"Your nipples are hard, darling," he murmured, stroking the swollen pink tips with deliberate delicacy, glancing up at her with a fleeting look. "Does that mean you want me?" he gently added, capturing the taut crests between his thumbs and forefingers, squeezing gently, forcing a small, perfidious moan from her lips.

Her body was eager and aroused even if she didn't care to admit it, he thought, smiling faintly. "This won't take long...." he whispered.

"Please, not here," she pleaded, trying to pull away, but his fingers only tightened on her nipples, spiking pleasure downward into the pulsing core of her body.

"Yes, here," he whispered, feeling her tremble. "Now," he lushly promised, releasing her breasts, grasping her firmly around her waist with one hand, his other sliding between her legs, his fingers slipping inside her.

She cried out, reeling with desire as he touched her to the quick.

She was shamelessly wet, sleek and lubricated and so ready for sex he felt his erection swell powerfully in response. "You need someone to make love to you," he whispered, his fingers stroking, knowing just how to touch her, what she liked, where, how deep. "And I can help you," he softly said, his expertise masterful, his timing impeccable, her body opening for him, wanting what he wanted.

Skillful, adroit, he devoted himself to her pleasure, stroking, massaging, his long fingers buried deep in her incited flesh, teasing her, tempting her ... leaving her breathless with need, nearly orgasmic.

And then he abruptly withdrew his fingers.

As she shuddered at the sudden deprivation, he held his hand lightly before her face. The fragrance of desire was unmistakable. "There's no point in waiting, is there?" he impudently murmured, trailing his damp fingers over her mouth.

Their eyes met-hers restive, his intractable beneath his insolent pose.

Fretful, in turmoil, she swore at him.

"I'm not sure that's physically possible," he said with a grin, "but I know what is." And placing his large hands around her waist, he lifted her slightly for better access, bent his legs, shifted his weight upward, and without further preliminaries entered her.

Her sigh was sanction. He knew the sound.

"You always need this, don't you," he softly said, feeling her sleek warmth yield, her breath a light panting rhythm in his ear. "Tell me how you like to feel my cock filling you," he murmured, thrusting upward until he was sunk deep inside her. "Like this ..."

She moaned, shamed by her flagrant response, the pleasure spreading outward from the deepest recesses of her body, instant, inflammatory, all-consuming.

"If you want me to stop," he said, his voice a husky rasp, "just tell me. If you don't want to climax," he went on in a velvety hush, withdrawing slowly as he spoke, "I'll understand...."

She wished him in hell, but half feverish with desire she could no more have him stop than she could cease breathing.

"What do you want to do?" he whispered, poised at the extremity of his withdrawal stroke, wickedly perceptive and waiting.

A small panic suffused her senses; her body throbbed, frantic for release. "Please, Beau," she entreated and then mortified, she dropped her gaze.

"Please?" He feigned incomprehension, wanting more.

Her lashes fluttered up for only the briefest moment. "Stay inside me." Her voice was so soft he had to bend low to hear her.

Lifting her chin lightly with a fingertip, he forced her to look at him. "How far inside?"

Her eyes held his for a shuddering moment. "To infinity," she whispered.

A wild rapacious jolt surged through his body at the possibility of such uncurbed possession. His fingers curled around her chin, his mouth came down on hers in a harsh, tempestuous urgency-for only a brief moment. Then his head lifted, his hand dropped away, and flexing his thighs, he arched his back, driving upward, wanting to reach the farthest, absolute extremity. And when he'd attained that inexorable limit, still rampant and unrestrained, he forced himself deeper still.

"Christ," he murmured, lust raging in his blood, his brain about to explode. "Sweet Christ ..." She was excruciatingly tight as he held himself for a raw moment against the very mouth of her womb, her smooth, silken flesh according the most paradoxically caustic shock to his senses.

Almost light-headed from the rarefied sensation, he finally remembered to breathe again, at which point a shaky kind of reality intruded and he slowly withdrew, the shuddering friction exquisite. Slipping his hands gently under her bottom, he found himself acutely aware of her skin on his palms, of her scent and warmth and pure sensuality, as if his perceptions were refined, honed to a rarer pitch. He reentered her then in a luxuriously slow ascent, taking his time-for himself, for her, for them-intent on regaining that intangible feverish rush.

Trembling against the silk-covered wall, Serena was dizzy with need, waiting for what he was waiting for, almost faint from the fierce, savage pleasure. Her arms were locked around his neck, her body clinging to his with abandon, her inadvertent whimpers a small sobbing rhythm of expectation and gratitude.

"You can't scream when you come," Beau breathed, his voice caressing. "They're all listening."

Scandalized, Serena opened her eyes.

"Mrs. Moore keeps score," he salaciously whispered, "of wantonness and ravishment.... You have to be very quiet."

