How ironic, then, to know his blood was every bit as blue as her own! But matters like legitimacy made all the difference in the world. He should know. He'd spent his entire life battling the slurs and slights of illegitimacy because his parents had dared to love outside the bounds of marriage.

His father, a viscount from the the Home Counties, had already been a married man when he'd met Charlotte Pendragon, the daughter of a poor clergyman who ministered to a small rural parish. The young viscount, miserable in his arranged marriage, had come north to visit a friend and to do some hunting. He'd been riding home through an icy fall rain when he'd come upon a bedraggled girl struggling to make her way. He'd stopped, lifted her up onto his horse, wrapped her in his warm coat, and taken her home.

Over cups of hot tea, huddled under blankets in front of a roaring fire, the two of them had fallen in love. Though they knew it was wrong, though they tried to fight their feelings, they'd continued to meet, their love too strong to be denied. And when Miss Pendragon-a good girl from a good family-found herself enceinte, the viscount set her up in a house in the neighboring county, vowing to care for her and their child for all the rest of their days.

He was that child, Rafe thought, his father's firstborn son, who could never openly be acknowledged no matter how beloved he might have been. His upbringing, his education, his manners-none of it mattered, only the circumstances of his birth and the side of the blanket on which he'd been born.

He wondered what Lady Hawthorne would think if she knew. Then again, what did it matter, since her opinion of him changed nothing.

He was, and always would be, a bastard. And that's precisely what she must think of him after receiving his disreputable offer the other day.

He checked his watch again: ten minutes past one.

Oh, well, he reasoned with a shrug, some fantasies are simply not meant to be.

Seconds later, a knock sounded on the door.

His eyebrows shot skyward, blood jolting through his veins with renewed anticipation. Climbing to his feet, he made his way to the entrance.

Opening the door, he discovered her on the stoop, looking small in her heavy cloak. A plain gray hood was draped over her head in such a way that all he could see were her nose and mouth and chin.

He fought an impulse to reach out, to drag her inside and into his arms. Instead he contented himself with a look.

"I'd nearly given up on you," he murmured, the fragrant scent of her as stirring as a caress.

"I had trouble finding a hack," she replied in a near whisper. "My coachman lingered longer than I'd anticipated."

A raw gust of wind rushed over them, rustling her skirts and fluttering the edges of her hood. Despite the crisp sunshine, it was a cold day.

"It's freezing. Come inside."

She hesitated for the faintest instant, then did as he commanded. He noticed the hack driver watching them and signaled with a hand for the man to depart.

Julianna whirled as Rafe closed the door. "Was that my hack leaving? I told him to wait."

"It's too cold for anyone to wait today. Don't worry, I'll see you return home safely." He strode closer. "Now, why don't I take your cloak?"

She hadn't lowered her hood, he noticed, as if loath to shed the protection of the garment. As if she still harbored doubts about her presence here with him in this house.

It was brave of her to come, he admitted. Brave and bold. And if he were any sort of gentleman he'd leave her wrapped up in her cloak, go to the coaching house for his carriage, then take her home. But he'd long ago given up any notion of being a true gentleman since it was the one thing he would never be.

Slowly, she reached up and pushed back her hood. Underneath she wore a long-brimmed bonnet with a dark lacy half veil that covered her eyes.

He couldn't help but smile. "I see you took every precaution to conceal your identity."

"I must," she replied, deadly serious. "No one can ever suspect."

"No one will," he assured, equally serious. "This neighborhood is very quiet. There are few residents, and those there are tend to keep to themselves. It's why I chose the place, for its pleasant, somewhat rural location-not easy to find in a bustling metropolis like London."

The house, just south of Queens Square, was perfect. An attractive, two-story brick Georgian, it blended easily into its surroundings. The house and drive were flanked on both sides by rows of mature evergreen boxwoods and towering elm trees, their branches now bared of leaves. A high brick wall ringed the front of the two-acre property, providing a deep sense of privacy and seclusion.

