He wondered if Charlotte knew, really knew, what she was getting into. He didn't want one night. Just as he'd threatened, he planned to suck her dry.

Her head tilted and dug into the pillow, her fists clenched in the bedcovers. Glorious. Doing everything to burn her from the inside as she had requested. He wanted her writhing and screaming, and as the thought trickled, he couldn't help himself and circled her with his tongue, pushing at just the right angle. She arched violently, pressing against him, a cry escaping from her lips.

"Shh, shh . . ." He immediately was at her side, lips on hers, drinking in the reactions as he continued to touch her. He should spirit her away-to somewhere where she didn't have to be caged. Why had he thought to have her here first? He hadn't been thinking at all, that was the problem.

He should wait. Should stop.

The thought didn't leave him, even as thirty minutes later she was writhing on the covers, hands clenched around his neck, lips clamped to his, making the most deliciously m.u.f.fled sounds, and soaking wet below, as he slowly pushed into her.

He shuddered, and she paused, midarch. He stroked her hair, murmuring in her ear. Small, unintelligible noises. She felt like liquid fire around him. And he wanted to slide slowly within her over and over-to make it last forever. Then to take her wildly, savagely-to shake the very foundations of the house with it.

s.h.i.t, what was he doing? He paused, completely unnerved again.

He hesitated long enough that she pulled back and met his eyes, head pressed to the pillow. Then she smiled, a beautiful smile, and her fingers dug into his nape, and he completed the motion, pushing deep inside, closing his eyes and feeling the wonder of it. Of being inside her.

She clenched around him automatically, pushing her body up for more, the motions innate. Exactly the reactions he had carefully sown. Exactly the promise he had observed in the shopkeeper's back room. Observed even before that, in every memory he had of her.

Wild and wanting. On the edge of losing and taking control.

"It feels . . . I feel . . ." She lifted her hips, allowing him to slide deeper, and another shudder wracked him. "Wonderful."

In his experience, men who caused actual pain for women-mature women, at least, even if it was their first time-had no idea what they were doing. And men who relieved immature women of their virginity didn't survive long in his world. He had a special way of punishing them.

He nipped her throat, pleased beyond measure once more at the things that emerged from her beautiful lips. Ecstatic that he was here, with her, like this. Slightly disbelieving, even with all of his overly grown arrogance, that he was here, with her, like this. "Good."

And with all the confidence and skill that he possessed, hiding the other, more troubling, feelings below, he made sure that the sensations built within her, that she was flying long and high and out of control as he pushed her over the edge, convulsing around him, easily taking him with her as he watched her face, caught her cries.

He buried his face in her neck, shuddering, hiding his face for a moment until he regained control. Then he rolled to the side, taking her with him and watching as she stretched over him, smiling. Her face was soft-softer and gentler than he had witnessed before. A light in her eyes that made his spent body twitch to a semblance of life again.

A look that caused the coil to burn and strange uncertainties to rise.

He stroked her hair without looking away, a gentle embrace in the wild storm that was suddenly raging through him.

Trying to convince himself that he didn't know the meaning of fear. That nothing in the situation suddenly scared the blood out of him.

Chapter 14.

"Y ou are actually going tonight?"

Roman hummed lightly and put his feet up on the empty faro table that had just been cleaned. Andreas would never be fooled, but there were others in the gaming room, and even if they were cleaning staff or direct reports, appearances had to be maintained. Even if Andreas was angry enough to discuss this outside of their private rooms.

"I can hardly decline, Andreas."

His brother gave him a dark look and snapped an order to one of the boys moving chairs. The boy violently straightened, then rushed from the room to complete the request.

"You are abusing the staff again," Roman said lightly, rolling a pair of dice between his palms. "Besides, you should join me. Give those vultures a right shock."

Andreas narrowed his eyes. He ground a finger into the newsprint. "Did you read the other column?"

Roman glanced casually at the paper tossed his way. There were many things in today's paper for them to discuss, but he knew to which Andreas referred. It was the smaller of their problems, in Roman's estimation. A slim reference as opposed to the glaring two-headed vulture on the third page that involved Andreas. "So?"

"I thought you said you had the situation in hand?"

"I do."

Andreas's fingers curled around the back of the chair behind which he was standing. Roman wondered if the wood would hold. They had plenty of other chairs, if not. "Trant is drafting legislation against us."

"It's a rumor."

"It's a fact ."

Roman laughed unpleasantly. "It's a threat. He won't say a word-or do a thing-as long as they marry at the end of the summer. And they undoubtedly will." He rolled the dice in his palm, bones suddenly cracking against bones.

"And you can't wait until then?" his brother hissed.

Roman thought of that night, in her bedroom, and the three weeks' worth of nights since. Heated liquid gold. "No," he said simply.

"I'm trying to understand."

Roman tipped his head. "There isn't anything to understand." He smiled his charming smile, but his eyes didn't obey. "My actions lack sense."

Andreas hated things that didn't fit into his cold, rational world. Anyone else admitting such things to him would have been derided, banished, or worse. "And what will you do if it becomes more than a threat ?"