Even as she went tense under his hands, he felt her engorged flesh flutter around him, the illicit, the forbidden exciting her. "My little bitch in heat," he gently murmured, the pressure of his hands on her bottom increasing. "I'll keep you safe," he whispered, bending to nibble on the ripe fullness of her bottom lip, "because I'm going to fill you now with sperm until you can't hold anymore ... until it runs down your thighs and legs-and puddles at your feet-and then if you're very good, I'll let you come again. How would that be?" he softly queried, his erection coming to rest inside her with gratifying sublimity, his hands hard on her bottom.

"Blissful," she gasped, waves of pleasure already beginning to swell inside her.

"Do you think you can take this all?" he softly asked, penetrating more forcefully, raising her up on her toes.

She nodded, no longer able to articulate the simplest response with the flood tide about to burst.

"My ravenous little glutton," he murmured, brushing a kiss over her mouth. "Next time we'll take off your petticoat too so you'll be nude in front of all these mirrors," he whispered, "and I'll make you watch when my prick disappears inside you so you'll feel it and see it and-"

Her orgasmic cry broke in a high, breathless, lingering cry that rippled across the pink and gilt room and echoed down the corridor outside and brought a knowing smile to Mrs. Moore's face. A heartbeat later, Beau met Serena's climax, pulsing into her sweet, welcoming body, filling her as he'd promised, inundating her with white-hot rivulets of sperm that spilled over and ran down her parted thighs.

It was a long, pure, exaggerated interval of sexual ecstasy, their bodies suspended weightless in the universe, their senses indulged, then voluptuously overindulged, as if they were drenched in dissipation before falling at last into a trembling satiety.

And when it was over and disengaged and they were panting in each other's arms, Beau summoned enough breath to murmur, "I'm not finished with you yet."

"Lock the door," Serena ordered on a wispy exhalation.

"You can't cut your hair," he decreed, ignoring her command.

"I won't if you don't want me to," she murmured, her sultry glance flagrantly flirtatious.

"You are a little bitch," he said, grinning.

"And you have to be put in your place occasionally."

"Any special place?" he playfully inquired.

"I was thinking about the divan." Her voice was a purring vibration.

"Which divan?" His gaze was roguish.

He was much too beautiful and much too assured, she thought, but she was ultimately more hedonistically selfish than aggrieved. "All of them, my dear Glory, if you think you can keep up."

Slipping out of his jacket, he began untying his neckcloth. "I think I can manage," modestly replied the man who was called Glory for a particularly brilliant performance one night with the entire corps de ballet.

He didn't lock the door as it turned out because Serena forgot about it in the libidinous act of helping him undress; but they weren't disturbed as he expected. They dallied on all the divans per the lady's request and the young Earl of Rochefort's inclination and also on a chair commodious enough to accommodate their licentious play, as well as on the rose-patterned carpet when they slipped off a pink satin sofa in the course of their amorous romp. It was the most pleasant style of shopping conceivable, both agreed on more than one occasion that morning. And some lengthy time later when desire was quenched at last and Beau had redressed Serena in her petticoat and chemise, retying bows and buttoning buttons while blissfully exchanging numerous kisses and smiles, he set his own clothes to rights and left the room in search of Mrs. Moore.

Finding the dressmaker in her office, he offered no explanation of the time spent in her dressing room, nor did she inquire. He only asked whether they had all the measurements they needed.

"Yes, we're quite finished, my lord," Mrs. Moore circumspectly replied, careful not to glance at the clock, cautious also to say as little as possible with the young earl in such an unpredictable mood.

After an assistant was sent off with Serena's clothing, Beau acquainted the dressmaker with his wishes concerning his companion's wardrobe, his voice serenely composed-as though he weren't mildly disheveled and attired in wrinkled clothing. "We need the gold gown tonight as well as the petticoat and slippers. Have Miss Blythe billed for only that single frock. The rest is to be charged to me. I'd also like to have the other patterns she admired made for her; I'll leave the fabric selection to your judgment. We'll need some cashmere shawls, lingerie, dressing gowns, slippers, boots, the usual assortment," he casually added. "And unfortunately we require them in three days."

Beau calmly waited while the modiste sucked in her breath, the shock turning her pale. Once she'd sufficiently recovered, he said, "I understand under the circumstances your charges will reflect the necessary haste. And I thank you in advance." He smiled warmly. "Miss Blythe is very happy," he added, turning to go.

As was the proprietor of the small dress shop, who was rewarded once again by Lord Rochefort's incomparable largesse. But even as she returned his smile and murmured all the necessary phrases of leave-taking, a feeling of panic assailed her. She had to bring in a dozen more seamstresses-no, twenty. Immediately.

A short time later Serena and Beau emerged from the dressing room arm in arm, the lady's cheeks rosy from her exertions, her smile one of deep content. And oblivious to the whispers following their progress through the several rooms of Mrs. Moore's establishment, the young English lord and his lady seemed heedless of all but each other.

They didn't notice the couple approaching them as they emerged from the shop, nor did they immediately respond to the greeting directed at them, totally absorbed were they in their mutual postcoital bliss.

"Don't say you don't recognize me, Rochefort," the young colonel exclaimed, offering a quick knowing smile to his wife.

