Her gaze swiveled back to Serena. "Did you enjoy Minorca?" she asked. "Lord Rochefort tells me you spent some time there."

"It was quite lovely," Serena replied, blushing at recall of their passionate interlude.

"How divine," the British envoy's wife said. "She blushes. Where did you find this charming young lady, Lord Rochefort?"

"She's a distant cousin, Lady Hamilton. From Gloucestershire. And I've promised Miss Blythe not to embarrass her with the connection."

"Then I shan't bring it up again and we'll pretend Miss Blythe is visiting us entirely on her own. Which I wouldn't mind in the least," she said, turning to Serena. "Lord Rochefort tells me you're a painter of note."

"No ... hardly, I mean-perhaps someday, Lady Hamilton. Lord Rochefort's too kind."

"Yes, I imagine he is," she gently said, "and why shouldn't he be to a wonderful young woman like you? You may go on, Lord Rochefort, and fill Sir William in on all the dreadful talk of war." She waved Beau away with a graceful gesture. "And Miss Blythe and I will have a cozy chat about our toilettes for tonight."

Beau cast Serena a questioning glance.

"Perhaps Lady Hamilton can tell me if my ballgown will suffice," Serena said.

"Of course I will. Now leave us be, Lord Rochefort. She'll be quite safe with me. Miss Blythe will be in the Pompeii suite when you and William have finished talking."

He hesitated still.

Serena smiled. "I'm sure you and Sir Hamilton have much to discuss," she politely said. "I'm fine."

His bow was the epitome of grace. "Until later then."

Lady Hamilton escorted Serena to the Pompeii suite, and gesturing to a small table near the windows set for tea, invited her to sit down. Two maids were busy unpacking the luggage being brought into the room while the ladies drank their tea, the superb view from the window absorbing their interest and conversation.

"You needn't be nervous about dinner tonight," Emma declared when their discussion turned to Lady Hamilton's favorite subject, her lover, Admiral Nelson. "Horatio is the most gallant of men and the company will be light-hearted and gay. The queen has promised to come; you'll find her charming like her sister, Marie Antoinette, poor soul. But my dear Horatio saved the royal family here, bringing the court away from Naples during the most dire night of peril. The whole and sole confidence of their majesties reposes in dear Lord Nelson," she theatrically declared, "despite what that horrid admiralty says. My," she said, interrupting her customary lecture on the short-sighted judgment of the admiralty that was insisting Nelson leave Palermo, her gaze suddenly struck by the vast number of gowns spread about the room. "Your wardrobe is lovely, Miss Blythe."

With her back to the maids, Serena hadn't seen the display, and shifting in her chair at Emma's comment, she choked on her tea. Immediately jumping up from her chair, Lady Hamilton bustled over and began slapping Serena on the back, calling for water from the maids in an imperative voice. A few seconds later, Serena had drunk some water, recovered her breath, and was able to smile weakly and apologize.

"No need to apologize, my dear," Emma pronounced, shooing away the maids as she sank back into her chair. "No need at all. But you must tell me your dressmaker's name. Such lovely, darling gowns. They must be French. However did you get them in these times of upheaval?"

"No ... that is ... I'm sure they're not French," Serena stammered, taking in the extraordinary number of gowns piled on the bed and various pieces of furniture and she realized then why Beau had engaged a wagon for their luggage. "It would seem ... I mean-I believe a modiste in Lisbon can be credited with their creation."

"You believe?" The small drama enacted before her eyes piqued Lady Hamilton's interest; the young lady had obviously never seen her wardrobe before.

"I mean ... it was so rushed when we were in Lisbon, I don't specifically recall each gown."

"Lord Rochefort might remember," Lady Hamilton sweetly said, watching her.

"His memory for ladies' wear is quite acute," Serena replied, her temper rising, not only at consideration of his expertise in the area of female clothing, but at his arrogant presumption that he could disregard her wishes. "I'm sure he would recall all the details," she tightly said.

"Wealthy young men have a particular charm, don't you think?" Lady Hamilton lightly said, her own experience with wealthy young men vast and varied.

"On occasion they overstep their bounds," Serena coolly replied, although her smile was gracious.

"But then they're all such children, aren't they, my dear-men, you know. I say allow them their little whims. And I must admit, dear, your charming wardrobe will quite take everyone's breath away. Do let's pick out a gown for tonight," Emma gaily said, rising from her chair. "I scarce know where to begin with such a delicious array," she added, standing for a moment in contemplation. "What color do you particularly like?"

