"I don't believe you."

"Don't move."

And he returned a few moments later with three red leather cases. "There," he said.

Serena couldn't resist looking even though she knew she could never accept them. Placing the cases on a nearby table she opened them one by one to find a dazzling necklace set with hundreds of glittering diamonds, a bracelet that shone like the sun, and pendant earrings that must have belonged at one time to a queen, they were so richly adorned.

"You're too extravagant."

"And you're too principled."

"I'll take the dress," she quietly said.

"And I'll return the diamonds."

They sealed their bargain with a kiss.

A kiss that turned after a time into something quite different because they hadn't made love all day in the beleaguered atmosphere of politesse they'd maintained and they urgently longed for each other.

11.

When Serena and Beau arrived at the embassy, breathless and laughing and apologizing for almost being late, their affection for each other was so obvious, Damien took Beau aside before the others arrived and cautioned him to more prudence in the presence of their guests.

"No one will believe you just met Serena when you came to dine if you act like an impassioned lover," his uncle cautioned. "I'll expect a little more discretion. Is it possible from you?"

"I'll be the most proper of dining guests," Beau promised, "as long as Emma seats me next to Serena."

"Done. Remember, it's Serena's reputation that will suffer if you misbehave, not yours. Are we understood?"

"You have my word."

"She's quite lovely tonight, by the way. But I don't see the diamonds," Damien drolly noted.

"It was a negotiated settlement," Beau replied, his mouth quirked in a grin. "And mutually satisfying."

But Beau found it stranger than he expected to pose as a proper gentleman, for all the male guests were thoroughly enamored with Emma's young relative. They crowded around Serena at the interval before dinner was announced, they gazed at her with and without subtlety during dinner, and once the dancing began, she was besieged with partners.

He acquitted himself well through it all, playing the role of dinner partner with a well-behaved urbanity that had his uncle amazed and Serena charmed. He was gracious and affable, taking part in the conversation with apparent interest, generally overlooking the lecherous glances and conversational overtures directed at his lover before, during, and after dinner.

Serena was enjoying herself, which was the point of this evening, he reminded himself, and he'd given his word to Damien.

But he glanced at the clock often.

He happened to be talking to Tom and Jane Maxwell when the musicians entered the room and he paused momentarily in midsentence at the virtual rush of men toward Serena.

"You have rivals tonight," Tom noted. "Miss Blythe has taken the fancy of all the eligible males in attendance."

"And a good share of the ineligible ones as well," Beau dryly observed.

"Emma tells me you've promised to dance with Serena," Jane slyly said, drawing her own conclusions about Miss Blythe and Beau despite Emma's unimpeachable explanation of a relationship.

"She's only been to country parties and expressed some apprehension in so rarefied an assembly." Beau's tone at the end held more than a note of sarcasm. "So I offered to dance with her."

"She seems to be waiting for you," Jane declared.

"Can't put it off, Beau, if you promised." Tom, aware of his friend's reluctance, was amused.

"Didn't say I'd dance the first dance with her," Beau muttered.

"Perhaps she didn't realize that," Jane pointed out. "She's looking this way. And here comes Emma with a determined look in her eyes."

"Serena's putting off all the men clamoring to dance with her," Emma bluntly said. "I'd say it's time, dear Beau."

He took a deep breath as if dancing with Serena were capitulating to some unknown force and then with a bow toward the ladies he moved across the polished floor.

The circle of men surrounding Serena took note of her gaze and parted on Beau's approach like doors on smoothly oiled hinges. The attraction between the two young people was immediately evident to all but the most obtuse and a hushed silence descended on the group.

Stopping a short distance away from his expectant lover, Beau stood motionless for so lengthy a time, several observers said afterward, they wondered if he'd come up to the mark.

With lust and denial simultaneously pervading his soul, he didn't realize it could be so difficult to say the words, the sensation of stepping off a ledge into a bottomless black chasm overwhelming him. But he was an honorable man for all his libertine faults and he gracefully bowed at last and murmured very low, "Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, Miss Blythe?"

Gazes swiveled from the Duke of Seth's disreputable son to the blushing young lady and breath's held, everyone waited for her reply.