"I have contingencies in place. Trant will prove himself beyond stupid if he doesn't take what is offered. You know I have taken care of it. You are acting like a hen."

Andreas's eyes narrowed to slits. "Lately, edge players have been shifting far too rapidly in both arenas for me to feel anything but snappish." He threw the paper away from him. "Not that you would have taken notice."

Roman surveyed his brother. "Especially peevish today, aren't we? I've dispatched cleaners to take care of the edges." He took in Andreas's tightened shoulders, his skin fairly humming with tension. "But you know this too. What has really lodged up your a.s.s?"

"Cornelius doesn't just court the night edges. Whispers point to someone with power backing him. He will move swiftly-"

"And I'll take care of him, when he does," Roman said coldly. He thought of the man who threatened their empire. Who was trying to buy pieces, planting seeds against them-seeds that Roman had helped to water lately with his actions. But Cornelius was just a man-flesh, blood, and bone-who wanted to improve his own slice of the pie. And men could be dealt with.

Andreas pinned him with a dark look. "You go after Cornelius by yourself, and I'll cut off your ballocks with my own knife."

"That hardly sounds pleasant."

"Cornelius doesn't do his own dirty work. And he doesn't hire just one person to complete his tasks."

And neither does anyone of my flesh and blood , was left unsaid. For Andreas would never speak such a thing.

"I've never considered either man stupid," Roman said, affecting a light tone and pretending to ignore the tightening of Andreas's shoulders. "I'd like to think I am not either. I know Cornelius as well as you do, so why are you repeating things to me as if I am unaware of the dangers?"

"Because lately you don't seem to acknowledge the danger." And it was as if every emotion in Andreas was pushed into the statement. "You go out w.i.l.l.y-nilly, as if you are a forgettable yardsman courting a barmaid. You aren't. You don't pay attention to your own safety when she is near. Have you considered what would happen if you were attacked on one of your outings?"

"Yes," Roman replied, watching his brother, trying not to let his own tension show. Unwilling to admit that he had forgotten himself at times in the past few weeks. That if he were killed in the next few weeks, it would a.s.suredly be near her. At her feet, in her bed. Inside of her.

Unfortunately, that last thought just made him think that if he had to choose his final moments, being inside Charlotte would really be the way to go.

"We deal with these issues all the time. For more years than I can count." He motioned to Andreas. "Math is your strong suit."

Andreas rarely appreciated his jokes when he was angry, and the telltale tick in his forehead said that this time was no different. And when that tick appeared, most people ran-smartly-fast and far.

But Roman knew what fueled the anger. Andreas had never handled concern well. And since there were very few people in the world Andreas felt concern for, the emotion always bubbled fiercely when it showed-and Andreas tended to get downright vindictive when faced with the recoil of his own feelings.

One-eye was sure to be permanently a.s.signed to "watching" Roman. Not that the man let him out of his sight for long in any case.

But there was something more to Andreas's reaction-something new-someone had gotten under his skin. Someone besides Roman. Or Andreas's long-disregarded and hated birth family. Roman rubbed his free fingers along his jaw. He had been spending too much time away not to know the answer immediately.

Andreas motioned at the paper. "And this other person spreading rumors ?"

"Probably some frigid, jealous bird. There are plenty."

"Why don't you seek out one of them then," Andreas said darkly.

Roman laughed without amus.e.m.e.nt and threw the dice onto the table. He saw one of the boys eye them from across the room where he was cleaning the hazard tables. But none of them would dare to breach the s.p.a.ce near the brothers without explicit permission. "Because there is a fine web forming. And much profit to be made, besides. Bills in Parliament to thwart, bills to pa.s.s, lords to form, hands to gild . . ."

Trant to make into a fierce ally. So fierce that he wouldn't pay the least attention to Roman taking his wife after dark.

"You will be recognized if you go tonight. And you won't be able to keep your hands from her," Andreas snarled.

Roman simply smiled. "Someday. Someday, my friend. My brother."

"Never."

Roman arched a brow at Andreas's absolute certainty. Someday his brother would fall hard for a girl and wouldn't have the first notion as to how to deal with his emotions.

He eyed the table. The paper. Slotting something into place as he eyed one of the headlines. Roman removed his feet from the table and picked up the discarded pages. "Mmmm . . . yes, the papers are full of interesting tidbits today, aren't they? That show at the Claremont is sold out. But I know someone with tickets, if you wanted to see it . . . again," he said nonchalantly.

Andreas stiffened abruptly while rising, then turned on his heel and strode furiously from the room.

Roman laughed softly. He'd have a good time with that later-seeing if he could get his stuffy brother to admit anything-but his laughter disappeared as he read the underlying print of his own situation. A tendril of suspicion about Charlotte Chatsworth's purity.

Spiteful speculation fed to the ravenous horde. They couldn't suspect the truth of the matter. There was no one who knew-about the "fake" night or the real nights since-who would tell. His eyes narrowed. Unless Chatsworth let it slip while in a drunken stupor. But, no, the bet was a secret the man would guard with his life.

