"I'm a rake."

Her lips tightened. "Of course you are. But you don't want me."

Ranelaw looked at Cassie. Really looked for the first time. She appeared neither dazzled nor frightened.

Instead she looked . disappointed.

"I've pursued you all season." How was it that he felt at a loss? A few moments ago, he'd been master of his world.

"Yes," she said impatiently. "But you want Toni."

He jerked so sharply that the horses sidled and flung up their heads. He soothed them as his mind churned with bewilderment.

"Your chaperone?" He tried to sound as if the idea was ludicrous.

Her voice remained calm. "Yes, my chaperone. Lady Antonia Hilliard. As you well know. The woman who makes you light up like a candle. The woman you can hardly take your eyes off, no matter how much sham flirting you do elsewhere."

"I was using her to get to you." He already knew this remarkable young lady wouldn't believe a word. Why should she? She was right. The only woman who interested him was the woman who turned his nights to fire and who had deserted him four days ago.

Cassie raised her eyebrows in open skepticism. "No, you weren't." Her voice developed an edge. "Surely you know this stupid prank puts her forever out of reach. What on earth are you thinking, my lord?"

"She's not for me." A fissure set up in the ice encasing him. He struggled to mend it. He loved that ice. It stopped him feeling. It stopped him yearning. He didn't want to think about losing Antonia. He wanted to think about avenging poor, innocent Eloise.

If he couldn't manage that, he didn't want to think at all.

"Not after this, she's not." Cassie spoke with real passion. "She's perfect for you. And you can restore her rightful standing."

He stared at the girl in shock. Suddenly the whole sequence of encounters with Cassie made bizarre sense. She hadn't been encouraging him. Or at least she'd only encouraged him so Antonia would continue to cavil at his unsuitable interest. "My God, you were matchmaking."

Cassie didn't even have the grace to blush. "I think . thought you were the man for her. She's been alone too long. You made her . alive."

Blast her, he didn't want to hear about Antonia coming alive. It stirred too many memories. He closed his eyes and automatically tightened his hold on the girl's arm. Not because he feared her escape but because every muscle clenched in denial of the truth she spoke.

"She's not for me," he repeated through stiff lips, and inwardly winced as with a silent scream, a great block of ice crashed from his soul into the murky ocean of his life.

"If you take me back now, she mightn't discover what you've done."

Now his victim proffered advice to save his sorry arse. Worse, a tiny, obscure corner of his soul heeded her.

None of which made him consider changing his mind. Even if he returned Cassie safe and sound, Antonia was still lost to him. He owed allegiance only to his sister. He'd pursue his plan to the end, no matter that his conscience kicked like a wild horse under its first saddle.

He forced himself to lie. "You mistake my interest in your chaperone."

Disdain clouded her face. "If you insist."

He frowned. "You should be afraid. Hell, you should be bloody terrified."

"I could run away," she pointed out with almost scientific detachment. "It's not as if you have an army of henchmen to stop me."

He cast a speaking glance over their surroundings. There was a village a few miles back. Another a few miles ahead. Neither close enough to offer shelter.

"And go where? You have no money. You're wearing silly shoes that will carry you about a hundred yards before they disintegrate. You have no escort. I promise, you're safer with me than with a mob of yokels."

Her lips tightened. "Not if you intend to rape me."

He realized that beneath her bravado, she was frightened. He stifled the unwelcome insight that he turned into the sort of degenerate who pulled wings off flies and set fire to kittens' tails.

At least he could put the Demarest chit's mind at rest on one count. When he'd plotted this abduction, he'd sworn to wring every last ounce of fear and misery from his victim. In recent weeks, his taste for theatrics had waned. "I'm not going to rape you."

"You probably imagine I'm willing," she snapped back. "You have an inflated idea of your attractions, my lord."

Against his will, he smiled. "And you have a sharp tongue for a girl the world considers spun sugar."

She raised her chin. "I'm stronger than I look."

He was still smiling. He began to like Cassie. Which was a massive bloody disaster. While she remained a simpering little cipher, success had hovered within reach.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said dryly. "I swear you'll return to London as virginal as the day you left. You'll be ruined after a night with me whether I touch you or not."

She didn't look relieved. She looked confused. "I don't understand. If you don't . "

She bit her lip and looked away, then met his eyes without wavering. He wished he didn't recognize her bravery. Her voice was artificially even. "If you don't want me in your bed and you don't want to marry me, why do this nonsensical thing?"

He supposed shattering any illusions she held about her weasel of a papa constituted part of his revenge. His hands tightened on the reins. "Because of your father."