Lady Hamilton it seemed liked a muted lavender velvet with pearls embroidered on the sleeves, the low neckline framed by a Vandyke collar of priceless cream lace. "This is the one you must wear," she declared after surveying each gown. "The queen will love it," she exclaimed, stroking the soft velvet. "And you must wear pearls at your throat. Horatio will adore it as well," she said. "There, it's all settled," she pronounced, with the same confidence that had brought her from her humble birth to her present position as confidante to a queen. "I'll send up my hairdresser once he's finished with me. Oh, won't it be fun! The men will cluster around you like bees."

After her hostess left, Serena allowed her fury release, pacing and fretting, her resentment building with each gown she passed in her stalking perambulations about the room, her relegation to St. Jules's harlot, with all its attendant privileges and favors, stinging her self-respect.

A dozen-no, more-twenty gowns, she counted and then, God in heaven, she realized, opening the armoire doors, there were more. Thirty gowns! The armoire was stuffed, the lingerie she hadn't noticed at first carefully folded in the drawers, along with silk stockings and sleeping gowns and beautiful corsets. He'd like those, of course, she fumed, her temper at tinder point. And she thought for a moment about tearing them all to shreds before cooler reason prevailed or perhaps the waste of such beauty stopped her. But she despised what he'd done-what he'd done to her.

"How dare you!" she cried when Beau finally entered the room.

"You saw the gowns," he calmly said, surveying the colorful collection scattered about the room.

"Is that all you can say-you saw the gowns?"

"Did you find the diamonds?"

"Oh!" she squealed, turning a violent shade of pink.

"I had them brought up from the yacht; in the event a brigand came aboard the Siren tonight, Sicily being what it is," he nonchalantly added, loosening his cravat.

"Damn you! Don't think you can calmly ignore me!" Her hands were clenched at her sides, her spine rigid.

"When you get rich on your painting commissions, you can pay me back," he said, shrugging out of his coat as though he were immune to her fury. "It's not that much with the Portuguese exchange rate," he dismissively went on, "and with the queen in attendance tonight, I thought you might like a choice of gowns."

"You thought." She was quivering with rage. "Did you ever think what I might like?"

"I know what you like," he softly said, tossing his coat on the bed atop a gauzy green confection. "And after Minorca," he lazily murmured, his smile sinful, "I've added a few more subtleties to the list."

"Everything isn't about sex," she hissed.

It's about money and power too, he cynically thought. "I know, darling," he murmured, his voice placating, soothing, his graceful hands unwrapping his cravat from around his neck. "And I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Sorry?" Her voice was scarcely a whisper. She was without words, her rage trembling down her nerve endings, his casualness outrageous.

"I'm very, very sorry," he gently said, standing a short distance away, relaxed, the strength of his powerful tanned neck and chest visible at the open neck of his shirt, his expression bland or expectant or perhaps amused.

"I'm not your tart."

"I know, of course not." He took a step toward her.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Moving forward another step, he watched her retreat. "Did you like your tea with Lady Hamilton?"

"No ... yes ... it was ... tea, for god's sake. Don't think you're going to touch me," she snapped, easing around a small table behind her.

"I don't want to fight over some stupid dresses," he quietly said, following her, his polished boots soundless on the fine carpet.

"Let's fight about the diamonds then."

"What diamonds?"

"The ones you were supposed to return."

"I'm not sure. Maybe I did," he lied; she obviously hadn't found them.

"Stop!" She held her hands up, palms out.

And he stopped, diverted momentarily by her sharp fiat. And then he softly said, "Don't want to," and lunged for her, lifting her off her feet in a great sweeping hug, twirling her around, smiling down at her. "Cut up the dresses into little pieces for all I care, but don't be angry, lollipop," he playfully murmured. "I apologize for everything-everything," he cheerfully added. And he kissed her and laughed a second later at her surprise and then he kissed her again-a sportive, baiting kiss at first, full of jest and amorous challenge but before long it changed into a heated, devouring kiss, a sighing, breathless, lingering kiss. And when at last he set her down, she found her agitation had indelibly changed.

"I don't want to fight," he murmured, his mouth brushing hers, his hands gently massaging her back.

"And I don't want to be treated like your newest whore." Her voice quivered with more than anger now.

"Never," he whispered, touching the corner of her mouth with a butterfly kiss.

"You embarrassed me."

"I'm sorry." His mouth drifted leisurely over the curve of her upper lip.

"Beau, listen to me." She struggled in his embrace.

