He turned. Antonia stood on the edge of the stream. Under her hat, her face was in profile. Hungrily his eyes traced the high forehead, the imperious nose, the lush lips, the determined chin. For a long moment he stared, wondering why she exerted this peculiar power over him.

Of course, once he'd had her, she'd lose her fascination. They all did. But he had to admit she'd made this chase interesting.

Now at last he had her alone. And the chase would end with his victory as had been ordained from the first. He was desperate to tumble her.

Because desperation was a rare sensation in his life of easy pleasures, he lingered to savor it.

With a graceful gesture, she removed her hat and set it on the ground. He appreciated seeing her out of her usual dusty black. The dark green riding habit emphasized her sumptuous curves and sunlight gleamed on her blond hair, swept up into a chignon. A few loose tendrils softened the severity. Her pale hair and the gold light should remind him of angels and halos, but Miss Smith-surely not her real name-wasn't nearly so ethereal. She was earthy and real and he could scarcely wait to show her what a man could do to her body.

His attention returned to her face. She looked pensive and her lips turned down at the corners. He should have been more careful of his conversation. He shouldn't have mentioned her family. Next time he'd know better.

Would there be a next time? He'd imagined having her would be enough. Once to satisfy his itch and gain the power that he'd use to attain his real goal, the Demarest chit.

Now the prize was within reach, he wasn't so sure.

If this house party was like every other he'd attended, the guests would scatter across the estate and nobody would consider either his absence or Miss Smith's significant. He had several hours to enjoy her before they needed to return.

Glorious prospect.

His booted feet soundless on the thick grass, he prowled up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. He drew her into his chest.

"Ranelaw!" she gasped, stiffening. For a brief throbbing moment, her buttocks rested against his thickening cock, then she ripped herself free and whirled to face him. "What are you doing?"

More seduction was required, clearly. He supposed it was overly optimistic to expect a virtuous woman to topple into his arms just for the asking. A pity. He enjoyed these games but with every second, he burned hotter for her.

Still, he didn't want to spook her into running. He resisted the urge to grab her again. "Don't pretend ignorance of what awaited."

She frowned, looking adorably confused and much younger than he'd ever seen her, except for those sweet and damnably frustrating moments when he'd watched her sleep. "But you promised."

He released a dismissive laugh. "Don't take me for a sapskull. You brought me here to make love to you."

Antonia straightened to her full height, resistance tightening her expression. "No."

"Yes," he said implacably, stepping closer. "I'm more than willing. I'm even willing to go through the motions of pretending to suborn a woman of unshakable chastity if that makes your conscience sit more easily."

She looked devastated again. He wished she didn't. He hated her vulnerability. It set up an odd, uncomfortable twinge in his chest that he couldn't quite identify.

"You think I led you on?" she asked in a whisper. She edged back a pace. "Truly I didn't mean to."

Oh, no, now she felt guilty. He scowled as he contemplated the unimaginable prospect of failure, of not spending the next hours entwined in her arms.

Devil take that idea.

"Of course you did."

Her stricken gaze clung to his face. "You swore you'd act the gentleman."

He took another step toward her. "You've always known I'm a liar. What made you believe me this morning?"

She shook her head helplessly and shifted back. "I don't know. I'm so stupid."

"You must know your cooperation indicated consent."

"No." She retreated again.

"Watch out." He grabbed her forearms and hauled her away from the crumbly bank before she ended up in the drink. She trembled in his hold. Whether from her near fall or from his proximity, he wasn't sure.

"Take me back," she said on a whisper, without trying to break free.

"After I've worked so hard to get you alone? I don't think so."

The eyes she raised to his were stark blue. Nervously she licked her lips, and the sight of the pink tip of her tongue blasted heat through him. "You won't get what you want."

He couldn't help laughing, stepping back and drawing her with him. "We both know I can have you on your back in ten minutes. Five if I really try."

Arrogance was the wrong approach. He realized it the instant temper flashed in her eyes. At least anger dissipated the vulnerability that left him so uncomfortable.