The tone more than his name jogged Beau's fixed attention, and looking up, he saw Tom Maxwell whom he'd known since his youth in Yorkshire. Good lord, he thought. Was his entire roster of acquaintances in residence in Lisbon?

"I told Janie it was you. What brings you to Lisbon, St. Jules?"

"A short detour on my way to Naples," Beau replied, not certain how to introduce Serena. Cousin was out of the question; he'd known both Tom and Jane too long-they knew all his cousins, although luckily neither was a stickler for etiquette. Some stiff-rumped matron would have cut Serena cold. "May I introduce you to Serena Blythe," he said, realizing there was nothing to do but brazen it out. "Miss Blythe, Tom and Jane Maxwell. They're neighbors of mine in Yorkshire."

"Are you staying with Damien?" Jane asked. "We had dinner with him last week. How happy he and Emma seemed."

"He appears in good spirits," Beau evasively replied.

"Are you new in Lisbon, Miss Blythe?" Jane inquired, thinking her very beautiful even in her dowdy gown, curious to know more about the woman Beau was being careful to protect. He hadn't wanted to introduce her.

"This is my first visit," Serena replied.

Serena's upper-class accent offered a clue to her antecedents at least, although she could be an actress, Jane mused. But not dressed so plainly, she immediately decided. What an odd style of woman to be seen with Beau. Gorgeous, of course-that was a given with his ladies-but not sophisticated, nor modish, nor preening on his arm as was generally the case. "Come have coffee with us at the Antiga," she invited, piqued with curiosity.

She saw Serena's fingers close tightly on Beau's arm.

"Do say yes," Tom interposed, oblivious to Serena's discomfort. "We haven't seen you since Felicia's wedding. And army duty is dull here, as you know, even with Napoleon's machinations to keep us alert. Fill us in on the gossip from London."

"I'm afraid we have an appointment," Beau said.

"Later perhaps," Jane suggested.

"That's possible," Beau politely replied. "I'll send a note 'round if our schedule permits."

"Did you hear him say our schedule'?" Jane breathlessly intoned as she and her husband watched Beau's carriage disappear down the street. "He's never included a woman in his personal life before. Women are only transient diversions for him. What was her name again? And did you see her gown? It was at least five years old, although the fabric had once been very fine," she bubbled on. "I must talk to Emma about her. She's definitely something out of the ordinary for Beau, so innocent ... in an intoxicating kind of way," she more slowly added, as if contemplating the exact degree of Serena's allure. "Weren't you struck by her artless purity?"

"Good god, Janie, we saw her for only a few minutes. She looked damned pretty but regardless the young lady's uncommon charm, knowing Beau," he declared in a realistic male appraisal, "she'll be gone within a fortnight."

"I think he seemed terribly smitten. Did you see him look at her? And he has to marry sometime."

Her husband looked at her incredulously. "If he was smitten, which I seriously doubt, it was in one sense only, believe me. I wouldn't look for a wedding invitation from Beau anytime soon."

"I'm not so sure. You didn't plan on marrying me either-at first."

He smiled. "I had to grab you before Darcy Montague turned your head."

"So why can't Beau have those same feelings?"

"Because, my darling wife, he can't distinguish one woman from another-there are too many to narrow down the field to a single female. The man has them standing in line."

"You could be wrong," she repudiated, curling her lip in a pretty pout.

"And Napoleon could have a heart of gold, but let's not bet the estate on either one."

"You men have no romance in your soul."

"Including Beau St. Jules," her husband pointedly said.

But whatever he was feeling right now was a very close approximation, for with Serena seated on his lap in the gently swaying carriage, her arms flung around his neck and her sweet laughter bringing a smile to his face, he was thinking of canceling their dinner tonight so he wouldn't have to share her company with anyone.

"Do you want to go to Damien's?" he murmured, stroking her back gently, the feel of her in his arms a jubilant kind of pleasure beyond any former experience.

"I'll do whatever you want to do," she breathed, nibbling on his earlobe.

"Which doesn't at the moment include Damien," he teasingly whispered.

"Fine. Everything is vastly fine, darling Glory, including the entire state of the world," she grandly extolled.

He grinned. "You're easy to please."

Her lashes came up and her languorous eyes gazed into his. "Keep it in mind."

"I won't forget, believe me. I think that last climax is permanently etched on my brain."

"Am I unforgettable?" she flirtatiously purred.

"Oh, yes."

A prescient sentiment, had he known it.

9.

It gave him pleasure to show Lisbon's sights to Serena. They saw the Alfama, the old quarter shaped by the length of its history-the neighborhood a maze of sloping alleys, steep stairways, and small squares, the labyrinth of houses broken occasionally by the facade of a huge palace.

Se Patriarchal, Lisbon's oldest church, stood on the southern hillside of the quarter, its origins dating back to the twelfth century. Sturdy, fortresslike, massive in size, its Romanesque form lightened with Gothic and Baroque additions.