Her eyebrows rose and with wide-eyed innocence she softly said, "Cancel the order."

"You're refusing food?" His brows rose in playful query.

"I ate all the cookies."

"I see," he gently said, beginning to slide his coat from his shoulders. "Do you think you'll like being tied up?"

"You're declining the experience?" Her tone was sportive.

"Maybe later," he said, throwing his coat on a nearby chair.

"Have you ever been tied up?"

"By a lady?" He looked at her, his cravat half undone, his hand stilled.

"By anyone, darling. I'm not prudish."

He laughed and resumed untying his cravat. "Only at Eton and only once-a very long time ago."

She'd watched his eyes as he'd spoken. "And you took your revenge for it, I suspect."

"Oh, yes," he softly said, tossing his neckcloth over the chair back.

"Should I be frightened?" she teased.

He chuckled. "Hardly. I like women."

She knew he did, the whole world knew he did. His entire manner bespoke his intrinsic need for women. "I wish I'd met you in Gloucestershire," she said, wondering how her life would have differed had she met him before her poverty.

"Your father probably would have shot me," he said with a lazy smile.

"He may have liked you enormously."

"As long as you do, lollipop, I'm content," he casually replied, not about to discuss anything smacking of potential fathers-in-law.

"Oh, I do, Rochefort," she said, dulcet sweet, and settling back on the pillows, she held out her arms to him. "Show me how nice you can be."

"I'm going to postpone the food. I prefer not being interrupted by an irate chef."

"Hurry back," she teased, "or I'll go on without you."

He grinned. "That's what comes of too much education."

"I wouldn't tarry," she seductively murmured, stretching luxuriously so her breasts rose in luscious ripe mounds.

He took a deep calming breath, his libido jolting to attention. "Give me two minutes and I warn you, if you don't wait, I'll paddle your bottom."

"Ummm," she purred. "How exactly will you do that?"

"Jesus," he said on a caught breath, capricious lust flooding his senses.

"Will I like it?" Serena whispered, turning over so her pink, plump bottom was tantalizingly exposed.

"To hell with the chef," he breathed, reaching for the buttons on his trousers. And short seconds later, she was lying facedown beneath him, his erection sunk deep inside her, and he was lightly paddling her bottom to the rhythm of her panting cries.

They did eat eventually. A sumptuous meal was delivered at a more convenient time along with a selection of ladies' dressing gowns.

"How thoughtful," Serena said, reaching up to kiss Beau's cheek.

"You needed something to wear until we see a dressmaker," he noted, brushing a finger over her bare shoulder.

"Or until my luggage arrives."

"That too," he politely said, although the state of Serena's blue serge gown didn't portend a wardrobe of any distinction. Reaching down, he plucked up a garment from the array tossed at the end of the bed. "Wear this peach silk."

"You like that?"

She spoke in that polite questioning female tone he'd learned to recognize long ago. "Wear what you like, darling," he said, rising from the bed.

"I like the primrose brocade."

"Perfect," he replied. "I'll pour the wine." A portion of Beau's clothing had been brought from the Siren and he shrugged into a Chinese silk robe, the deep scarlet vivid complement to his dark coloring. The heavy silk fell in rich folds, the exquisite fabric stark foil to his potent masculinity and for a brief second Serena wished she weren't simply passing through his life. He would be charming to wake up to every morning, she covetously thought, her senses attuned to his blatant virility. The last hours in bed had been so profoundly moving, she could still feel the delicious heat.

"Do you need anything else?" he casually asked, securing the corded belt at his waist in a knot.

You, she thought, but realistic about his permanent availability, she said instead, "No, I'll join you in a few minutes."

After Beau disappeared into the garden, she slipped on the pale yellow robe and brushed her hair with his ivory-handled brush, silently admonishing her mirror image to get a grip on her wayward emotions. She reminded herself that their encounter had a recognizable time limit. She knew it; he knew it. And despite the extraordinary sensual pleasure, her plans would remain unchanged-Florence was her destination.

A short time later, when she walked into the small walled garden where the table had been set, her sensibilities were suitably in hand. The food was beautifully arranged on an adjacent serving table, the delicious aromas wafting into the night air: pheasant marinated in port and stuffed with truffles; turbot with tomatoes and green pepper; crusty golden prawn rissoles; olives from Elvas; melon from Ribatejo; queijo da Ilha, a Portuguese cheese; pudim Abode de Priscos, a sweet lemon dessert; jesuitas, puff pastry cakes and marzipan sweets from Algarve. Serena sampled everything, eating with her customary appetite; Beau drank more than he ate as was his custom and they smiled at each other and exchanged kisses across the small table.

Serena talked of her life at length for the first time, less inclined now to conceal her past. She knew Beau as intimately as anyone could, and genuinely happy after years of sadness, she found herself confiding in him.

"I was Papa's best friend," she explained in answer to a question Beau had asked of her childhood. "Since Papa didn't venture much into society except for his clubs after Mama died, we spent a great deal of time together. He taught me to ride and shoot so I could go along with him when he hunted. He was my instructor in gambling too; it was our entertainment in the evenings. I learned very young the difference between risk-taking and expertise."

"Which accounts for your unusual skill."

"I could win at almost any card game by the time I was ten."

"We'll have to play again," he softly said, the challenge intriguing.

"Anytime," she readily agreed. "And we needn't play for money. You've already given me more than enough."