Cassie looked more baffled. "My father's in Paris."

"Twenty years ago, your father was my family's guest."

He paused, searching for words. It proved more difficult than he'd imagined to alert this young girl to her sire's sins. He plowed on, hoping the recounting would shore up his purpose. He had a sudden bleak recollection of Antonia telling him a story vilely similar to Eloise's. "He seduced my sister and abandoned her to bear a child."

Stubborn denial darkened Cassie's expression. "I don't believe you."

"It's true."

She shook her head. "My father may be a rake but he's never ruined a girl of good family."

Ranelaw's lips twisted in bitter recollection. "Perhaps I should clarify-Eloise is my father's bastard."

Her jaw tightened. "I'm under no illusions about Papa's weakness for a pretty face, but he's never worried the maids at Bascombe Hailey or the girls in the village. He wouldn't seduce the daughter of his host, whether she was illegitimate or not."

Ranelaw shrugged with genuine indifference. Cassie's fate was sealed whether she believed him about Eloise or not. "Perhaps he's changed his ways since his youth. Perhaps he's become wise enough to pursue his vices well away from home and any unpleasant consequences. Not that he suffered any consequences from what he did to Eloise. All the misery was hers. Your father escaped scot-free." He paused as old anger coiled tight in his belly. "Until now."

"I refuse to believe you," she said stiffly, although the gaze she fixed on him was troubled. He could see that his unhesitating certainty chipped at the girl's trust in her father.

"Your prerogative. It makes no difference in the long run."

Cassie looked increasingly upset. "Yes, it does. You tell me my father is a cad of the worst kind and expect me to accept what you say without proof."

"The proof is surely in my scheme against you. But as I told you-whether you choose to believe me is completely up to you."

Perhaps it was his blatant lack of interest in persuading her to accept his story that finally convinced. Devastation flooded her face. He stifled a surge of unwilling sympathy. He couldn't afford to feel sorry for her, either because of his actions against her or for what she learned about her vile father. As it was, he clung to his vengeance by only the frailest thread.

"If what you say is true, I'm so sorry." Her voice trembled. "Your poor sister. What happened to the baby?"

"Eloise's daughter was born dead."

"Oh." Cassie stared down at her lap, at hands clenching so hard, the knuckles shone white.

Ranelaw braced for a volley of questions, further expressions of doubt about her father's role in the tragedy, but she remained silent. Had fear obliterated her courage at last?

"Cassie?"

After a pause, she glanced up, her big blue eyes swimming with tears. She looked like a woeful young goddess. He felt no shred of sexual attraction, which was both a relief and a worry. He should want to fuck this girl. But his principal reaction was the impulse to hug her and tell her everything would be fine. Positively bloody avuncular.

"That baby was my sister," she choked out.

He frowned. "Yes. Just as it was my sister your father wronged. She's rotted in an Irish convent the last twenty years."

"I'm still not sure I believe you." But Ranelaw could see that at last she did. With a shaking hand, Cassie dashed moisture from her eyes. "If it's true, it was unforgivably wicked of Papa." Her voice strengthened. "But it's not my fault."

He scowled even as his conscience stabbed him yet again. "Your father needs to know how it feels to witness the destruction of someone he loves."

Cassie's glance sharpened. "Did Eloise ask you to avenge her?"

"No."

"Then how do you know she wants this?" she asked urgently. "Surely she wouldn't wish disgrace on another woman, a woman who has never harmed her."

His lips tightened. "She deserves recompense."

To his utter shock, Cassie placed her hand on his arm. His muscles tensed with rejection, but she curled her fingers and clung. "You love her very much, don't you?"

He glanced at her as if she spoke absurdities. "Of course I do."

"She's lucky to have such a brother."

Suspicion rose in his gullet. "Don't think to sweet-talk your way into making me let you go."

"I wouldn't." She looked innocent. Too innocent. She must have some scheme in mind. Although for the life of him, he couldn't imagine what. "I see you're determined."

"I am," he snapped, the declaration ringing hollow.

"You know ruining me won't change anything. It won't bring Eloise's baby back or return her lost years."

How dare the chit try to sway him with logic? "Your father will suffer. It's enough."

Cassie's hand tightened. "Antonia won't forgive you if you go through with this."

He'd almost wavered until she overplayed her hand. A vast black wave of rage swept away any whispers of contrition. The same black rage that had gripped him since Antonia had refused his proposal, then strutted out of his life as if he was only a passing fancy.

"I don't give a rat's arse what Antonia thinks." He lifted the reins, ready to drive on. "It's a good few hours to Hampshire."

