"You can't expect me to let you go." He stroked her jaw.

She stared at him with a stubborn misery that shredded his heart. "There's nothing you can do to keep me."

Actually she was wrong. There was something. Something so shocking, the gossips would chatter about it into the next reign.

His voice turned hoarse. His heart thundered as though he'd run a mile. He felt strangely breathless.

"You could marry me."

Chapter Twenty-four.

Antonia's mouth dropped open in shock. The sheet drifted down from numbed fingers. A buzzing set up in her ears.

You could marry me.

So casually Nicholas offered to transform her life.

Yes trembled on her lips but she forced the word back. She'd invite only heartbreak if she married this debauched, arrogant man.

The buzzing in her ears crescendoed. Her sight grew dim and Nicholas's face became watery and indistinct.

"Say something," she heard through the chaos in her head.

A sharp pain in her chest made her realize she'd stopped breathing. She blinked and sucked in a great lungful of air. Still she felt she'd been transported to Cloud Cuckoo Land.

He couldn't have just asked her to marry him. It was beyond the realms of possibility.

Once shock receded, her reaction was anger, sharp, fresh, invigorating. The bastard mocked her. How dare he?

She straightened against the headboard and clutched the sheet to her like a shield. If dressed, she'd storm from this room without another word, but she couldn't quite garner courage to parade about naked.

"How gullible you think me," she said bitterly.

He frowned and lifted his hand from her face. "I don't understand."

She tried not to miss his touch. Ruthlessly she reminded herself that after today, his touch would be forever absent. She ignored the pang that pierced her at that reality.

"At seventeen, I was henwitted enough to tumble for this ruse." Her voice was sour. "I can't blame you for trying."

"Antonia, what are you talking about?" He looked devastated. What an actor he was. "Marriage is the obvious solution. You can stay here without scandal and I get you in my bed."

Her voice developed a sarcastic edge even as she recoiled from the pain his ridiculous offer stirred. "And of course you'll continue to promise marriage until you tire of me, when suddenly you'll suffer loss of memory about the proposal. My father has been dead five years and isn't likely to demand we separate. At least we're spared that operatic moment."

He left the bed in one furious surge and bent over her, his hands braced on the headboard to either side of her. "Do you think I mean to trick you? Really? After all that's happened?"

She quailed at over six feet of outraged male scowling as if he wanted to incinerate her with a single glance. She summoned failing courage. "Rakes promise marriage to smooth their way to seduction."

"Except I've already seduced you." His silky tone didn't hide his anger.

She flushed with chagrin. Her lips felt so stiff, it was as if they were carved from stone. "You don't want to marry me. You don't even know who I am."

A muscle flickered in his cheek and his eyes were flinty. "Then tell me."

It seemed absurd to cling to this one secret, but perhaps because it was the last shred of carefully constructed identity, she refused to reveal her name. "No."

"No, you won't tell me who you are?"

She swallowed. "No, I won't marry you."

Something crossed his face that might have been regret. Of course it wasn't. He didn't feel anything for her beyond lust. London was full of women who could sate his lust. He'd briefly focused on her but his attention would inevitably stray.

She'd fallen for a false romantic dream once and paid a heavy price. She was older now. She knew better than to believe a woman like her could have a happy ending. She definitely knew better than to think a man could change from dissipated rapscallion to faithful husband.

Even if he meant this mad proposal sincerely.

She waited for Nicholas to push the issue, to insist on explanations, dear God, perhaps to seduce her into staying. The tragic truth was she was helpless when he touched her. If he deployed his sexual power to compel consent, he'd succeed.

Instead he turned away with a tight-lipped grimace. "Very well, then."

She flinched at the clipped coldness. She'd never heard him use that tone. It chilled as cruelly as a winter wind.

He prowled to the sideboard. The sun hadn't risen but early morning light flooding through the casement windows meant she saw him with complete clarity. His form vibrated tension and, much as she didn't want to admit it, wounded feelings.