She smiled faintly at first and then gloriously, tantalizing the crowd of men admiring her, each in turn wishing her smile were directed at them. "I thought you'd never ask, Lord Rochefort," she softly said. "Did the music not suit you?"

"It's been so long, Miss Blythe," he lazily replied, "it seems I've learned to ignore the sound of violins."

"But not me, I hope." Her voice was luscious and low as if she were alone with him in the roomful of guests.

He knew better than most how to overlook convention and when he spoke, lust smoldered in every syllable. "I could never forget you, my lady ... rest assured."

Even had Lord Rochefort's wager not been so well known, the couple would have drawn every glance as they danced, their looks so fine. His dark strength overwhelmed her pale, golden beauty, but with a distinct tenderness unfamiliar to those who knew him. Serena looked very young in his arms-slender and small in the shimmering rose gown, her cheeks flushed, her gaze lifted to his. And yet being held so close by a man who was a byword for vice lent a tantalizing erotic undertone to her innocence.

The heady perfume of sin and scandal always followed in Lord Rochefort's wake.

No woman he set his sights on had ever refused him.

"He must have just discovered Miss Blythe when we first met them in the street," Jane murmured to her husband, her gaze on the dance floor. "He obviously has a hand in dressing her now-her gown's exquisite. Do you still think Beau views this woman like all the rest?" she archly queried, the quintessential image of carnal desire before their eyes.

"I stand corrected, darling," her husband acceded, fully aware like everyone in the room of Beau's libidinous interest. "One doesn't see St. Jules on the dance floor every day."

"Nor so possessive. Did you see him almost rise from his seat at dinner when the Swedish consul made too personal a remark to Serena?"

"Everyone did. That collective gasp heard 'round the table wasn't in regard to the turbot sauce."

"I must find out who she is," Jane insisted with the fervent curiosity of a matchmaking female. "She's certainly poor, we know that."

"Which matters not at all to Beau. He's remarkably republican, regardless the adverse connotation to the word since Napoleon."

"I wonder if she's truly related to Emma," Jane mused, her mind teetering with possibilities. "Do let's invite them to lunch.

"You've quite shocked everyone, darling," Serena lightly said. "No one else dares join us." They were quite alone on the dance floor.

"They're too busy drooling over you," Beau dryly remarked. "Which reminds me, I forbid you to talk to the Swedish consul."

"He's much too fat," Serena airily noted, a teasing glow in her eyes. "Not at all my style."

"No one better be your style-except me," he muttered, the tedious hours of forced good conduct taking their toll.

"How sweet ... you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous." He said it offhand, the concept mildly incredulous.

"Well, proprietary then." Understanding the bounds of her own spirited independence, she was enjoying his need of her.

He gazed at her quizzically. "Impossible."

"Should I dance with the Swedish consul?" she inquired, her tone dulcet.

His brows came together in a scowl. "Not unless you care to see Swedish blood shed tonight."

"Must my partners be vetted by you?"

"It's a thought," he moodily noted, wondering how it was possible he cared so much with whom she danced.

"You could dance with me all evening," she playfully murmured.

"No, I could not," he softly said, a sigh of resignation flaring his nostrils. "Choose whatever partners you wish, lollipop."

"You're sure?"

"Faced with the prospect of dancing the rest of the evening, definitely yes." His gaze flickered briefly to the musicians. "How long is this dance going to last?"

"How gracious you are, milord."

His dark eyes held her amused gaze for a moment. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he grumbled.

"But you dance so beautifully, dear Glory," Serena cooed, like a flirtatious society belle. "Why don't you enjoy it more?"

"Because if I'm holding a woman in my arms, milady," Beau negligently drawled, "I'd rather be fucking her."

"I'm shocked, Lord Rochefort," she said, affecting the scandalized horror expected of a lady.

"I didn't realize I could still shock people," he said, smiling, "least of all you."

"And now I'm forcing you to waste your time," she teased.

"I don't mind making an exception occasionally."

"Because I'm so adorable." Malapert and cheeky, she gazed up at him.

"Definitely because of that," he softly said.

