But right now, he couldn't seem to override the very loud and insistent voice in his head that proclaimed it wanted to know what those delectable little breasts would feel like crushed against his chest. It insisted on feeling, just once more, those bee-stung lips opening to admit him.

He attributed it to the joy. This odd, unfamiliar feeling that had begun the moment he turned and saw her appear. That whispered, with amazement, "She came," as he watched her walk down the dock, bathed in moonlight.

It had started slowly, a slight lifting of the ever-present burden. A lightening. Then, when she'd offered to go in the water ahead of him, his heart had wrenched. She was good, like her father. And now she'd trained the full force of that goodness on him, sacrificing modesty and decorum to do something so ridiculous as swim with him in the middle of the night, simply because she thought it would ease his mind.

And then, hearing the splash of her entry into the water, it was as if she'd sliced off a gangrenous, shriveled part of his soul, her body a cauterizing knife as she sluiced into the water. He'd shouted a happy war cry as he ran off the dock, heeding the voice that urged him to hurl himself into a better, lighter, future.

He hadn't even thought of Alec until he hit the water. Alec, whom the whole bloody exercise was supposed to be about. Waiting for the guilt to flood in, he'd pumped his legs and swum as fast as he could underwater, as if he could outswim his brother's ghost.

But the guilt didn't come. Even as he told Miss Mirren the whole story of that night, it didn't come. Alec was dead, yes. He would be missed always. But that had nothing to do with this lake, with this night. With this woman, he thought, feeling his prick jump even as he swam through the icy water.

It was only then that her shouts penetrated the water. "Eric!" she'd screamed. He'd startled at the use of his Christian name. Since he'd ascended the title, no one used it. The last person to call him Eric had probably been Alec. Until Emily Mirren.

Who was here, now, in his arms, looking for all the world as if she were about to kiss him.

He stayed still, lifting his gaze from her lovely decolletage to her eyes, which gleamed in the moonlight. Time slowed down. Was this what maidens felt like, awaiting their first kiss, all nerves and fluttery anticipation?

Tamping down the urge to pull her closer, he waited, ignoring the aching in his cock. The idea of letting her do the kissing seemed important, somehow, and also strangely, intensely arousing.

Holding the post with one hand, she pressed the other down on his forearm, using the buoyancy of the water to lever herself up a little. He shifted his attention to her lips, concentrating on them until the world shrank and those pink pillows of flesh were all he saw.

The blood pounding in his ears and his groin seemed deafening, until she drew a sharp intake of breath as she came closer, a sweet inhale that presaged what was to come-as if she knew she would soon be left breathless, gasping. That breath rang in his ears as finally-finally!-she pressed her lips against his. Letting her set the pace, he followed the sweet, tentative movements of her mouth. After a few moments, he groaned with the effort of holding himself back. She must have interpreted it as a sign of approval, for she sighed as her lips came apart. The invitation was unmistakable and almost impossible to resist, but he still believed she should take the lead. So he measured his reaction, opening his mouth slightly to mirror hers.

The freezing water was the only thing saving him from spending himself like an untried boy as her tongue made a gentle, tentative incursion into his mouth. A moan broke from him, coming from deep in his throat as he sucked on the velvety softness of her tongue. When she closed the final few inches between their bodies, the stab of pleasure that ripped through him bordered on painful. Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder, leaving a breast exposed. Its softness was like balm and, oh God, he could feel her nipple against his skin. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but he felt even lighter than when he'd jumped off the dock. His burdens were melting away, kissed away by a water nymph. Unable to help himself, he brushed his hand down the side of her breast. His thumb grazed a nipple hardened into a taut nib from the cold-or, he flattered himself, perhaps from the passion they shared.

And she was passionate, he thought, as the kiss went on and on. Of course she was. An unmarried woman who single-handedly took on the cause of abolition and spied on a powerful man like Manning had passion in spades. He would expect no less from Captain Mirren's daughter.

Captain Mirren's daughter. Oh, God. Captain Mirren's daughter, who was endangering his mission to get Le Cafard. In any other circumstance, her meddling would make her enemy number one.

It took only the gentlest pressure to push her away, but at the same time, it took all the strength he had. "We can't do this," he whispered.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, turning her head away.

Wanting to howl at the idea that he'd caused her to feel any shame, he hooked a thumb under her chin and forced her to look at him. "I'm not." And he wasn't. Tomorrow, he'd force himself to start thinking of her as the threat she was. Today, though, he couldn't make himself regret this extraordinary interlude.

"Lord Blackstone, please accept my apology."

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"I threw myself at you."

She looked adorably mortified. "And I enjoyed catching you very much."

