"Only you in all the world," she whispered, having reached a point of selfish and selfless realization in the burning hot core of lust-where barriers no longer mattered, only raw feeling.

"I'll take care of you." His eyes were strangely grave, his voice no longer confrontational. "Although I can't offer you hearts and flowers."

"I don't need that."

"Thank you," he said about something else entirely. And then he kissed her-a fragile kiss, tender at first and then not tender at all.

She guided him into her honeyed warmth, trusting her own emotions, welcoming him with all the splendor he remembered. She had a volatile, aggressive energy that lured and baffled him, challenged him more than anyone ever had.

But in the chaos of their relationship was also a rare purity of passion-wild and tumultuous, primal-as if they were meant for each other.

Clinging to the table, she lifted to meet his plunging assault, carnal and abandoned, dipping and rising scented flesh, offering herself, surrendering. And bracing his feet on the floor, he reached above her, gripped the table for added leverage, and devoured her.

And when they climaxed in the rustic inn outside Piacenza with the scent of summer flowers in the air, they felt alive again, together, sated and content-in a special place all their own.

But their deprivation had been too painful, too desperate, and they weren't content for long. They needed the touch and taste, the smell and heat and fury, the contact and nearness, the unequivocal union. And they made love that sultry afternoon in every imaginable way, crazed and ferocious, tantalizing, languorous, taking turns at initiating and acquiescing, sensation the touchstone-the only reality-when all else was discord.

24.

She stayed a week because he wouldn't let her go. He didn't let her out of his sight for a second and after a very short time in the sweetest of paradises, she no longer wished to go.

He wooed her, gallant and solicitous, amusing and tantalizing, always pleasing her whatever his mood. And she burned for him, wanton and impatient, and hungered for him and loved him with all her heart.

And a second week passed.

She wavered at times in that nirvana of the senses, torn by doubt and self-recrimination, calling herself weak and cowardly, wondering how she could debase herself so and yield so easily to his seduction. How could she allow herself to want only his touch, his kisses, his sex?

If someone had forced her to answer in those days of heated passion, she couldn't have. She only felt and craved, eager for his joyful pleasures; she only opened her arms to him ... and her body and heart.

She loved him as much as a woman could love a man.

He showed her new and intriguing delights in the rustic bedroom tucked under the eaves and gratified her and proved to her that some things couldn't be explained with words. Or reason. And he conscientiously fulfilled his promise to make her pregnant, depositing his seed in the fertile ripeness of her body, glutting her, deluging her, lavish in his prodigality.

He was tender with her spells of moodiness, indulgent now that she'd given herself up so completely. He composed an ode to her one day, a pretty play of words that made her smile. But most of all he catered to her lustful yearnings, pleasuring her joyfully-with inspiration, artful competence, and an open heart.

He knew by the end of the first week that he'd stepped over the familiar boundaries of sensation into a new blissful elysian sphere. His feelings were perhaps inchoate but he was happier than he'd ever been in his life.

Late one afternoon, when they'd returned from fishing in the small stream behind the inn, Beau decided to ride to the vineyard that produced Serena's favorite wine and see if he could arrange for a substantial supply to be sent back to England.

His reference to London and home brought all her uncertainties flooding to the fore, contemplation of the future immeasurably depressing. She couldn't accept becoming his mistress or docile wife, both roles no more than a casual accessory to his life, and he'd never brought up the subject again anyway. Exhaustion may have been impulse to his utterances that day. He'd not spoken of marriage since.

But after he left with a smile and a wave, she ran to the window like a lovesick young girl, wanting to catch a glimpse of him while he waited for his horse in the stableyard below. She was utterly besotted. How tall he was and beautiful, like a young god, she tenderly mused watching him, his strong body toned and fit, its power evident beneath his shirt and form-fitting breeches, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under the fine linen of his shirt as he idly swung his quirt. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, silky curls framing his face, his profile pure of line, classic in its configuration, his head bent slightly, listening to the groom.

The man seemed to be relating a humorous story as he saddled Beau's horse because Beau laughed several times, the men's conversation engaging their interest so neither noticed the serving girl come out of the small dairy building attached to the stables. But when she called out something both men looked up; Beau shook his head no, returning his attention to the groom.

Seconds later, the young girl was at his side and throwing her arms around Beau's neck. She pulled him around so abruptly, he stumbled briefly before regaining his balance. In a flash she was kissing him, melting against him, and a second later, he broke away, but with a polite smile, and quickly moving out of her reach, sprang into the saddle. The groom sharply rebuked the girl, but she ignored him and tugged at Beau's leg. Leaning down, Beau spoke to her-a few words, a half-smile on his face before gracefully easing his horse away. And with a laughing response to a comment from the groom, he cantered out of the yard.