Having done his gentlemanly duty, immediately after his obligatory dance, Beau bowed to Serena, said very low and heated, "I expect you to behave," and before she could reply, he walked away to the card room. And while gambling with a preponderance of elderly diplomats didn't hold enormous appeal, it was a good deal better than dancing. He sat in on several hands, drank considerably to ease the tedium, and frequently rose from the table to stroll to the ballroom door and survey his lover's current dance partner.

He found himself counting the passing minutes on the clock or computing the exact number of crystals in the chandelier. The decorations on the consuls' coats at his table numbered a shocking eighty-five, he idly noted at precisely 11:17 and yet he played consistently well as always, gambling being a reflex action in his brain. But time crept by so slowly he found himself wondering if the elegant timepiece on the mantel was in need of repair, and more importantly how long a party for consul-generals lasted.

Some moments later, when Lord Dufferin sat in on their game, his conversation and manner that of a man well into his cups, Beau questioned whether he was still capable of counting cards properly. And when he winked periodically in his direction, Beau first thought the elderly lord had an uncontrollable tic in his eye. So he politely ignored what he considered an infirmity of old age or too much drink and concentrated on his cards, winning so much that attention was drawn to their table. The crowd was extensive, he noticed, looking up after winning another ten thousand. Dufferin was sweating now for he'd lost heavily, but in the next two hands Dufferin recouped a sizable sum and the spectators murmured amongst themselves at his luck.

"There now, that's more like it," Lord Dufferin bluffly exclaimed, beaming, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, gathering his markers with his free hand. "Needed Lady Luck back on my side and damned if she didn't appear. Although"-he winked at Beau so decisively the gesture couldn't be mistaken this time-"I wouldn't mind if that cousin Miss Blythe was at my side either, my boy. Something havey-cavey there about cousins, eh, Rochefort," he added with a chuckle. "But then we all must have our amusements, mustn't we."

A score of indrawn breaths resonated in the sudden hush that descended around the table.

"I beg your pardon," Beau coolly said, his gaze chill.

"The lady at the York Hotel, old boy," Lord Dufferin retorted, blundering on. "I saw you with Miss Blythe not two days ago."

Beau gently set his cards down, his hands resting lightly over them, his temper shielded behind his shuttered gaze. "You must be mistaken."

"Couldn't mistake that golden hair or ... that face with those ..." Dufferin's voice came to a faltering stop as he realized the room had suddenly gone still. Glancing around, he quickly took note of the shocked, rapt audience crowding near, their expressions expectant like those of spectators at a public hanging.

"I met Miss Blythe for the first time tonight." Beau's voice was entirely without expression, his posture overwhelmingly one of menace.

"I see ...," Lord Dufferin whispered on the merest breath, terror numbing his mind.

"So you couldn't possibly have seen her with me before," Beau softly murmured, pronouncing each word with a measured delicacy.

"Yes, yes, indeed, Lord Rochefort, as you say," Dufferin agreed in a rush. "The error is completely mine ... completely, and I most humbly beg your pardon," he added, his voice quavering, for Rochefort's reputation for dueling was notorious.

"And that of Miss Blythe."

"Yes, of course, Miss Blythe's pardon too, of course," he quickly concurred, sweat beading on his forehead. "Yes, indeed, yes ... certainly hers above all." He swallowed hard. "I daresay I've had too much to drink tonight. If you'll excuse me now ... that is-if you find my apology to your satisfaction sir ..."

For a short, silent interval Beau's gaze drilled into the trembling man and then he nodded.

Lurching clumsily to his feet, Lord Dufferin pushed away from the table and, stumbling in his haste to escape, he half fell, only to be shored up by the press of the crowd. Righting himself, he shoved his way through the spectators and fled the room.

"The entertainment is over," Beau casually remarked, his dark gaze sweeping round the gathered guests. "Someone should take Lord Dufferin's winnings to him," he tranquilly added, rising from his chair, picking up his own markers and a bottle of brandy. The crowd melted away before him as he strolled toward the ballroom, the buzz of comment erupting in a wave behind him.

If the scandal hadn't preceded him, he knew gossiping soon would apprise everyone of the events in the card room. Which necessitated telling Serena. Weaving his way through the dancers, he cut in on Serena and her partner-accosted him, the young officer later said. But it all depended on how one interpreted a lazy brush on the shoulder with a brandy bottle.