But would he? G.o.d help him, he didn't know. If he were lucky enough finally to win her favor, would he, could he risk losing her by telling her the truth? His conscience prodded him to tell her. She deserved the truth. But then came the rationalization that always twisted his guts into a knot-no one knew except him. If he didn't tell her, she'd never find out.

Blowing out a long breath, he tunneled his hands through his hair and shoved the matter from his mind, leaving it once again unresolved. What he needed to concentrate on now was revising his courting strategy, because thus far his carefully thought-out plan was not the smashing success he'd hoped for. He needed a new plan, and given his time constraints and the fact that other suitors hovered on the horizon, it needed to be a brilliant, not to mention drastic, plan. But what? d.a.m.n it, I need help. I need- An idea popped into his mind, and he stilled for several seconds. Yes... that might be the very thing to help him. With a purposeful stride, he crossed the blue-and-gold Persian rug to the wardrobe and pulled his brown leather portmanteau from the back corner. Reaching inside, he carefully unfastened the hidden pocket in the lining and withdrew the item he'd secreted there after purchasing it in London the morning they'd departed for Bickley cottage.

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore. He turned the slim, leather-bound volume over in his hands.

She'd wagered that he wouldn't read it, but he'd prove her wrong. Not only would he read it, hopefully he'd learn something from this Charles Brightmore that might inspire a new wooing campaign. At the very least, he'd win his wager with Lady Catherine and be ent.i.tled to a boon... a prospect ripe with possibilities.

He pulled the wing chair closer to the fire and settled into the comfortable upholstery. Shouldn't take more than an hour or so to read the book. Then he'd map out his new campaign.

This time he'd go into battle armed to the teeth.

Ensconced in her bedchamber in the comfort of her favorite wing chair next to the fireplace, Catherine leaned her head back against the soft upholstery and closed the slim learner volume. Pressing the book against her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and cursed her folly at once again reading the words that filled her with dark yearnings. Stark needs. And insatiable curiosity.

Snippets of pa.s.sages from A Ladies' Guide invaded her brain, igniting desires she'd tried so hard to suppress.

The leisurely caress of a man's hand up the length of a woman's thigh... the incredible sensations experienced by both partners when the woman takes his hardness slowly into her body... making love in the light so as to see every nuance of pa.s.sion your lover is feeling... learning each other's intimate secrets with hands and lips and tongues... a naked man will provide a feast of delights for the woman willing to explore...

A soft moan escaped her lips. Heat that had nothing to do with the low-burning fire in the grate swamped her. She could feel her pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. Between her thighs. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt heavy and swollen and almost painfully aroused.

Lifting one hand, she slowly cupped the sensitive flesh through the material of her gown. Her nipple, hard and aching, pressed against her palm. She gently squeezed, shooting ribbons of fire to her womb, increasing rather than relieving her discomfort. Setting the Guide aside, she rose and paced the length of the room.

Dear G.o.d, the things Genevieve had described in the Guide... incredible, unthinkable, unbelievably tantalizing things. While she'd taken dictation from Genevieve, writing in a shaky hand such intimate wonders, she'd questioned whether Genevieve was creating fiction. But her friend had a.s.sured her she was not. Genevieve had spent ten years as the mistress of an earl, captivating him with her sensual prowess. Prowess she'd learned as a result of tutelage from her mother, who'd spent her entire adult life as a mistress, and Genevieve's own imagination, which was inspired out of deep love for her earl. It was very unwise for me fall in love with him, Catherine, Genevieve had said. It broke my heart when he ended our liaison. He found someone younger. Prettier. He no longer wanted my ugly hands to touch him...

Catherine paused near the window. Leaning her forehead against the cool gla.s.s, she stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing save the images bombarding her. Herself and Mr. Stanton... hands exploring. Mouths touching. Limbs entwined.

What would his large, strong, callused hands feel like caressing her? His lovely mouth kissing her? His long, muscular legs pressing against hers?

She actually felt feverish. She should not have reread that book. Should have allowed her wants and needs to remain dormant. And surely they would have. If Mr. Stanton had not brought them roaring to life.

After she'd helped Genevieve write the book and had learned of the wonders that could physically exist between a man and a woman, she'd been stunned. Never had she experienced anything like that with Bertrand.

After being exposed to the tantalizing information in the Guide, however, her thoughts had much more frequently strayed to sensual matters, piquing her long-suppressed desires and her curiosity. Since embarking on writing the Guide eleven months ago, shortly after Bertrand's death, how many nights had she lain in her lonely bed, her body throbbing with newly awakened, unfulfilled needs? More than she cared to recall. Her attempts to ease the aching had left her only more frustrated.

In the past, whenever she'd imagined a lover touching her, the man's image had been shadowy and unformed.

Not anymore.