Roman dealt with life and death far too often to let things upset him for too long or too deeply. Else he'd turn into Andreas and feel the need to brood endlessly.

Still, there was something about the current situation that he couldn't laugh off. Any show of humor was simply a mask for the darker feelings he drowned, that he didn't want to contemplate. Couldn't.

Some thoughts unavoidably cropped up, though. Actions he undertook with Charlotte would be filled with peril forever. There were certain levels of ruination that neither Trant, or Downing-or the minister or the king or any of the men Roman could influence-would be able to clean up. There was something overwhelmingly enticing about thinking of Charlotte Chatsworth unmarried and completely available, free of society's strictures.

But Charlotte needed society. Even though she might be stressed and anxious in its confines now, society was where she wanted to succeed, dominate, and be happy.

Besides, once she found her place, he could pull her into his lair at will while the rest of society was asleep. And keep her there until she was marked beneath all those layers, and any rings, as his.

Such thoughts were likely what made poor fools marry in the first place. He smiled darkly. Good thing he wasn't the marrying kind.

He looked at the paper again, not wanting to examine the darkness shifting below his thoughts.

Someone was trying to play with his web, and he was going to find out who.

Charlotte swallowed and looked around the masquerade for what felt like the hundredth time. If he was going to find her tonight as promised, this event would prove irresistible.

It was the gala event of the night, of the week. Some even said of the season. Invitations were always arranged around the Hannings' masked ball. It was an event where things happened. Some of the resulting scandals were reported immediately, and some never realized for years.

It was an event where some guests avidly watched and others enthusiastically performed.

She knew Roman meant to find her here. Commoners could secure invitations, especially powerful commoners. The Hannings liked to spice up the guest list in inconceivable ways. Some of their own servants had been known to attend in costume. The uncertainty made the whole atmosphere exciting. And for the ton, that made it intoxicating.

She felt the scorch of Bethany's glare. The woman had been attached to her for the past few weeks. As if she could smell the heady scent of Charlotte's doom and needed to discover the place from where it emanated.

And there was a strange feeling surrounding Charlotte. Since the veiled innuendos about her had begun to appear in print, she was on display in a much more dramatic, open way. More men sought her attention-in a far different manner than they had before. One of the more rakish men, John Clark, had been eyeing her from the sidelines, stalking her for the past hour. When Roman watched her, thrills coursed through her, whereas Clark's seductive glances made her feel . . . strangely amused and uncomfortable. The more flattery and attention Clark gave, the more he looked like a boy trying on his father's clothes.

Still, the fact that he was paying her attention made her nervous. Clark had more social power than the average charmer and could get away with faster behavior. Could catch her somewhere she didn't wish to be caught.

She was sure that Bethany was behind the latest rumors about her fading looks and innocence. Rumors that carried a kernel of truth. Rumors that Bethany hadn't been able to spread before because they lacked believability-the atmosphere all wrong for them. In the past, Bethany would have appeared as a jealous little pest.

But now . . . now it seemed as if Bethany was at the forefront of the gossip. Little things added up quickly in the gossip mill. Disappearances. Early departures. Late arrivals. Flushed cheeks. Lingering too long in the retiring room. Whereas in the past, Charlotte had been coldly poised, strictly observing the matron's "rules," now she was skirting them, cutting a corner here, an edge there.

Just enough to allow the tenterhooks of gossip to grab hold.

And she knew she was acting recklessly. But it didn't seem to matter. Even as she thought about it logically, she didn't care. All rationality had left her. All she wanted was to be with him. To have him inside her. To make him laugh. To experience the joy. Filling the cavity. Making her feel alive.

She felt her flesh heat just thinking about it. G.o.d, is this what being in love felt like? It must. Yet she couldn't be in love. She simply needed him. As if he had cast a spell on her, chaining her to his dark table for eating a handful of mouthwatering pomegranate seeds. Staring at the remaining seeds and surrept.i.tiously sliding them across the table and into her mouth as well.

Surrept.i.tiously? No, she wouldn't lie to herself. She had boldly and enthusiastically raked them across, then lay beneath, mouth open, to let them fall, juicy and ripe, onto her tongue.

Smeared them across her throat and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. There was so much juice from such small seeds.

"A dance, my dear?"

She jerked to see Mr. Trant standing before her. She tried to pull herself together as he bowed over her hand. "Mr. Trant." But her voice was entirely too smoky.

She saw heightened awareness in his eyes. He examined her and smiled, but there was tightness to his expression. As if he were both pleased and displeased by the same observed attribute.

"Miss Chatsworth." He inclined his head, and she lifted her chin, pulling the cool mantle to her, letting him lead her to the floor.

Trant was a perfect partner. He danced well and maintained complete control. She remembered her first season, when he had claimed her for a dance. She had thought him charming and smooth, amusing and fun. And since he hadn't been a contender for her hand, their exchanges had been easy and relaxed.

Circ.u.mstances on both sides had changed, though, and he had become increasingly political.

"Are you enjoying the night?" he asked, his body perfectly precise as he led them through the steps.