He'd acquired the house only a month ago from the Marquis of Durbenham, who'd used it for exclusive parties, the kind of entertainments about which a man would rather his wife know nothing. But after getting caught en flagrante by said wife, the marquis had put the property up for sale, remarking that the old harridan had tainted the place with her invective and quite ruined his fun. Rafe could well imagine.

"Now," he continued, stepping closer. "Let me assist you with your outer garments."

She moved back. "I-I'll do it, thank you."

Hands visibly trembling, she tugged loose the bow of navy grosgrain ribbon tied beneath her chin, then pulled off her hat. Her hair gleamed, dark and sleek as sable, the clean scent of French-milled soap drifting faintly in the air. He took her bonnet and set it on a nearby marble-topped foyer table.

When he turned back, she was fumbling with the clasp on her mantle and doing a poor job of it. Crossing to her, he covered her small hands with his own much larger ones and gently stilled her movements. "Please, allow me."

After a moment, she relented, her hands falling to her sides, her eyes averted.

Smoothly, efficiently, he unfastened the small, filigreed gold and pearl clasp at her throat but made no move to slide the garment from her shoulders. Drawing a finger over her satiny cheek, he watched her eyelids fall shut and her lips tremble. Was she truly prepared to take this scheme through to its conclusion? Would she be grateful, even relieved, if he offered her one last opportunity to escape?

He sighed. "Are you certain this is what you want? It's not too late to change your mind, you know."

Her eyes sprang open and her jawline firmed. "Please don't toy with me. I've already told my brother the loan is paid. I can't go back to him now and say I've lied. This...bargain between us is the only way." She paused, a sudden glimmer of hope dawning in her expression. "Unless you'd be willing to forgive the debt."

Rafe blinked at the suggestion.

Forgive the debt? Impossible.

Even if he was magnanimous enough to contemplate such an action, he wasn't that much of a fool. After all, he hadn't earned the nickname "The Dragon" by letting people cozen him out of money-not even pretty little widows with eyes as rich and dark as fine, melted chocolate, and lips that beckoned with the sweet perfection of a newly blossomed rose. If he were inclined to act the gallant, he supposed he could allow her to walk out the door with no more than a few kisses and a gracious thank-you. But he had a reputation to maintain among his business-minded brethren, and that was one thing he could never afford to lose.

Besides, he wanted her.

Wanted her badly. So no matter what wild impulses might be swirling inside his head, there would be no foolish acts of charity in the offing today.

"No," he said in an implacable tone. "The agreement stands. Six months as my mistress or thirty thousand pounds payable on the morrow. The choice is entirely yours. But if you choose our arrangement, acknowledge you do so willingly. Tell me you come to my bed of your own accord."

A long silent moment passed before she drew a deep inhale and met his gaze. "I come to you of my own accord. You may take my mantle now if you like."

Tension he hadn't known he felt eased from his muscles, quickly replaced by a renewed simmer of desire. Reaching out, he lifted the heavy garment from her shoulders, then turned to hang it inside a closet under the staircase.

When he returned, he stopped directly in front of her, letting his gaze rove over her body in a leisurely downward sweep. She wore a long-sleeved, dark green kerseymere wool dress, conservatively decorated with black ribbon stitched at the throat and cuffs. A modest garment, he was certain she'd worn it for warmth, not style. Despite its plainness, the gown did nothing to disguise her generous curves, nor hide the shape of her breasts and hips that so overtly declared her femininity. He couldn't wait to peel her out of the thing and reveal all the glories he was sure awaited him underneath.

Her chin came up as if she could read his lascivious thoughts, as if she were waiting for him to pounce on her right there in the hall.

Tempting idea, he thought wickedly. But he'd leave that pleasure for later when the foyer wasn't quite so uncomfortably chilly.

Squaring her shoulders, Julianna braced herself for whatever was to come next. Not an easy task when her instincts were ringing an alarm, warning her that Rafe Pendragon was far more man than she could handle.

If she had any sense, she would run. Now!

But she couldn't retreat, nor could she rescind her promise to give him access to her body, to let this stranger touch her in the most personal of ways. She only hoped she had the strength of character to see it through.

Lord above, she whimpered silently, what have I done?