The girl had the wisdom to withdraw her hand from his arm. Otherwise he thought he might strike it away. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught bitter regret in her face.

"You're a fool, my lord marquess," she said grimly. "You have a chance at happiness and you're throwing it away for nothing."

His mouth tightened and he whipped the horses to a gallop. He refused to grace her asinine comments with a response.

But no matter how fast he urged his horses toward the coast, he couldn't escape the low voice echoing in his soul. The voice that insisted Cassie's words were bleakly accurate.

Ranelaw stared at the road ahead of him. Recounting Eloise's story to Cassie had revived all the thwarted misery of those events. Now he couldn't help remembering.

He'd felt so bloody helpless, so uselessly young as he'd turned the carriage home after Demarest refused to see his sister. There were repercussions once they reached Keddon Hall. This time their father beat Eloise with an unrestrained savagery that still made Ranelaw's gut heave with nausea. Her terrified screams had echoed through his nightmares for years.

Eloise spent weeks locked away under such tight supervision that her brother only managed to speak to her in snatches. When he did, her lethargy and misery broke his heart. How had his vibrant, laughing sister become this pale ghost with glazed, lifeless eyes? With each day, his rage built. Not just for the spineless Demarest, but also for his sire. He'd never liked or respected his father. Now he actively hated him.

A couple of months after that agonizing London journey, Eloise bore a dead daughter. Ranelaw remained convinced that the marquess's violence had contributed to the child's death.

For days, his sister hovered close to dying herself. Ranelaw tried to break in to see her, but the room remained barred to him. He strove to find out where they buried the child. Even that was denied. He was an eleven-year-old boy, powerless to defy the adults ranged against him. His frustration and anger during those weeks had been so bitter, he could still taste them.

He'd braced to hear that his beloved sister joined her daughter in the hereafter. Nobody told him anything, apart from the fact that Eloise was still alive. He only knew she'd recovered at least some of her strength when the marquess informed him that she'd left the house forever, exiled to a convent in Ireland. Her brother was forbidden any further contact with her.

Nicholas had bowed to his father with a contempt he knew the older man noted, turned on his heel, and promptly stolen a horse to rescue his sister.

His father, for all his moral turpitude, was an intelligent man. Nicholas managed to evade the guards on the family estate. He'd reached the highway before two brawny footmen waylaid him and dragged him, kicking and fighting, back to Keddon Hall and a week's incarceration in the cellars. By then, Eloise was untraceable, no matter how Nicholas schemed and connived to discover her whereabouts.

The next term, Ranelaw broke out of Eton with wild plans to quarter Ireland in search of his sister. This time, he made it as far as Fishguard before his father and his minions caught him and forced him back to house imprisonment at Keddon Hall. No more school for the headstrong young Earl of Gresham. No entertainment of any kind until he went up to Oxford and to nobody's surprise, launched a career of roistering and debauchery that had never abated.

Eloise's name was never spoken in Keddon Hall again. As though her disgrace formed the only blot on the Challoner record, she was erased from family history.

Even confined to Keddon Hall, Ranelaw continued his battle to find her. Eventually he discovered a letter from the convent, but by then, Eloise had transferred to the mother house in France. For the next seven years, war raged in Europe. During the brief, uncertain periods of peace, Ranelaw had no luck contacting his sister.

Then a year after Waterloo, a water-stained letter arrived at Ranelaw's London lodgings. Through the chaos on the Continent, Eloise had survived, converted, and taken her vows back in Ireland.

Under duress, Ranelaw was sure.

He'd immediately written to her, promising to bring her home, but she'd responded with a stubborn insistence that she was better off where she was. He'd written once more, pleading with her to leave the convent, but this time she'd refused in such strong terms he'd never asked again. He guessed shame made her believe she deserved incarceration, just as shame that he'd failed to avenge her kept him from traveling to Ireland and dragging her free.

Her weekly letters since then had been full of the daily minutiae of convent life, tales of the other sisters. Memories of their childhood, always concentrating on the years before Demarest's visit. All with the warm generosity of spirit Ranelaw remembered.

Every letter split another crack in his heart. Every letter reminded him he'd sworn vengeance on Demarest yet never lifted a finger to achieve it. What a disappointment he'd proven to the one woman who had ever loved him steadfastly and unselfishly.

And now, damn, damn, damn, he was about to turn out a disappointment again.

He bit back a heavy sigh and slowed the horses. Cassie, who had been silent for miles, stiffened and glanced at him with a mixture of dislike and trepidation. "What are you doing?"

His voice was expressionless as he faced the carriage toward London. They hadn't come far. He'd have her back before dark.