"Is this open to discussion?" she queried.

"No. Do you mind?" He needn't have asked; he could see the answering heat in her eyes as he shrugged out of his robe.

"Damn you," she whispered, beginning to tremble as he moved over her.

"Damn me later," he softly said, lowering himself between her spreading thighs.

"I won't want to later."

"So don't think about it." He guided himself to her pulsing core, sliding inside that first finite distance.

"I should resist." Her final syllable ended in a dulcet gasp.

"Too late," he whispered, resting hilt deep inside her, the words echoing in his brain as his hands slid over her slender waist, then lower, his fingers splaying over her hips, securing her firmly beneath him. "Much too late," he breathed so quietly the words were lost in his throat. And shutting his eyes, he drove into her.

8.

Over breakfast the next morning, Beau said, "Ramos tells me your luggage has arrived, but you'll have to identify it."

"Finally and with perfect timing," Serena exclaimed, sightseeing high on her list of priorities. Immediately setting her fork aside, she rose from the table. "Where is it? I'll look right now."

But the scene that greeted her when she opened the suite door onto the atrium briefly confounded her. Instead of two pieces of luggage, two dozen or more bags, portmanteaux, and pouches in every color and description were spread across the terra-cotta tiles.

"Ramos wasn't taking any chances, apparently," Beau dryly noted over her shoulder. "I'm sure I told him brown leather." He'd also made it clear the lady was to have her luggage without fail, which no doubt accounted for this vast array.

"I hope the other passengers weren't discommoded."

"We'll have the rest returned," he assured her. "Do you see yours?"

"There and there." She pointed out the familiar pieces and stepping through the doorway set out to retrieve them.

"Allow me," he said, following her.

She glanced over her shoulder when he touched her arm. "I can carry them." And had already transported them across a great portion of London, in fact.

"You don't have to; I'm here."

His hand was warm through the fine silk of her dressing gown, his nearness a trigger to her pleasure senses. "You're going to spoil me," she whispered, wondering if every woman he touched immediately experienced lust as she did.

"How could I not?" he gallantly said, brushing a kiss down her straight nose.

But she was less easy to convince when it came to his request that they seek out a dressmaker. Her gowns, as expected, were not only demode but shabby and he wished to remedy her lack of wardrobe.

"You know what a modiste will think if I walk in with you," Serena objected, shaking out another gown from her luggage.

"I'll introduce you as my cousin. She won't say a word."

"But she'll think it nonetheless. And I'll have to withstand that cool-eyed censure."

"Obviously you haven't been to a stylish dressmaker lately. They care only for the price they receive. Believe me, she'll treat you with the respect you deserve."

Serena shook her head. "I doubt it. Regardless, I'll be too uncomfortable in the public role of paramour. This brown wool isn't terribly worn." She held it up for his inspection.

"But then no one wears that style waistline anymore. Would you be more comfortable going with Emma?"

"Lord no." Her brows drew together in consternation. "She's a complete stranger."

"We're agreed then. I'll have the carriage fetched around."

"We're not agreed!" She stood at the foot of the bed glaring at him.

"Why don't I order you another of those lemon desserts?" he persuasively murmured.

"Do I look like a child?"

"Not by the furthest stretch of the imagination, darling," he lazily drawled, eyeing her curvaceous form evident beneath her ivory silk robe. "How about a more enticing bribe then," he tranquilly observed, intent on having his way. "Jewelry ... pearls perhaps or sapphires to match your eyes. Or would you prefer artwork? Portuguese mosaics are quite nice. I know the dealer my uncle patronizes near the embassy. Do you like antique sculpture?"

"Beau!" she wailed, not sure she could withstand such determined attack.

"I don't care to see you at dinner tonight in that hideous brown thing." He was lounging on the bed, his voice as temperate as his languid pose. "Let me buy you something for that occasion at least," he mildly offered.

"So I don't embarrass you."

"No, darling, anyone will tell you I'm impossible to embarrass. Just for the pleasure it will afford me."

"Then you must do something for me," she insisted.

"Anything."

"You say that so lightly."

He was surprised himself; he was notorious for never making promises to a lady. "You must have a way about you, kitten," he said, smiling faintly at recall of the previous night.

"I wish to pay for the gown myself."

"Done," he blandly said, taking note of the singular noun with satisfaction.

"So accommodating, Rochefort? Should I be concerned?"

"Not in the least. I've simply learned that when you're happy, I am as well."

"Like last night."

"Like that," he said with a wicked grin.

The dressmaker turned out to be English, which caused Serena additional anxiety and she wondered for a brief moment during their introduction whether she was capable of launching herself as an independent artist in a man's world after all. But she silently admonished herself against such faint heart and further bolstered her equivocating spirit by reminding herself that this was simply another rite of passage in her new journey to independence.

The dressmaker knew Beau, of course. What a surprise.

She seemed to know him very well, which drew an even more jaundiced assessment from Serena. But on second look Mrs. Moore had to be too old even for Beau's catholic tastes, Serena decided. It must be his patronage the modiste so appreciated.

"Coffee with four sugars if I recall," the dressmaker was saying with extreme cordiality, "and a decanter of ginja. Would your cousin like tea?" she pleasantly asked, slightly emphasizing the word "cousin" even as she looked through Serena as though she didn't exist.

"Some cakes with the tea, too." Beau glanced at Serena's testy expression. "We'll wait in the pink room," he hastily added, taking Serena's hand and drawing her away before her tightly set mouth opened.

"You must spend a great deal of money here," Serena hissed as he bundled her into a room decorated in pink damask and gilt. "The woman is near to kissing your boots."

