After being warned by Lord Rochefort that he didn't wish Miss Blythe to be unhappy, yet aware that he wished his paramour to have a cashmere shawl, the dressmaker cautiously said, "In general, a certain degree of luxury is, ah, common to evening wear, although if Miss Blythe would prefer a pelisse, perhaps we could have one made in velvet or swansdown-trimmed wool."

"Now there's a possibility," Beau cordially declared. "Why not see some of those fabrics as well as the shawls."

"Beau, no. I'd rather not." Her voice was cool.

"Consider, my dear, you won't always be on a limited budget," he replied. "In any event," he went on, taking note of the sudden tick in her jaw, "tell Mrs. Moore what sort of petticoat you have in mind."

"Now that I need," Serena agreed, turning away from Beau to address the dressmaker, who was thoroughly confused by this time. Was the lady paying for her own purchases? With Lord Rochefort as wealthy as Croesus. Had she misunderstood the word "friend" when Rochefort had pronounced it with such delicacy?

"Do you have any petticoats trimmed in broderie anglaise?" Serena asked.

"Certainly, Miss Blythe," she answered, sure of her inventory at least in this treacherous field of problematical relationships. "I'll have some brought in."

"And we'll need slippers made to match the gown," Beau interposed. "Would you like colored leather or silk?" he asked his companion.

"Leather. They'll last longer."

"Very good, miss," Mrs. Moore said, wondering why a paramour of Rochefort's was concerning herself with such practicalities. "When I have the petticoats brought in, we'll take your measurements for the gown and a pattern of your foot as well."

When the dressmaker returned, two seamstresses carrying armsful of petticoats accompanied her and after Serena decided on a filmy muslin trimmed in elegant broderie anglaise, Mrs. Moore delicately said, "It would be best to measure you without your wool gown on, Miss Blythe. If you don't mind."

"No, of course not."

"Would Lord Rochefort, er ... that is-would you prefer-"

"I'd prefer some more ginja if you don't mind," Beau said, his voice temperate.

"Yes, certainly, my feelings exactly ... I could see that you were quite ready for more," Mrs. Moore strategically replied. Lord Rochefort's cool-eyed look caused her extreme discomfort; indeed, the difficulty in reading the nuances of this "friendship" had brought an unladylike sweat to her brow. Casting a steely-eyed look of her own at one of her assistants, she said in sugary tones, "Another decanter of ginja for Lord Rochefort, Madelina."

"Really, Rochefort, you can wait," Serena chided. "Don't make the poor girl run off for more when we're almost finished."

"Never mind, Mrs. Moore," Beau graciously replied, submitting to Serena's wishes without cavil.

Silently praying she survive this unusual encounter with Lord Rochefort and his newest companion, the dressmaker signaled her seamstresses to help Miss Blythe out of her gown. How unusual it was to see Rochefort so out of character-accommodating, conciliatory, without insolence or audacity. She gave Miss Blythe high marks for an audacity of her own. Apparently her cool dissent appealed to this man who'd dressed more than his share of beautiful Lisbon women.

And ostensibly she was paying for her purchases herself.

Surely a first for the ambassador's nephew.

But the lady was less composed under the watchful eye of Lord Rochefort when she stood half undressed before him, her bare feet peeking from under the hem of her plain linen petticoat, her fine skin blush pink, her gaze avoiding his.

Taking in the well-made but worn garments, Mrs. Moore decided Miss Blythe's appeal had much to do with her fallen circumstances. Unlike the playthings Rochefort normally amused himself with, this young lady was no flitting amorous butterfly. She was oddly genuine, a word the dressmaker found curious even as it struck her consciousness-as if the other ladies he knew were female marionettes. And less conspicuous at first glance but hovering beneath Miss Blythe's cool resolve was a tremulous sexual need. How tantalizing that must be for Lord Rochefort. Women had been throwing themselves at him for years, and now to encounter this small, intrinsic resistance from the lady ...

"Turn around," he softly said, his deep voice so hushed the vibration hummed in the small room. "So we can see your hair."

Serena hesitated a small interval, which Mrs. Moore anticipated now that she better understood their attraction. Serena's gaze met Beau's briefly. He smiled. Then her eyes took on a carnal warmth and she slowly swung around.

"We'll need a hairdresser for tonight," Beau remarked.

"Maybe I'll have my hair cropped a la Titus," Serena murmured, lifting her hands up to balance the heavy coils of her pale hair atop her head, gazing at Beau over her shoulder.

"Absolutely not."

"It's my hair," she smoothly returned. "Think how easy it would be to wash."

"We'll find someone to wash it for you if that's a problem." His voice was suddenly blunt, devoid of pleasantry.

"Now who would that be?" she softly queried, responding to his audacious authority and to more-to the irrepressible passion warming her body.

"How cheeky you are, Miss Blythe." He spoke as though they were alone in the room, with the sensual undertones flagrant.

"No more than you, my lord. If I wish to cut my hair I shall."

His gaze held hers for a long moment and then it flicked to Mrs. Moore. "I'm sure you can get measurements from Miss Blythe's dress and shoes. Take them and get out."

"There's no need. Stay," Serena asserted, rescinding his order.

"Take them," Beau said, his tone so soft it was no more than a whisper.

But Mrs. Moore understood the voice of command when she heard it, and whisking up the two items, she shooed her assistants out and followed them, firmly shutting the door.

"Now then," Beau murmured, "we can discuss this in private."

"Couldn't this have waited, you damned autocrat?" She gazed at him with hot-eyed insolence.

"Don't be impossible." His voice was mild, his lounging pose unaltered.

"You can't keep me from cutting my hair." It gave her pleasure to say it.