Her body became as rigid as a ruler. "Only if you intend to coerce me."

She tried to awaken his better self. Little did she know his better self had given up the ghost years ago. "Brave words."

She tilted her chin and glared at him. "True words."

"We'll see."

"You're so sure of yourself. It's not attractive."

Ranelaw smiled. He loved that she fought him. He'd love it more if she stopped. "So why are you still in my arms?"

"Because you won't release me."

He raised his hands palm upward with a mock apologetic gesture. "You're free, madam."

Her eyes darkened with tempestuous emotion. Anger? Desire? Then her lashes swept down and her mouth lengthened with determination.

Would she stay?

Would she run?

Suspense tightened every muscle as he awaited her decision. After a breathless second, she whipped her skirts to the side with haughtiness worthy of a duchess. Her head high, she marched toward her chestnut, peacefully cropping at the rich grass.

Damn it. By now, he should know better than to challenge her.

Chapter Eight.

Antonia staggered as a strong, masculine hand curled over her shoulder and whipped her around.

"Oh, no, my lovely," Ranelaw bit out.

She glared at him, panting with outrage. And, much as she wished otherwise, excitement. She'd known he wouldn't let her go. The promise he would was just another game on this fine morning that suddenly bristled with danger.

Why in heaven's name was she here? She'd had a hundred opportunities to turn back. But Ranelaw had lured her with the one bait she couldn't resist. The overwhelming temptation to find out more about him. In spite of gossip, she knew virtually nothing of the real man.

"You understood what would happen if you came with me."

Had she? She'd never imagined she was at real risk of losing her nonexistent virtue. But the purposeful light in his eyes and the hard line of his jaw indicated he intended to tumble her on this verdant stream bank.

"I want to go back to the house," she said in a flinty voice, meeting his determined glare with a determined glare of her own.

"No, you don't."

The grip on her shoulder became a caress. Even through layers of clothing, the warmth reached her skin. Damn her weakness, she couldn't gather will to struggle, although he no longer constrained her.

"You think you know me better than I know myself," she snapped.

"In some things, I believe I do." He trailed one long finger down her cheek. She read tenderness in the gesture. But of course they both knew he was a liar.

"Stop it." She jerked stumbling from his grip. "I'm not some silly chit ripe for cheap seduction."

His smile held more than a hint of ruthlessness. "Yet here you are and not trying too hard to escape. Cheap seduction seems to be working."

"You deceive yourself, my lord," she said sharply, and without a backward glance, dashed for her horse.

Again he was too quick. For a man of such lazy charm, he moved faster than a striking adder when he wanted.

With a steely efficiency that made her heart pound with fright and more of that insidious excitement, he grabbed her waist and backed her against an oak. He braced his arms on either side, trapping her.

He panted, not with exertion but with arousal. His body radiated heat, and this close, the clean, musky fragrance of his skin intoxicated her.

Frantically Antonia cast around for a weapon. Nothing was within reach. He slid his hands closer, hemming her in. She told herself she dreaded the prospect of those hands on her. The truth was nowhere near so simple. Nor so flattering to her rectitude.

"No poker. No riding crop. Not even a fallen branch to beat me with." She struggled not to respond to the laughter in his deep voice. He took none of this seriously, whereas it was vitally important to her. "You're not going anywhere, my enchanting Miss Smith."

She angled her chin up to meet his eyes. Far up. He carried himself so easily, she only remembered how tall he was at moments like this when he was breathtakingly close. He studied her with a fixed attention that shivered sensual awareness across her skin.

He leaned in and breathed deeply as though taking her scent into his lungs. The action was astonishingly stirring.

For ten barren years, she'd trodden virtue's path. Lord Ranelaw awoke her wildness. She was as incapable of resisting him as her virginal seventeen-year-old self had been of resisting lying, charming Johnny Benton.

If she fell again, she deserved everything she got.

"I won't cooperate," she said coldly, even as her pulse drummed erratically in her ears and her skin tightened with arousal.