Mr. Stanton's face filled her mind's eye, igniting her imagination and fantasies in a way they'd never been lit before. He was no figment of her imagination, but a flesh-and-blood man. Who had called her beautiful. Who'd made her feel as if she were soaring above the clouds when he waltzed with her. Who could inspire pleasurable tingles with a mere glance. Who, Genevieve believed, cared for her-or at the very least, desired her.

Desired her. She closed her eyes and blew out a long breath at the myriad sensual images that inspired. Images that did nothing to cool her arousal or relax her tension. She longed for the oblivion of sleep, but knew from experience that sleep would not come.

As they always did when her body and mind would not relax, the springs beckoned with their soothing warmth. She loved the privacy of taking the waters in the dark, alone, only her and the gentle night sounds surrounding her. Turning from the window, she crossed to her wardrobe and pulled out the thick, quilted robe that accompanied her on all her nighttime excursions.

She needed the soothing waters on her like she never had before.

Andrew paused on the dark path and strained his ears. A splash of water. Must be nearing the warm springs, or perhaps the small lake Spencer had mentioned. A shudder ran through him. He'd best take care lest he inadvertently locate the springs or the lake with his body, in which case this would be the last nighttime stroll he'd ever take.

Another soft splash sounded, seeming to come from behind an outcropping of rocks outlined in the moonlight about a dozen yards ahead. Might as well look at the d.a.m.nable springs, so as to be prepared in case he could not find an excuse to avoid going there with Spencer. If forced, he'd look, but wild horses would not drag him into the water.

He took several steps forward, but then froze when another sound reached his ears. Something that sounded distinctly like... humming? Followed by a long purring hmmmmm of unmistakable pleasure. Unmistakable pleasure that sounded distinctly feminine. Surely it couldn't be- Cutting off the thought before it could take root and fill his head with a hundred fantasies, he moved forward. Quickly, silently, he approached the outcropping. Keeping to the shadows, he moved around the rocks until his view was un.o.bstructed. And his heart nearly stalled.

A circular pool of water, approximately twelve feet in diameter, surrounded by the rocks on three sides, met his stupefied gaze. Sinuous curls of steam, glowing in the moonlight, wafted upward from the water...

and surrounded Lady Catherine in an ethereal fog.

He blinked, certain that his desperate imagination had conjured her up, but when he opened his eyes, she remained.

Submerged in the steamy water up to her neck, eyes closed, a half smile playing about her lips, she breathed out another long purr of pleasure.

As if in a daze, he stood perfectly still, utterly transfixed by the sight of her.

He meant to do... something. Make his presence known, or slip away, but she reached up and slowly pulled pins from her upswept hair, and he lost the ability to move. Dark curls tumbled down, over her shoulders, and he instantly imagined combing his fingers through the strands, burying his face in those soft, fragrant tresses.

She opened her mouth, took what appeared to be a deep breath, then sunk below the surface. Andrew's brows snapped together. d.a.m.n it. He hated to see anyone disappear beneath the water like that. And where the h.e.l.l was she? Why was she under for so long?

His eyes scanned the surface. Why hadn't she yet reappeared? She shouldn't be under this long. How much time had pa.s.sed? Surely only a few seconds, but still, tiny talons of panic clawed at him.

He started forward. What if she'd become entangled in something beneath the water? How could he hope to save her? He couldn't swim. They'd both die. He'd jump in to save her, but would he be able to do so before he sank like a stone?

Still she didn't reappear. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and the talons of panic gave way to stark terror that clamped around his heart.

"Catherine,"he yelled, breaking into a run. "Cath-"

Her head broke the surface, and he skidded to a halt about three feet from the edge of the spring.

She opened her eyes, caught sight of him, and gasped. "Mr. Stanton!" Her eyes widened to saucers. "What are you doing here?"

His breath still came in ragged pants, his lungs working like a bellows. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regain control of his emotions. He actually felt weak-kneed. Weak-kneed and angry as h.e.l.l.

He moved to the edge of the spring in one furious stride and glowered down at her. "A more apt question is what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

Her mouth dropped open, and she simply stared. He didn't know if she were more shocked by the clear menace in his stance and voice or by his use of an obscenity. But at the moment he simply didn't care.

"Have you taken leave of your senses to come out here alone?" he fumed. "At night? To swim alone? Does anyone even know that you are here? What if something had happened to you? What in G.o.d's name were you thinking?"

She blinked several times, then pressed her lips together. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like irritating, overbearing man, she reached for the side of the pool. Before he realized what she was about, she'd gracefully hoisted herself out of the spring onto the rocky ledge. Then, water sluicing down her body, she stomped over to him.

Every thought he'd ever had, and a few he hadn't yet managed to think, drained from his head and flopped onto the ground at his feet-to join his jaw.