Serena's heart was beating in her breast as if she'd run for miles. The scenario that had taken place before her eyes left her breathless with alarm. The prophecy of things to come was frightening. He could never be faithful; he'd been quite clear on that point. And if she stayed with him, she'd be obliged to accept his licentious conduct; he expected personal freedom like all men of his class. She'd hear about his lovers in the tittle-tattle of London gossip or see them together on some public occasion like today, laughing and kissing. Just contemplating the humiliation sent a stabbing pain through her heart. She could never remain silently submissive while he indulged in amorous intrigues. She'd die of heartache.

As she stood utterly still before the open window, the warm summer air bathing her skin, a cold dread chilled her, an awful conclusion finally realized. Although she'd always known their rendezvous in the country would come to an end, her tearfulness of late was probably intuitive foreboding; that sorrowful time had finally arrived.

Turning from the window, she stared for a moment at the small room where she'd realized unprecedented happiness and plumbed the depths of sensual delights, wanting to fix it forever in her memory. Her gaze lingered on the bed for a lengthy time and then she shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

It was time to leave.

She didn't allow herself to think beyond that stark truth because she'd never leave him if she gave herself the slightest excuse to stay. And she'd be nothing more than a kept mistress and eventually a cast-off mistress-both too ignominious to contemplate. Moving swiftly now, she pulled her cloak from the armoire, counted out enough gold to see her to Florence, and leaving everything else behind, ran down the stairs and raced to the stables as if haste were required to outdistance her longing.

Hiring a groom to escort her, she was on the road in minutes, her last sight as she exited the yard that of the serving girl, with a gloating smile, standing at the gate.

An omen, she darkly thought, of her future if she had stayed. She would have been nothing more than an amorous pet to a man of licentious tastes.

That small fury kept her depression at bay for several hours, but her resentment soon gave way to sadness and by Parma she wondered if she'd made the right choice.

When Beau returned it was almost twilight and he knew immediately when he walked into the room that she'd left. He knew even before he saw the serving girl sitting in the chair by the window.

"So," he said, inhaling deeply, thinking it would help right now if he could hit something. "Can I help you?"

"She's gone."

"I see that."

"I thought you might like some company."

"I see." He pulled his coat off, reaching for a liquor bottle as he dropped his coat on the floor. But he didn't sit down or move beyond uncorking the grappa and swilling several inches of brandy in one long draft. And only then did he look around for the first time.

She hadn't taken her clothes, the ones Solignac had given to her on their journey to Milan, all neatly packed by the maid when she'd left Massena. The armoire doors were open; so she'd departed swiftly. But why hadn't she taken the gold she'd won at loo that night and the emeralds, both still on the armoire shelf, the leather money pouch and blue jewelry cases evident even in the dim light?

As if it mattered.

As if anything she did mattered.

Bloody fucking hell. He'd never gone to so much trouble for a woman.

He cursed her for coming on board the Siren that stormy night.

He cursed her bewitching beauty and tantalizing body, her eager desire and flaming passion.

And he cursed himself most for wanting her still.

"Would milord like a bath?" The girl had materialized at his side, her voice suggestive of more than a bath.

He hesitated for a brief moment, not sure what he wanted, and then nodded his head. "And another bottle of this too," he brusquely said. He forced himself to smile an instant later because she'd flinched at his tone. "I'm not angry with you," he explained. "It's just been a long day ... a long month or two-or five," he gruffly murmured, the memory of a February night at sea searing his brain. May Serena Blyth burn in hell, he thought, lifting the bottle to his mouth again and then to the girl in gentle salute. She looked young, although she didn't feel young, he remembered. "A bath sounds very nice," he politely said.

Before long he found himself seated in a surprisingly commodious tub in company with the young hot-blooded signorina. He performed his function as stud with civility if not passion, but he wanted it to end before she did. And when her passions were quenched at last, he politely sent her away, called for a case of grappa, and locking his door after it was delivered, sought oblivion from his anger and frustration.

By the afternoon of the second day, he'd gone through the case of grappa and he felt like hell. A glance in the mirror shocked him into a moment of sobriety, and opening the bedroom door, he stepped out into the narrow hallway and yelled for food, bathwater, a barber, a servant to pack for him, and a groom to saddle his horse.

Dead drunk, shaky from hunger, not sure he hadn't lost his mind, he leaned weakly against the door frame, listening to footsteps racing up the stairs, and smiled.

He was off for Florence.

While Beau was making himself presentable for his journey to Florence, Serena was kneeling over a chamber pot in her apartment, vomiting. It was the second time that day, the second day in succession, and she wondered if she'd caught some stomach upset on the road.

