what he'd said was so astonishing, she knew she must have heard incorrectly.

"You said you didn't bring women here," she forced out.

"Did I?"

With taunting slowness, he slid one hand down to test her heat. She squirmed and released a strangled sound that combined protest and pleasure. His thumb penetrated her slick folds, then circled.

"Y-you did," she gasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders as need built. Sparks fired behind her eyes. "Nicholas . "

"Yes?" He too sounded caught in rising excitement. "Are you sure you want to talk?"

A strangled laugh escaped. "No."

To her regret, he shifted his hand. He raised himself on his arms and stared down, his black eyes brilliant with hunger. "This house is my sanctuary. It's not for an army of hysterical women."

With a shaking hand, she smoothed the lock of dark gold hair that tumbled across his forehead. "Poor you," she said with heavy irony. "Are all your lovers hysterical?"

He turned to skitter a brief kiss across her fingers. Her pulses leaped at the dancing contact. "Inevitably."

"That means I'll be hysterical too."

Another smile tilted his lips. "Probably."

"So why bring me here?"

"Hysterical and inquisitive."

"Yes, well."

"You're not like my other mistresses."

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled until he winced. "I'm not your mistress."

"At this moment, nobody would find that assertion remotely convincing." The smile became more pronounced. "You're blushing."

"With annoyance."