"You don't even want to cut your hair."

"Maybe I do."

"And maybe I want to fuck you where you're standing."

"You can't."

His brows arose. "I can fuck you anywhere I want."

"Not if I don't want to."

"But you always do. Like now," he whispered, his gaze on her nipples, which were rising against the sheer linen of her chemise. "Tell me you don't want to feel me inside you."

His words insinuated themselves into her senses like small heated explosions, trembling up her spine and down her arms and deep inside her as though they were gently probing fingers. "I don't," she whispered, clenching her fists against the flaring sensations.

"That's what you said last night too," he murmured, his eyes half-lidded, impudent.

"But this isn't our bedroom." She had no intention of making love in so public a place, no matter the heated stirrings of her body. "So stay where you are," she added when it looked as though he might rise.

"I'm not going anywhere," he calmly said, recrossing his legs. "Why don't you come here."

"No. Good god, Rochefort, have some discretion."

"Like you," he impertinently said, "the lady who left England in a stranger's yacht."

"You weren't a complete stranger."

"At least not for long." His voice was amused.

"And now that I know you so well," she sardonically noted, "I'm keeping my distance. Someone could walk in, all of them could return. You smile. You'd like that, I suppose-but I'm not so decadent yet. I'll wait here safely out of your reach until they bring my dress back."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Moore won't return until she's called for."

"So she's familiar with your amusements," Serena oppressively murmured. "Like an accommodating brothel keeper. I wondered at all the divans in here. How many ladies have you entertained in this silken room? Ten ... a dozen ... more?" The pitch of her voice rose as the room suddenly became haunted with beautiful, willing females. "First you dress them and then you undress them. Mrs. Moore must prosper when you're in town."

"They'll hear you outside." Beau hadn't moved but the minute flare of his nostrils gave indication of his irritation.

"Will they think you're losing your touch?"

"They'll think I've found a tantrumish little bitch to fuck," he softly said.

"Then they'll be wrong on both counts."

His brows rose marginally. "I'm not so sure," he murmured, noting the flush on her pale skin, the agitated rise and fall of her plump breasts half revealed above the neckline of her chemise.

She took a deep breath and, meeting his half-lidded gaze, said, "I'm sure."

"You can be persuaded, though...." he repudiated, beginning to rise.

"Damn you, sit down," she warned, moving backward, a tremor not solely of anger vibrating in her voice.

"I'd rather stand," he said, coming to his feet.

"If you move another step, I'll cut off my hair," she precipitously threatened, scooping up a pair of scissors from a nearby worktable, holding them poised over her ruffled curls.

Dropping back in his chair, Beau half smiled. "You remind me of my little sister in a pet."

"You must provoke her as well."

"You'll be sorry if you cut your hair."

"Maybe I won't; maybe I'll enjoy looking fashionably shorn." Pulling her hair back, she twisted it into a queue at the nape of her neck and glanced at her reflection in one of the numerous mirrors.

"I don't like short hair on women."

"More reason then," she said, swinging back to him.

"Don't be childish."

"Don't be feudal."

He wasn't, of course; he was being infinitely polite. Sighing, he wondered what it was about her that tantalized him despite her tedious desire for independence.

"Tell me about your Lisbon lady friends."

Her audacity startled him. "Why would I do that?"

"I'm curious."

"A gentleman doesn't discuss the ladies he knows."

"A gentleman doesn't fuck all the ladies he knows."

"Don't be tiresome, darling." His voice held a new edge.

"I shouldn't ask?"

"No." He disliked being pressed.

"And if I do?"

"You're wasting your time and mine," he brusquely said, grasping the chair arms. "I'll call for Mrs. Moore."

"I'll summon her back," Serena quickly interposed. "Don't move," she ordered, overwrought at his damnable availability, resentful of his curt dismissal. "You stay there like a good little boy and do what you're told for once in your life."

Beau went utterly still.

"There. See how easy that was," she drawled and with a satisfied smirk she turned and began walking toward the door.

He was on top of her before she'd moved two strides, the scissors pulled from her grasp and tossed aside, the weight of his body propelling her backward until she came to rest with a soft thud against the silk-covered wall.

"Now we'll see how easy this can be," he whispered, his face only inches from hers, his forearms flat on the wall, framing her head as he leaned into her. "But you already know how well we fit." His smile was flinty, his body pressing into hers unyielding.

"Don't you dare."

His gaze drifting over her face was impersonal. "It's not that difficult," he said, pushing her petticoat aside with a swift, impatient gesture, baring her to the waist. "Since you're so passionate-as always," he murmured. "Are you panting for me, darling, or just any cock?" he insolently queried, brushing a lazy fingertip over her parted lips.

Jerking her head aside, she breathlessly said, "I'm not panting," contradicting the scandalous quickening of her body. "And if you try this, I'll scream."

"Scream away." He was already unbuttoning his breeches, his voice so detached and indifferent she realized no one would come.

"This is too rash, Beau, even for you," she exclaimed, struggling against his solid weight. "They'll hear; everyone'll know."

"They already know. They knew from the moment we walked through the door," he qualified. "Come, darling, open up and let me in," he murmured, inserting his knee between her tightly clasped thighs, forcing them apart.

And as he moved between her spread legs, she could feel him hard against her belly, his rigid length triggering a thousand memories of pleasure. Like quicksilver, an answering heat flared inside her treacherous body addicted to his touch. "You can't, Beau," she softly protested, attempting to deny her volatile passions, trying to ignore his erection hard and warm on her flesh.

Heedless to her remonstrance, he slid her chemise down her shoulders, freeing her breasts, his fingers gentle on her skin, familiar.