With a sharp gesture that indicated anger, he splashed brandy into a glass and downed it in one gulp. Then he leaned over the sideboard, resting his weight upon hands he flattened on the mahogany top. He lowered his head between his shoulders as though considering uncongenial matters.

Trembling with turbulent emotion, she stared at his taut back. Hungrily her eyes traced the strong shoulders, the tight buttocks, the long, powerful legs.

Antonia blinked away tears. She'd had a night of ecstasy such as few women were privileged to enjoy. That was her ration of pleasure. She'd known that when she accepted Nicholas's invitation. It was greedy to want more.

Greedy and dangerous.

Nicholas wasn't for her, although at moments during the night she'd felt so close to him, it was like meeting the other half of her soul. The feeling merely resulted from sensual bliss, she told herself, although her aching heart refused to believe it.

Her aching heart was no guide. Her aching heart demanded she accept that ludicrous, impractical proposal. Her aching heart insisted Nicholas was genuine when he said he wanted to marry her.

What if he was?

Almost with relief, she turned to the cynical voice.

He's incapable of fidelity. He'll be bored within a month. Even if he drags you before a parson, there's no fairy-tale ending here.

She'd gain nothing from staying, apart from heartache. She'd stored up plenty of that already. She must rise, dress, depart.

Awkwardly, wrapping the sheet around her, she slid from the bed. Her clothes lay scattered across the floor, witness to her abandon. She cast Nicholas a quick glance over her shoulder but he remained unmoving at the sideboard. He was furious and she hated it. This wasn't how she wanted to conclude the most glorious night of her life.

She'd been mistaken about him in so many ways, not least assuming he'd be perfectly willing for her to leave once he got what he wanted. Surely a night's pleasure counted as exactly what he wanted. Not just pleasure, but her complete surrender.

A haze formed in front of her eyes. She blinked. She wouldnot cry. If only because Lord Ranelaw had left too many women in tears after a night of rapture. She refused to count as one more.

"What are you doing?" he asked grimly without turning.

She bit back the sob that betrayed her distress. Her pride was all she had left. It had kept her going through the disastrous elopement, it had shielded her from unwelcome masculine attentions on her journey from Italy, it had sustained her through ten miserable years since. Pride would rescue her now.

"Getting dressed." She struggled for composure. She'd spent years hiding her real self. Surely the skill hadn't deserted her in the space of a night.

He turned and glared, his black eyes like ice. "Don't be ridiculous."

She shivered under that frigid glower and stilled, her shift dangling from one hand, while the other clutched the sheet with shaking desperation. "I told you, I have to go."

She wished to heaven she didn't sound so uncertain. So damned young. He stripped her back to the naive girl. Except the pain of Johnny's betrayal didn't compare to what she suffered now at the thought of never seeing Nicholas again. That and the knowledge they parted in rancor.

He swept a scornful hand in her direction. "I know what you look like."

She flushed and tugged the sheet tighter. "I know," she mumbled, feeling a fool.

He strode toward her, tall, strong and vibrating with anger. He didn't seem to care that he wore not a scrap of covering. "Then you don't need this."

With one savage movement, he wrenched the sheet away, leaving her bare. "Nicholas, don't," she gasped, automatically pressing her shift to her torso.

"For God's sake . " He ran one hand through his already disheveled hair and wheeled toward the window.

She hated when he turned away. She hated that she was so poor-spirited. He didn't force her to act the ninnyhammer. No, the idiocy was all her doing.

It required every scrap of will to straighten and glare at him, although she couldn't bring herself to drop the shift. "I know you're angry."

"Terrifically perceptive, madam," he sniped back, facing her.

He stared at her with implacable dislike. Except now she looked more closely, she realized that under the anger, he was also upset, at least as upset as she was. A flush darkened his slanted cheekbones and that telltale muscle flickered in his cheek.

You could marry me.

The words whispered through her mind. She ignored them. She couldn't marry him. They shared nothing but physical passion. She was wise enough to know that for Nicholas, that was as far as his interest would ever extend.

For her.