"Of course you won't," Ranelaw murmured, in the same tone he'd used to calm her horse. However much she resented the fact, the low, velvety voice soothed her just as it had soothed the restless animal.

She strove for another sharp retort. As long as the battle of words continued, she held out hope of safety. But his nearness, his heat, his unabashed hunger banished her ability to summon something witty and cutting. Instead a low, almost keening sound emerged from her throat.

A triumphant smile kicked up the corners of his lips and he bent his head. Last time he'd kissed her, he'd demanded surrender. At least at first. She braced for another assault, but the kiss was as fresh as the spring morning around them.

Antonia shut her eyes, neither encouraging nor impeding him. His mouth's soft, satiny exploration demanded no more than she wanted to give. The moment was piercingly sweet, suspended in a golden prism, separate from anything before or after, untainted by wickedness.

In a great wave, her tension ebbed and she sagged against the tree, her knees trembling. She grabbed his shoulders, feeling the leashed power under the fine linen of his shirt.

Although she shouldn't, she'd loved his kisses in London. Those kisses had been marvelous, heady, intoxicating.

This kiss was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

A rake's kiss as pure and innocent as the brush of an angel's wing.

Too soon, it was over. He raised his head slowly and studied her. His black eyes were unguarded and held an expression she'd never seen. A shock echoing hers. Appreciation. Something that could almost be tenderness.

"Ranelaw . " His name emerged as a husky whisper.

What could she say after that kiss? Words seemed blasphemy compared to what he'd communicated without speech in those magical seconds.

She swallowed and battled to return to reality. A grim, perilous reality where the Marquess of Ranelaw was the personification of sin, not a man who kissed her as if afraid he'd bruise her if he pressed too hard. A man whose lips touched hers as softly as the stroke of a flower petal.

As she battled to form a demand to release her, she watched his face change. The softness ebbed, all trace of vulnerability evaporated. She knew him well enough to understand that the emotional truth of that kiss would displease him mightily. Ranelaw didn't readily reveal his heart to anyone, yet that kiss had hinted at a deeper, sweeter connection between them than mere lust.

A deeper, sweeter connection that clearly he had no intention of acknowledging.

This time the intent in his face wouldn't be gainsaid. His lips parted hers and he slid his tongue inside. She gave a stifled denial and pushed at his shoulders. He was taut and unyielding under her hands. It was like trying to move a great, sun-warmed monolith.

Horror swamped her as she realized she might have missed her chance to save herself. If she kept fighting, he'd stop. She doubted he'd force her. He wasn't a complete brute.

Even now when Ranelaw displayed a single-minded determination that should appall her, her blood pulsed hot and hard. His unbridled passion filled her with forbidden excitement. Some perfidious voice in her head whispered that if she let him take her, it wouldn't be her fault. He'd made it impossible to escape.

She muffled that wicked, wicked voice and shoved him again. But never had Ranelaw seemed so large, so invincible. He leaned closer, no matter how she squirmed to create some space. He crushed her against the tree trunk until she could hardly breathe. Or perhaps desire constricted her lungs.

She felt herself toppling toward surrender.

Her tongue tangled with his, stroked the soft underside, the rougher upper surface. She explored the hard edges of his teeth, the cushion of his lips. He had wonderful lips, firm and full and sensual. He could seduce her with his mouth alone.

Through the mist of arousal, she realized he did exactly that. His hands remained braced beside her.

With a groan, he raised his head. His hunger for her was unconcealed, but she'd swear other, more complex reactions lurked behind the wall she saw in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked shakily. Her heart constricted with fear and distress. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." A muscle jerked in his cheek as he surveyed her under heavy eyelids. His hard, glittering eyes and bruised face conveyed a satanic air for all that his voice descended to a seductive purr. "Stop fighting me. We both want the same thing."

She flinched as though he'd hit her. For a bewildered, devastated moment, she stared at him. "Why are you angry? What have I done?"