Before she had time to panic further, Pendragon reached out and lifted one of her gloved hands into his. Slowly, mesmerizingly, he began to remove the glove, tugging it free one finger at a time. Ever so gradually he slid the cloth away until her hand lay naked within his own. The move seemed an astonishingly intimate act somehow, even more so than a kiss might have been.

Linking his clear green gaze with hers, he raised her hand upward and pressed it against his cheek and jaw. Warmth spread like fire across her palm, his skin smooth and recently shaven, the plane of his jaw firm, the muscle and bone lying strong beneath.

Captured inside the moment, Julianna waited, her heart hammering, her breath a shallow draught in her lungs. It grew shallower, faster, as he turned his head and slid her hand sideways, positioning her palm so its center pressed against his lips. A gasp escaped her as he opened his mouth and drew a sleek circle on her skin using only the wet tip of his tongue. He kissed the spot, then lowered her hand, curling her fingers into a gentle fist as if to hold his touch in place. She shivered, a surge of electricity rippling over her body, her skin flushing hot, then cold, then hot again.

Mortified, that is what I ought to be, she chastened herself. Mortified and shocked all the way to her core. Not even Basil had ever touched her in such a way, and he'd been her husband. Only she wasn't mortified, she realized, nor was she pulling away.

I can't refuse him, she told herself. That's why she allowed such an embrace. That's why she remained still in his grasp.

Yet it wasn't coercion that kept her quiescent as he repeated the process on her other hand-glove, caress, kiss. At length he moved away to calmly deposit her gloves on the hall table next to her hat.

Her hands throbbed, skin oddly tight and tingly, almost swollen. Crazy pulses beat in her wrists, making themselves known to her in a way she'd never before experienced.

What has he done to me? she marveled. And what will he do to me next?

Crossing back, he captured her right hand in his own; then without speaking a word, he pulled her gently after him.

Up the stairs they went, then along a carpeted hallway toward a tall wooden door at the end. Pausing, Pendragon swung the door wide to reveal a vast room that she surmised must be the master suite.

Decorated in browns and greens, the masculine atmosphere announced itself immediately. Bookshelves carved of dark walnut lined the sitting room walls while in the center sat a broad sofa done in hunter green, flanked by a pair of matching leather armchairs. A cheery blaze crackled within the fireplace, the mantel above cast in gold-and-white marble. Italian, she guessed, noting the tiny sheep and ethereal shepherdess carved on its face.

Beyond, through a set of connecting double doors, lay the bedroom. Peering through, she could see a tall armoire and large dressing table with a gilded mirror, both pieces finely made. Yet it was the huge tester bed that caught and held her attention. High and wide, the bed was carved from the same dark walnut as the bookshelves and other furniture. It dominated the room, eclipsing everything else, its canopy rising to nearly the height of the ten-foot ceiling, hangings and tester sewn from a heavy, pale bronze satin.

Her mouth dry, Julianna forced her eyes past it to the stately casement windows. Bright sunlight poured through the glass, spilling in an arc across the carpeted floors like a pool of liquid gold.

Behind her, Pendragon shut the door, the soft click of the lock sounding loud as a gunshot to her ears. Only then did he relinquish her hand.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked, nodding toward the heavy sitting room sideboard, and the silver tray on top with its trio of crystal decanters and glasses.

Ordinarily she didn't drink spirits, certainly nothing stronger than the occasional sherry. Then again, she didn't ordinarily find herself in an unfamiliar house, inside a bedroom suite with a man who shortly expected her to become his mistress.

"Yes," she agreed, deciding a dose of false courage might be exactly what she needed right now.

Crossing to pour the drinks, he returned far too quickly for her comfort. He held out a snifter, an inch of amber-hued brandy inside. Accepting the glass, she cradled it in both hands, afraid she might drop it otherwise. Giving a curious sniff, she let the sweetly pungent aroma curl inside her nostrils.

She'd never had brandy before.

Screwing up her courage, she took a healthy swallow and promptly lost her breath, the inside of her throat burning as if it had been set ablaze. Gasping, she fell into a paroxysm of coughing, wheezing faintly as she strained for air.