She looked like a pale sea nymph, her dark hair slicked back, the dark curls flattened straight by the water, falling to her waist. Her body was covered, or more aptly not covered, in a wet chemise that clung to her form as if painted on-with transparent paint. His stupefied gaze traveled downward, over her delicate clavicle, to the generous swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, topped with dusky, hardened nipples. The indent of her waist. The flare of her hips. The shadow of the dark triangle nestled between her shapely thighs. Over her calves, right down to her slender ankles and dainty feet.

She halted less than two feet in front of him, and he snapped his gaze back up to her face. The ice emanating from her glare was surely meant to freeze him where he stood.

"No, Mr. Stanton," she said in a voice throbbing with anger, "I have not taken leave of my senses. I often visit this warm spring alone at night, as I enjoy the solitude. I was not swimming, I was soaking. There was no risk as not only am I an excellent swimmer, but the water in the spring is no deeper than my shoulders. No one knows I am here, but I a.s.sure you I am perfectly safe. Little Longstone is not London, and dangerous persons, with the obvious exception of you, do not skulk about in the bushes. And now that I've answered all your questions, perhaps you'd enlighten me as to what the h.e.l.l you are doing here?"

He wanted to answer her, but G.o.d help him, he couldn't find his voice. The sight of her, wet, beautiful, angry, stole his ability to speak. d.a.m.n near stole his ability to breathe.

She planted her fists on her hips. "Were you spying on me? Trying to frighten me?"

He frowned, shook his head, and swallowed. "No." His voice sounded rusty, as if he hadn't used it in a decade or two. "I couldn't sleep. Wanted some air. I heard splashing... and there you were. I hadn't recovered from my surprise when you went under the water. It seemed you were under far too long. I thought you were drowning." He could barely push the last word past his lips.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out and trailed unsteady fingers over her cheek. Her skin was smooth, warm and wet beneath his fingers. Her eyes widened at the gesture, but she did not pull away.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you. I thought you were drowning..."His fingers slipped from her cheek, and he fancied he saw disappointment flash in her eyes. Reaching down, he clasped her hands, then pressed them against his chest over the spot where his heart still raced. "Can you feel how scared I was?" he asked, drinking in the sensation of her hands on him, wishing his shirt would magically disappear.

Her head jerked in a tiny nod. "I... I'm sorry as well. I was only wetting my hair."

He inhaled, and the delicious scent of her warm, wet, nearly naked body filled his head, intoxicating him. His sudden spate of anger died as quickly as it had flared, replaced by a roar of desire that threatened to bring him to his knees. All the feelings he'd held in check for so long rushed to the surface, sweeping away his restraint like a feather cast upon rough seas. He wanted her so badly...

He released her hands, cupped her face in his palms, then slowly lowered his head.

At the first gentle brush of his lips against hers, he stilled, absorbing the incredible realization that he was actually kissing her, memorizing the sensation. He brushed his lips over hers again, and a tiny gasp escaped her. Her fingers curled against his chest, her lips parted slightly, and the longing that he'd held back for so long burst.

With a groan, he erased the s.p.a.ce between them in one step. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he clasped her tightly against him. He sifted a hand through her damp hair, then deepened their kiss.

Catherine stood in the strong circle of his arms and simply allowed the onslaught of sensations battering her to take over. Warm. He was so warm. She felt as if he'd wrapped her in a velvet blanket.

Solid. The sensation of her body pressed against his from chest to knee stole her breath. Her fingers curled, then splayed against his chest, and she could feel the hard muscles beneath the fine linen. His heartbeat thundered against her palms, and she absorbed every slap, knowing her heart was beating at the same frantic speed.

She parted her lips and was rewarded with the erotic, delicious sweep of his tongue against hers. He tasted dark and exotic, with a faint trace of brandy.

More. How she wanted more of this heady wonder, more of these sensuous delights. She pressed herself closer to him, reveling in his arousal pressing against her belly. A low groan vibrated in his throat, and she glided one hand up to touch the sound. He wore no cravat, and her fingers brushed over the shallow indentation at the base of his throat, then slipped beneath the material to touch his warm, firm skin before sliding upward to ruffle through his thick hair.

His hold on her tightened, and she strained closer, squirming against him. More. Please, more...

He answered her silent plea, slanting his mouth over hers in a long, slow, deep, tongue-mating kiss that dissolved her bones. His large hands tunneled through her hair, then moved slowly down her back, as if trying to memorize every inch.

When his palms reached the small of her back, he left her lips and trailed his mouth along her jaw, then down her neck with a series of heated, nipping kisses. Shivers of delight shook her and she leaned her head back to give him better access.

He blazed a trail back up her neck, then found her lips once more, destroying her with another hot, open-mouthed, lush kiss that made her feel as if she were a mound of gunpowder on the verge of exploding. A long, need-filled groan rumbled upward from the vicinity of her toes. He gentled the kiss, then raised his head, and her groan turned to one of protest.