"Worse than my assault upon your person, this was supposed to be about you facing your fears, and I've gone and-"

"Hush." He ran a finger over her lips-one last caress of that sensuous pout. He cursed the night. If he was going to completely lose his head, transgress the boundaries of common decency, and offend the memory of his captain, he would have enjoyed doing it inside. In a bed. Under the high noon sun. How he wished he could look his fill of her whole delectable body, just once.

But it was not to be. "We both got carried away, but there's no harm done." He searched her eyes. "Is there?"

"No, of course not. I'm just sorry I used you so rudely."

He swallowed a laugh. "You used me?"

"Yes. I wanted to..."

The darkness could not hide her blush. He raised his eyebrows, merciless. "You wanted to what?"

She bit her bottom lip. Goddamn, but he wished those were his teeth there and not hers. "I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss a gentleman."

"And what did it feel like?"

"It was enjoyable."

Enjoyable? He coughed instead of letting her hear the indignant protest that almost escaped. Enjoyable didn't even begin to cover it.

She moved toward the ladder. "Will you please turn away, my lord?"

He wanted to ask her to call him Eric again, as she'd done before when she'd shouted for him, but he knew she would not comply. So he turned away, but only for a moment before stealthily turning back. Devil that he was, he wanted to watch her, to memorize her, to add to the trove of memories he would carry from this night.

Her shoulder blades undulated as she lifted herself out of the water. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over the elegant planes of her back. Stepping onto the dock, she reached back with one hand and squeezed water from her hair, gathering the wet locks and pulling them to her front, over her right shoulder, revealing skin the color of milk.

And an angry, raised, red scar that ran from her neck all the way down to disappear into the neckline of her chemise, which, loosened and soaked as it was, hung halfway down her back.

He was out of the water in a flash, tracing the raised scar tissue, wanting to see how low it went.

"What is this?" He tried to keep his voice mild, but could hear in the growl that came out that he had fallen short.

Jerking away, she turned to face him. "It's nothing."

"Who did this to you?" he persisted, once again failing to deliver the question with equanimity. He extended his hand toward her, the way a man did to show an enemy he came in peace. It wasn't her he was angry with. "Please, won't you tell me what happened?"

As she stood, shivering in the moonlight, trying to cover herself, he saw how utterly vulnerable she was. Running all over England after a dangerous traitor, penning controversial newspaper articles.

"I tried to help a slave escape, and I ran afoul of his master."

The breath hissed from him. That was a whip mark. "Who did this to you?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"Does it matter?" she whispered.

"No," he lied, striding past her, heedless of his nakedness, and picking up his greatcoat. He returned and settled it over her shoulders. "It doesn't matter. We should go back to the house. It's an early start for the journey to London tomorrow."

But of course it mattered a great deal. The man who had done this to Captain Mirren's only child would spend the rest of his life paying for his sins.

As they walked back to the house, he watched Miss Mirren shiver and thought about that scar. He thought about the letter, about Edward Markham.

She was reckless. Brave, but reckless. It was only a matter of time before she got seriously hurt-or worse.

And she was in the way. She stood between him and Manning, and Manning was the bridge to Le Cafard. He needed to remember that.

An idea rose, fully formed, in his mind.

Chapter Nine.

Two weeks later, London "No."

Miss Mirren might as well have thrown her tea in Blackstone's face. Her refusal left him blinking and speechless.

No was not an option. He tamped down his shock. There she sat, in her small but cheerful parlor, looking calmer than he thought she had a right to be under the circumstances. As if she refused these sorts of suits all the time.

It was maddening. But he needed to remember who he was dealing with. A bluestocking. An intellectual. All right. So she needed to be reasoned with. Why had he expected anything less?

Because a fortnight ago, she kissed you in the water like a woman who might actually want to marry you.

He rose from the settee and strode to the window, gazing at the street for a moment-mustering a new offense-before returning his attention to her. "Miss Mirren, if you think about what I'm actually proposing, you'll find-"

"You do me a great honor by asking, of course," she interrupted, her voice unnaturally loud. It sounded like she was reciting her times tables. The crease between her eyebrows deepened, and he followed her gaze down to her hands, which were clasped together in a death grip. "It's just that I don't plan to marry at all."

"You don't plan to marry," he echoed, registering the fact that dumbly repeating what she said didn't make for much of an offense. "May I ask why?"

"I value my freedom too much."

"I wouldn't impede you. You could settle at Clareford Manor, and I'd be in town most of the time anyway." Her patient expression, reminiscent of a governess waiting for her pupil to finish saying something foolish, told him he was getting nowhere. Blast the obstinate woman! "We wouldn't have to, ah, live together as man and wife."

He refrained from saying that the abstention would be more of a sacrifice than she could ever imagine.