She stopped as if she'd crashed into a wall. She too felt nothing beyond physical passion. But because she wasn't a renegade libertine, it was natural to ascribe physical passion to more than mere appetite.

Except the pain that sliced her heart felt more serious than appetite. It felt like an emotion that shifted the world. Something profound, eternal, life-changing.

She deceived herself. Sexual attraction drew her and Nicholas together. That was all. Once she no longer saw him, she'd forget him. Like one forgot an irritating itch after scratching.

Even the cynical voice didn't bother contradicting that fatuous prediction.

"Let's not part on a quarrel." Her voice cracked on part.

"It's not my choice that we part at all," he snapped.

She stood firm, although she felt like crawling into the corner and crying like a lost child. "I won't trouble you any further," she said dully.

A savage expression crossed his face before hauteur frosted it over. The problem was after last night, she knew him too well to be convinced. She didn't want him to hate her. More than that, she didn't want to hate herself for hurting him. She very much feared she hurt him. Once she'd have scoffed to imagine she was capable of wounding his finer emotions. She'd have scoffed to imagine he had finer emotions.

A better man lurked under the charm and dissipation and manipulation. That better man might never see the light of day. But she knew to the depths of her soul that he existed.

With a disgusted sound, he bent, scooped up her gown, and tossed it on the bed with a gesture eloquent of displeasure. "Here."

He proceeded to ignore her, dressing as if she wasn't there. She watched him with unspeaking anguish before pulling her shift over her head.

Still in that horrible, cutting silence, Antonia hauled on her dress and bundled her cloak around her. The rose silk was crushed and she wore no corset. Her hair tumbled around her face. She prayed she didn't run into any of the more curious servants when she returned. She'd try to put her hair up in the hackney on the way home. Right now, she didn't trust her shaking hands.

As she turned to Nicholas, her eyes were dry. Her despair extended beyond tears.

He was fully clothed but it was too late to erase her knowledge of that long, beautiful body. She knew about the dark gold hair that arrowed down his chest. She knew what it felt like to kiss his hard, arching rib cage. She knew the taste of his sex. She knew the sounds he made when he spilled himself.

Though they'd never meet again, an unbreakable bond united them.

He stared back, his eyes stark with what she didn't want to recognize as longing. She knew this separation couldn't hit him as hard as it hit her. Difficult to believe when she gazed into that austere, tightly controlled face. He looked ten years older than the man who had made love to her all night.

Nervously she licked her lips. His glance flickered to her mouth. She waited for him to say something derisive, but he merely collected his hat and marched toward the bedroom door. He opened it with a flourish that lanced pain through her.

It was an unmistakable act of dismissal. Which surely was what she wanted. Why was it so impossible to take the few necessary steps?

She straightened her spine and sucked in a deep breath. She'd faced the unthinkable before. She'd survived. She'd survive again.

No matter that she felt like she was dying.

Still, her feet were heavier than bricks when she trudged to where Nicholas waited in bristling resentment. Her intention was to sail past, avoid further argument. It might be cowardly, but she verged so close to shattering, she couldn't face another clash.

Of course, when she reached him, she couldn't bear to think this was the last she'd see of him. She hesitated in trembling uncertainty a few inches away.

His expression was shuttered against her as she'd never seen it. Only the flaring black rage in his eyes was alive. She should be utterly terrified. Except she saw past rage to desolation.

Knowing it was a mistake to touch him, she extended an unsteady hand toward his arm. Through his sleeve, that contact burned. Her very skin recognized him as her eternal lover.

He jerked. As if he too felt that current. Then he stood still and trembling.

Her heart lurched in agony. Why did she feel she committed some unforgivable sin leaving him? Surely the unforgivable sin was coming to him in the first place.

She forced her lips to move. "Good-bye, Nicholas."

He frowned and gripped her hand. "I'm coming with you."

Startled, she tried to pull away. Fear surged. He couldn't intend to ignite a scandal, could he? Not over this brief affair. It seemed profligate even for the profligate Marquess of Ranelaw.