"Easy," he counseled, rubbing a palm between her shoulder blades. "Don't take so much at once. Small sips."

She coughed a few more times until the agony in her throat and lungs finally began to subside. When she could speak again, she held out her glass. "Take it, please. I've had enough."

His eyes twinkled, but he made no comment as he accepted her glass. Raising his own snifter to his lips, he downed the contents in a single swallow.

She stared, first in amazement, then in admiration, when he showed no signs of ill effect.

Pendragon moved away, disappearing from sight. A faint click of glass sounded behind her, and she assumed he must be refilling his drink. Moments later, though, his hands settled on her shoulders. She jumped, quivering as he placed his lips against the sensitive skin of her neck.

"Oh!" she gasped. Fighting her reaction, she tried not to tremble as he skimmed his mouth over her nape, and again when he started dropping delicate touches along her jaw, her cheek, and finally across to her ear.

"You smell delightful," he murmured. "What is it?"

"Oh, it...it's just a touch of rose water. I always dab a little on before I get dressed."

Mercy, she cringed, realizing what she'd said and the images her admission must be creating.

"I like it." His words came out low and husky, almost a growl.

Before she had time to fashion a reply, he nuzzled her earlobe, then caught the nub of flesh between his teeth. He bit, just hard enough to sting. Shock and pleasure winged straight to her toes. Then he was kissing her behind her ear, drawing his tongue in a long, wet line along its edge. Opening his mouth, he fanned his breath over the spot in a way that made her skin tingle and flush. Her eyes fell closed, her knees abruptly weak.

Adrift, she didn't at first notice when his hands left her shoulders and began unfastening the column of tiny buttons that ranged down the back of her dress. By the midway point, though, she awakened from her haze, his movements a brazen reminder of his ultimate purpose.

She waited until the buttons were undone, then stepped away, clutching the sagging bodice to her breasts. Turning, she stared at her shoes, unable to meet his gaze.

"I'll make myself ready," she murmured as she backed toward the bedroom.

He quirked a brow as if surprised. "As you wish."

Using one hand to keep her bodice up, she closed the double doors behind her.

The room was warm, another healthy fire burning in the grate. Despite the comfortable temperature, she shivered, nerves churning viciously in her belly. Oddly, it reminded her of the way she'd felt on her wedding night so many years before. Only this time the man on the other side of the bedroom door wasn't her husband, it wasn't night, and she was a great deal more anxious now than she had been then.

Of course, she'd been far too naive on her wedding night to know what was to come next. At least it wouldn't hurt, she reassured herself. Unless he was rough. But Pendragon had been gentle so far, and there was no reason to suspect he would change. Perhaps it wouldn't be so very dreadful. She'd simply lie there like always, and let him do as he wished until it was over.

Basil had never taken more than fifteen minutes at most. Hopefully Rafe Pendragon would be quick about it as well. She'd told her coachman to return for her at four and wait in front of the millinery shop on Bond Street, where she was supposed to be shopping. It was a quarter of two now; she knew she had plenty of time.

Fearing Pendragon must be growing impatient, she hurriedly doffed her dress and hung it neatly inside the armoire. Struggling with the laces of her stays, she tugged and pulled until she loosened them enough to remove her corset, leaving her stripped down to a single silk petticoat and her chemise.

He hadn't provided her with a nightgown, and she refused to go without any sort of clothing at all. She prayed it didn't mean Pendragon expected her to appear naked in front of him. Not even Basil had demanded such an intimacy of her-not once in the entire five years of their marriage.

She left on her stockings to keep her feet warm, her hair pinned into a snug knot that she hoped wouldn't get too terribly mussed since she wouldn't have the assistance of her lady's maid, Daisy, to tidy her up for her journey home.

Finally, knowing she was as ready as she was ever going to be, she folded back the heavy satin coverlet on the bed and climbed beneath the sheets. Tucking the cool linen tight under her chin, she tried not to feel utterly ridiculous lying there during the middle of the day in her unmentionables.

With her heart pounding like a drum in her chest, she called out. "You may come in now."

Half-sick with anxiety, she watched the doorknob turn.

Chapter Five.