She forced her eyes open and stilled. A feminine thrill unlike any she'd ever felt before suffused her at the fire burning in his gaze. Never had a man looked at her like that. With such heat. Such pa.s.sion. Such reverence. Such raw hunger. She felt a tremor run through him and clearly saw his fight for self-control... a fight that part of her badly wanted him to lose. The feminine part that longed to feel his kiss again. His hands on her body. Skin to skin.

One strong arm released her, and he brought his hand to her face. Slowly his fingertips brushed over her brow. Her cheeks, her lips, all while his other arm held her tightly against him-which was good, as she suspected she'd slither to the ground in a boneless, heated heap. He swallowed, then whispered one word.

"Catherine."

It sounded like a sensual caress. Deep and raspy, with a hint of wonder. The sound tickled over her

skin, making her feel wicked and decadent. More womanly and alive than she'd felt in years. There was only one word she could answer in reply. "Andrew." A slow smile tilted up his lips. "I like the way my name sounds when you say it." "It was all I could think of to say, except Oh, my." "I am in complete agreement." "Is this possible? That we agree again this evening?" "Shocking, but true. However, you sound surprised that you would think to say Oh, my about our kiss." "I confess I somewhat am. Are you not?" He shook his head. "I didn't doubt for a moment it would be like that. The only thing that surprises me is that I managed to summon the fort.i.tude to stop." "You'd thought about kissing me?" She blessed the cover of darkness that kept him from seeing the flush that heated her cheeks at her forward question, but she wanted to know. Needed to know. "Yes. Does that... upset you?" No. It excites me. Almost unbearably. "No." Her eyes searched his, and after a quick debate, she uttered the unvarnished truth. "I've never been kissed like that."

He cupped her cheek in his callused palm and brushed his thumb lightly over her lips. "Good. I like to be first."

A dozen sensual images collided in Catherine's mind, and she realized this man could represent a great

many "firsts" for her-firsts her body was aching to experience. The arousal still pressing against her belly

and the hard, fast mumping of his heart beneath her palms indicated he wouldn't be averse to the idea.

But she could not make such an important decision, like whether or not to take him as a lover, while wrapped in his arms. She needed to think. And in order to do so, she had to put some s.p.a.ce between them.

She slowly stepped back, until three feet separated them. His gaze wandered down her body. Her wet chemise clung to her skin, revealing everything to his avid gaze, but instead of feeling shy, she reveled in the intense need and desire etched on his face.

"You're beautiful, Catherine. The most beautiful woman in the world."

The desire his words fueled in her left her shaking and frightened. Hoping to cool the fire racing through her, dispel the sensual tension bouncing between them, she attempted a laugh. "How can you possibly say that? You haven't met every woman in the world."

"I don't need to touch fire to know it would burn me. I don't need to smash a hammer on my finger to know it would hurt. Or eat a sweet from the confectionary to know I'd want another one. Some things, Catherine, you just know." He reached out and lightly grasped her hand, entwining their fingers. "I also know that our next kiss will be even more Oh, my than the one we just shared. And the one after that..."He raised their joined hands to his lips and pressed a warm kiss against the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. "Indescribable."

"Our next kiss, Mr. Stanton? What makes you think there will be a next kiss?"

"As I said, some things you just know."

Another bout of heat whooshed through her. Good heavens. It was time to end this interlude before their next kiss happened right now. Turning, she strode to the flat rock where she'd placed her robe. After slipping her arms into the sleeves, she tightened the sash around her waist. When she turned around, he stood not two feet away. She drew in a sharp breath, and her head filled with his delightful, musky the scent.

"Andrew,"he said softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just now you called me Mr. Stanton. I'd prefer you call me Andrew. Just as I'd prefer to call you Catherine."

She'd called him that to put a bit of emotional distance between them, but she doubted her ability ever to think of him in such formal terms again. Not now that she knew the texture of his skin. The silkiness of his hair. The sensation of his tongue stroking hers. And she could not deny that she liked the sound of her name coming from his lips. Amazing how simply dropping the word "Lady" changed... everything.

"I suppose we're on a first-name basis now. Very well... Andrew." His name tasted decadent, luscious upon her tongue.

He reached out and clasped her hands in a warm grip. "Are you sorry about what happened between us, Catherine?"

She shook her head. "Not sorry. But..."Her voice trailed off, unable to find the right word to describe the jumble of emotions careening through her.

"Scared?" he guessed. "Confused?"

Botheration, when had she become so transparent? "Do you have clairvoyant capabilities, Andrew?"

"Not at all." He lifted her hands, one at a time to his mouth, his gaze never leaving hers. "I only suggest those because they are some of the things I'm feeling."

"Scared? You?" She meant to laugh, but the sound came out as a breathless sigh when his tongue brushed the center of her palm.