"You wouldn't want that?"

Of course he wanted that. He wasn't a saint.

He'd hoped his response to their moonlit swim had been an aberration, an atypical reaction to their closeness as she helped him chase away his demons. The two weeks that had elapsed since the house party disbanded had given him ample time to analyze the situation. She was like a fellow soldier. They faced a common enemy and that had inspired the intense feelings of camaraderie typical of such circumstances. And of course she was a beautiful woman, so the form that it had taken had been sexual attraction. It was all very logical.

He'd been dismayed, then, by his very illogical response when Miss Mirren herself answered his knock. There she stood in an unremarkable and slightly worn blue dress, surprise etched onto her lovely face. After he finished thinking that this was another reason to marry her-she wouldn't have to answer her own door in his house-he felt the telltale spike of lust her plump mouth always seemed to inspire. Worse, now that he knew what that mouth tasted like, he feared he would never stop thinking about it.

But his irrational appetites didn't signify. When a man proposed to a woman to ruthlessly further his own political aims, he gave up the right to a real marriage. He would just have to take a cold bath every evening.

But first she had to say yes.

"This is about my father, isn't it?" The accusation-he felt it like a blow to the chest-took the air out of the speech he'd been composing in his head.

"You're proposing out of duty," she continued, her voice rising and color beginning to paint her cheeks. "At least be honest about it. You're asking out of some misplaced sense of responsibility."

"I'm not sure it's misplaced," he said guardedly. He had been loyal to her father. He still was. He couldn't tell her his true motivation was to get her out of the goddamned way of his case. But perhaps there was a case to be made for duty. People married for much less compelling reasons every day. A marriage between them would be a way to honor her father. Perhaps she could be worn down using this line of argument.

"This is the part, Lord Blackstone, where you rush to assure me that your proposal is based solely on your regard for me and has nothing to do with my father."

Or perhaps not.

He didn't know what to say. An unpleasant sensation, because he always knew what to say to a target.

His silence, unintentional though it was, must have answered for him, because she stood and pulled the bell. "It doesn't matter anyway, because as I explained, I do not intend to marry."

"But you can't just live here by yourself!" Irritation spilled over in his tone.

"I don't live by myself. I live with my grandmother." She spoke as if she were talking to a child, and his irritation ratcheted up into something approaching ire.

"So I've heard," he said, matching her cold, superior tone. "I have yet to meet the lady."

She shot him a disdainful look. When a maid appeared, she said, "Please ask Sally to bring Grandmama down." She turned back toward him. "You'll stay for another cup of tea."

He noticed it wasn't a question, but nodded, thinking back to the way Mr. Manning greeted Miss Mirren back at Clareford Manor. "How is Sally?" At least one mystery would finally be resolved.

"Have you a footman?" he asked while they waited.

She poured his tea, her movements jerky. "No."

"Why didn't a maid answer the door, then?"

The spoon she used to vigorously stir cream into his tea clanged repeatedly against the china cup. "I've only the one, and she was busy bathing Grandmama."

He reached his hand out, intending to still the movement of hers, but before he made contact with her skin, she stopped her frenzied stirring and handed him his cup. The disappointment he felt at the missed opportunity to touch her was not helpful, so he shoved it aside. "So you live here with your grandmother, a maid-of-all-work, and someone named Sally."

Suddenly, incongruously, she smiled. "I'm am thinking of hiring a lady's maid. I've recently met one I think would suit."

He resisted pointing out that her statement had nothing to do with anything.

"Mrs. Burnham and I have become friends," she continued. "She's been very kind to me. I shall be going about in society with her, so I'll have need of a dedicated maid. Molly can't manage to do a thing with my hair."

She was trying to put him off the topic with this discussion of society and hairdressing. "Allow me to amend my previous statement. Assuming you retain a lady's maid, you will live here with two maids, your grandmother, and a mystery woman named Sally."

"You, of course, will address Sally as Mrs. Smith, but that is correct." The icy bluestocking was back.

Dear God, the woman was impossible. His jaw tightened. "No footman. No man at all."

"I don't like my household to be too...full. Mind you, a boy comes in the mornings with firewood. He runs errands for us, too."

His skin prickled. He thought about that horrible scar. Anyone with a grudge could infiltrate her unguarded henhouse. "Your grandmother's household, you mean. You don't like your grandmother's household to be too full."

"That's right," she agreed coolly, looking daggers at him.

Her foolish obstinacy was enough to unhinge a man. He sipped his tea, smiling blandly to mask the frustration that was threatening to choke him, and wondered where she attended church, doing the math as to how soon the banns could be called. Though it would probably be simpler to just obtain a special license. Either way, the infernal woman was marrying him, whether she liked it or not.