"Which should mitigate any concern with your reception."

"She's dying to call me your paramour."

"But she won't." He gently pushed her into a chair.

"I want this over as rapidly as possible," she said through clenched teeth.

"Then tell her the style of gown you prefer," Beau calmly suggested, seating himself in the chair beside her. "And I'll see that you have it tonight." Crossing his legs at the ankles, he settled back as though he were perfectly at home. "Have some ginja." He touched her hand, curled white-knuckled over the chair arm. "You'll relax."

"I don't want to relax," Serena heatedly retorted. "I want that woman to stop looking at me as though I were the thousandth female you've brought in here."

"Did I remember to tell the driver to wait for us?" Beau abruptly asked, standing so suddenly Serena jumped.

"Of course you did," she said, looking baffled.

"I'd better check." And he quickly strode from the room.

Left alone, Serena gazed about the sumptuous room, taking in the multitude of fashion prints gracing the walls, feeling increasingly threadbare as she surveyed each splendid ensemble. She tucked her feet under the hem of her brown wool skirt, conscious of her worn shoes in this resplendent room. Pulling her pelisse completely shut to cover her gown's antiquated styling, she suddenly felt sartorially deprived-a novel feeling when survival had been her only priority for the past few years.

Before her father died, pretty clothes were commonplace for her. She'd never felt deprived, his love and affection the essential substance of her life, their bond absolute, the creature comforts of their existence agreeable. Perhaps she did deserve a new gown; perhaps Beau understood better than she the pleasure beautiful clothes evoked. And with a small smile of discovery she decided it would give her pleasure to buy herself something elegant. Her need to pinch pennies was past now that she'd won five hundred pounds from Beau. She could afford a new dress. Reaching over, she picked up a stack of fashionable drawings from a table. Maybe she'd even purchase a new pelisse, she thought, running her finger over the frayed hem of her capelet ... and a petticoat with lace too, she decided, smiling. How good it felt to be in funds again.

When Beau returned she ran to hug him. "Thank you for bringing me here," she buoyantly exclaimed, her arms laced around his waist. "What do you think of a gown in moss green or gold?" she inquired, her voice animated.

"I like either one," he replied, not questioning her sudden change of heart. In his experience, a man was better served not inquiring into a woman's reasons. "You'll look luscious in both."

"And," she gaily went on, gazing up at him with a smile, "I'm also going to buy a petticoat with lace."

"Definitely a worthwhile purchase," he genially agreed, visions of her in her new petticoat enchanting to contemplate.

"I'll need shoes too."

"Slippers are all the rage. We'll have some made to match."

She hugged him more tightly. "I'm enormously happy."

"I can tell," he softly said.

"And I wish to apologize for my tantrumish behavior."

"No need. I didn't notice," he chivalrously lied.

"And I shall be civil to Mrs. Moore even if she isn't."

"I'm sure she will be. You may have misinterpreted her attitude."

"Perhaps," Serena thoughtfully murmured, "but she did say 'cousin' with a decided snideness."

"If she dares say so again, I'll demand an apology. How would that be?" Beau gently asked, smiling down at her.

"Please, no, don't make a scene. I'd be even more embarrassed."

"I won't make a scene," he said with assurance. "My word on it. Now show me what you've found in those fashion prints."

And when Mrs. Moore came into the room a short time later, she was so gracious, Serena wondered whether she'd imagined the insults. Personally serving them from a tea tray carried in by a serving girl, the dressmaker kept up a charming chatter apropos of the sights in Lisbon after discovering Serena was interested in viewing the town.

"You must in all certainty see the old quarter. The very best of the medieval architecture remains there. It's the only surviving portion of the city after the earthquake of seventeen fifty-five. Do you like cathedrals?" she asked, her expression lively.

"I certainly do."

"Then you'll marvel at the Se Patriarchal, won't she, Lord Rochefort? It's the most lovely Romanesque design."

"I'm sure she will," Beau blandly said, content with the outcome of his talk with Mrs. Moore. When he'd gone out, ostensibly to check on the driver, he'd coolly pointed out to the dressmaker that if she dared offend Miss Blythe, he would see that no one in the English colony ever bought another garment from her. He'd further mentioned that she was under no circumstances to use the word "cousin" in Miss Blythe's presence. "She's a very good friend of mine, Mrs. Moore," he'd pleasantly said. "You understand I don't wish her unhappy."

So Serena was treated like royalty, fawned over with quite the same sycophantic delight Mrs. Moore showed her most exalted customers.

Beau watched carefully as Serena went through the stacks of fashion drawings, taking note of the various gowns she liked, agreeing with her when she finally settled on a round gown in gold silk gauze with an overgown of silk muslin.

"Although it's so impractical," she said with a sigh. "Maybe I shouldn't."

"You can wear it to any evening occasion," Beau noted. "It's practical in the extreme. Although you might like a cashmere shawl for cool evenings. Could you show us some, Mrs. Moore?"

"Oh, no," Serena objected. "They're much too expensive."

"Let me buy you one."

"No," she flatly said.

"Just try one on. Should one of your investments do well, Miss Blythe," he pleasantly said, referring obliquely to her competence at cards, "you'd know what you like."

"I can't afford a cashmere shawl regardless how successful my business ventures, Lord Rochefort," she plainly said, intent on holding him to their bargain. "I'll have a pelisse made instead. They're so much more practical."

"One shouldn't be practical for evening parties. Ask Mrs. Moore," Beau suggested, undeterred by her refusal.