"I'm listening. You don't want the dresses, so throw them out. Hmm ... you taste good," he murmured, restraining her easily, fitting her body more snugly against his.

He felt delicious as always and tempting ... so damnably tempting, it took a moment to regain her train of thought. "Lady Hamilton already picked one out for me to wear tonight."

"Keep that one then and toss the others." His lower body stirred against hers, his erection rampant.

"You'll say anything, won't you, when you're in rut?"

"Not anything." There was amusement in his voice. "Have you seen the mirror over the bed?"

"There's no mirror."

Releasing her marginally, he held her at arm's length. "There's a mirror under the shirring of the canopy," he softly said.

"How do you know?" A flash of pique shone in her eyes.

"Sir William told me."

"That's quick, Rochefort."

"It's the truth; I haven't stayed here before."

"Am I supposed to be diverted now by the possibilities of a mirror?"

"Why are we fighting? This is so trivial, lollipop. If the gowns are a problem, we'll get rid of them."

"It's not just about the gowns," Serena said with a small sigh, wondering if she was expecting too much from a man who viewed women as objects of pleasure and her new wardrobe as insignificant.

"I know." The jest was gone from his voice.

"Really?"

He nodded. "I misjudged your-"

"Reaction?"

"No, your sense of respect. And while we may not agree on the definition"-he'd lived too long in the Ton to be overly concerned with reputations of any kind-"I understand your feelings."

"You're insightful after all."

"Just not obtuse, darling."

"No, definitely not that," she softly replied. This man understood refinement of sensation better than most.

He heard the hint of clemency in her voice, the auspicious tempering of her resentment, and having learned long ago how to take advantage of a lady's compliance, he kissed her with that fine nuance between tenderness and temptation that was his special gift.

"I'm still going to make you pay," she whispered when his mouth finally lifted from hers, desire alive inside her.

"Anything," he breathed. "I'm at your command."

"I shall flirt unmercifully tonight."

"Then I shall too." Mocking eyes met hers.

"You're not allowed. You must watch me as your penance."

"Cut out my heart instead," he said with whimsy. "How can I watch you tease other men when I adore you so."

"Do you really?" Artless and flattered, she forgot that a man of his notoriety adored women indiscriminately but never for long.

"I do ... desperately," he whispered, pulling her closer. "So you must stay by my side tonight and not look at other men and make me happy."

"Then you must do as much for me."

"I don't like men-that way." His dark eyes were teasing until she punched him in the stomach and a delectable heat replaced the amusement. "And in terms of women," he softly said, "I prefer you above all."

She had no experience combating such fluent charm, nor had any woman, experienced or no with Beau St. Jules's potent beauty so near. "You won't look at other women?"

"Never." His mouth warmed her temple and then her cheek and as it gently covered her mouth, he whispered, "I promise."

A moment later, he tossed a half dozen gowns on the floor without regard for their delicacy or cost and lifting Serena, placed her gently on the bed. Lowering himself over her, he pushed her skirts up, settled with the ease of much practice between her thighs, his breeches already unbuttoned and guiding his hard length to her dewy wet cleft, he murmured, "Welcome to Sicily."

His hard length slid into her with excruciating slowness so she felt her body opening to him with a degree of ecstasy she marveled at, and she wondered if he knew something about Sicily she didn't. His body was warm through the fine lawn of his shirt, heated her flesh, her bare thighs rubbed against his nankeen breeches, the soft leather of his boots brushed her calves. The powerful rhythm of his lower body, driving, plunging, eradicated all but shuddering sensation. The panting shock, the pervasive need, the acute, staggering pleasure-all were beyond the ability of her consciousness to comprehend. Always ... always with him she felt it.

And she wasn't alone in her rare, attenuated pleasure; Beau St. Jules wasn't so sure she hadn't spoiled him for other women. A heretic thought he quickly discarded for more immediate sensations. He pressed deeper and she cried out in pleasure. He pressed deeper still and she came as she always did, swiftly, with little panting moans that stirred his libido, that excited him and brought him harder, that propelled his own hurtling, shuddering climax.

He brought her to orgasm twice more in quick succession, a kind of dazed surfeit melting her limbs at the last and then he made love to her with measured languor, sustaining each soul-stirring sensation for prolonged moments, curbing her impetuous haste, making her wait until he knew she couldn't wait any longer. And when she'd climaxed in a wild exaltation, he only paused briefly before beginning again.

"No, no ..." she whispered. "No." And half stupefied, she gazed at him and saw herself in the mirror above, her eyes languid, sated.