"There's no risk unless you play for money," he quietly said. "Indulge me."

She shrugged lightly, the candle glow shimmering on the heavy brocade of her gown. "It's your money."

A smile curved his graceful mouth. "So assured, darling."

"I beat the Earl of Montrose once."

"So did I," Beau gently said. "More than once. I look forward to our match."

"And I look forward to enriching my purse," she confidently replied.

They were seated together on the garden bench after dinner, drinking ginja under the sparkling starlit sky when a knock on the door disturbed their gentle quiet.

"I warned the manager against interruptions," Beau murmured, beginning to rise from his chair at the sound of footsteps crossing the sitting room floor.

"Forgive me for appearing unannounced," Damien St. John said, coming to a halt in the garden door just as Beau stood fully upright, "but I was concerned about you." He bore no resemblance to Beau save for his height, his fair coloring setting him apart. But his smile was winning like all St. John smiles, and his calm assurance seemed a family trait.

"I should have sent a message," Beau replied, setting down his glass. "Damien, may I introduce to you Miss Blythe," he politely said as if receiving sudden guests in dishabille was commonplace. "Serena, this is my uncle, Damien St. John."

"My pleasure, Miss Blythe," the ambassador courteously responded, bowing gracefully before turning back to his nephew. "If I could have a word with you, Beau, I won't keep you long."

"Of course," Beau quickly agreed. "Excuse us," he said to Serena, his gaze bland. And he followed his uncle into the sitting room.

"I beg pardon again for intruding," his uncle repeated, speaking softly so their conversation wouldn't be heard, "but McDougal came to tell me of his visit here shortly after I'd heard of the bloody incident from Soares." He spoke rapidly, his voice low. "And when you didn't come to the embassy, my anxiety grew. I had to see for myself that you weren't hurt. Ramos tried to dissuade me, so don't take issue with his lack of compliance to your orders. I fully understood you didn't wish to be disturbed. Consider this visit familial license." He seemed to relax after confessing his alarm. "Emma said I might as well go and make a fool of myself," he said, grinning, "as pace a hole in the drawing room carpet."

"I should have contacted you when we landed. It was my fault completely. But Miss Blythe ..." Beau shrugged slightly. "We're both fine, as you can see. So tell me," he went on in a conversational tone, "is Vivian in England again?"

"I'm relieved of course to find you whole, and yes, she's been in London for several months."

Since Vivian openly disliked all the St. Johns, she wasn't likely to call on Beau's family in London, nor was she apt to appear at any of the bachelor revels that consumed most of his social agenda. He wasn't surprised he was unaware of her presence in England. "Is she abroad more permanently than usual?" Beau inquired, alert to a new almost light-hearted elation in his uncle's voice.

"Perhaps," Damien said with ambassadorial constraint.

"Congratulations."

"A bit premature," his uncle replied, "but a guarded thank you to you, nevertheless."

"Does Papa know?"

"I haven't told anyone yet. You're much too perceptive. But enough of that," he hastily added, not prone to discuss the uncertain prospect that he and Emma might soon live openly together. "Assure me now you're in perfect health and I'll give you back to your lovely lady."

"I'm in excellent health as you can see. Serena was the one in danger, not me."

"Her name sounds very familiar. Should I know her?"

Beau hesitated, not certain Serena cared to have her identity exposed. "I doubt you would."

"Blythe ... it's not so common a name. Was there-Yes." His eyes lit up with recognition. "There was a Blythe with me at Cambridge. Robbie Blythe built himself a Palladian gem of a house up in Gloucestershire; I saw his architect's drawings at the Royal Society years ago. I always coveted that house."

"You could have bought it at auction, four years ago. He died in poverty and his property was sold off."

"She's his daughter?"

Beau nodded. "She stowed away on the Siren at Dover."

"Good god!" the ambassador said, shocked. "Bring her up to the embassy," he declared. "Emma will take the girl under her wing."

"I'll have to ask her."

His uncle stared at him, perplexed.

"I'm not sure she wants to be taken under anyone's wing," Beau explained. "Serena's on her way to Florence to study art."

"Without money?" Damien skeptically asked.

"She has some money."

"But a woman alone ..."

"She has friends."

"I see," Damien softly said. "And you don't wish to relinquish her company."

"To be honest, no, but, of course, feel free to ask her."

"Now?" Damien demanded. He felt duty bound to offer protection to the daughter of an old acquaintance.

"Be my guest." Beau gestured toward the garden.

Serena was surprised to see the men return and when Damien invited her to come to the embassy to meet his cousin-in-law, Emma Pares, who kept house for him in his wife's absence, her astonishment showed.

"I knew your father," Damien explained.

Serena quickly glanced up at Beau, inquisition in her eyes.

"He recognized your name. He and your father were in the Royal Society together."

"I'm very sorry to hear of his death. Do let us help you reestablish yourself," Damien said. "You'll like Emma."

Serena cast another flustered glance at Beau.

"I told him you were planning to study art in Florence," he quietly said, "but he wished to ask you himself."

"I'd stay in Lisbon, you mean?" Her tone was hesitant.

"Damien thought Emma could take you under her wing."

"It must be difficult for you to be on your own, Miss Blythe," Damien gently noted.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, gazing up at Beau. Did he wish to rid himself of her?

The smallest pause ensued before he said, "I told Damien you were the one to make the decision."