Immediately she'd arrived at her apartment, the cooking odors from her landlady's kitchen below had nauseated her. She'd never noticed the pungent aromas before and decided she was just fatigued from two days' traveling. She'd slept like the dead till almost ten the next morning and then sent a note to the Castellis telling them of her return.

Julia had come immediately and in the course of the next hour, Serena had calmed her worst fears. She was perfectly fine, Serena assured Julia, no harm had come to her on her journey to Milan, yes, she'd seen Lord Rochefort, he was in Piacenza she thought, no, Massena wasn't a monster with three heads and cloven hoofs, although she wasn't so sure Solignac wouldn't make a pact with the devil if there was money involved, and yes, she was also very happy that she'd returned safely to Florence, and certainly, she'd be sure to come to their "at home" on Thursday evening; she wasn't in trauma at all.

But, no, please don't tell Father Danetti she was back in the city because she was planning to sleep for a day or so and didn't care to have him read prayers over her or gaze at her with soulful eyes-at least not until Thursday.

Julia had smiled then and said, "You might have to make up your mind soon and pick one of your suitors as husband. It's not fair to keep so many men in misery."

"But I'm not in the market for a husband," Serena pleasantly replied. "And I'd appreciate if it you'd disperse that information to any who will listen."

"I'm afraid they'd all find it unacceptable, dear," her friend said. "You'll have to give them the bad news yourself."

"As if I haven't tried to any number of times," Serena declared with a small sigh.

"Lord Rochefort seemed concerned with your safety," Julia noted, a hint of query in her tone. "I thought he might return with you."

"He's busy, I'm afraid." Serena struggled to keep her voice bland. "He's actively engaged in assignments for Pitt."

"I'm glad he found you at any rate."

"Yes, it was kind of him." A very tame word, she thought, for the pleasure and pain of knowing Beau St. Jules.

"Now, you'll recognize everyone Thursday tonight. And I'm warning all our friends not to plague you with questions about your abduction. So feel comfortable saying as much or as little as you like. They won't pry. It's so wonderful having you back safely," Julia said, leaning over to take Serena's hands in hers. "We were desperately afraid."

After more catching up on the events of the past weeks, including news of the young mother and her children who'd arrived safely in Florence and were happily settled in town, Julia left and Serena went to sleep. She slept a good part of the following days, her energy levels low, her emotions overly sensitive, her susceptibility to tears acute.

In her waking hours, she found herself contemplating her paintings of Beau, the canvases everywhere she turned, leaning against the walls, some smaller ones hung, an unfinished portrait on her easel.

She wished for the impossible one minute and told herself the next that he'd only make her unhappy. Beau wasn't in love with her or with anyone, he probably never would be-a man of his propensities was not romantically inclined.

Perhaps she should put away the paintings so she wouldn't be reminded of him at every turn, she thought one day when her feelings were more stable. She considered beginning an assignment for her landscape class. But instead of putting the canvases away, she began painting another Beau St. Jules.

She threw up only once the next day, in the morning when she woke and then again the following morning, her nausea coming over her while she was talking to her landlady.

Mrs. Calvacanti had just brought up her laundry, and when Serena bolted from the room with a stammered apology, she called after her, "I'll bring a damp cloth." Bustling in a moment later, she helped Serena to her feet, and leading her over to the bed, covered her up and put the cool cloth on her forehead. "My boy babies always made me throw up early in the morning-never my girls. If you eat some dry bread before you get out of bed, it helps."

The matter-of-fact comments made Serena's stomach heave ominously again although there was nothing left to expel. And when her queasiness had passed, she said, dumbfounded, "A baby?"

"Now you have that nice milord marry you," her landlady ordered. "Julia told me he's in Piacenza. We'll send a letter."

"That's impossible," Serena whispered, still in shock.

"We'll have the professor write to his father, then," the landlady pronounced, her ideas of paternal responsibility exacting. "He'll see that the boy marries you."

"No, please, I don't wish to marry him." Her mind was racing, her thoughts in disarray. A baby? Was it possible?

"Marry Sandro then," Mrs. Calvacanti briskly suggested, wondering why Serena wouldn't marry such a handsome young man but open to alternatives. "The bambino needs a papa."

Good lord, a baby, Serena tremulously reflected, still trying to absorb the wonder of it, her nausea explained in a miraculous way. And if she was indeed carrying Beau's child, she had no intention of marrying Sandro or anyone else.

A fictitious husband would serve her just as well. And even that subterfuge wouldn't be required until she returned to England.

"I don't wish anyone to know just yet," Serena cautioned. "Perhaps it's not true."

The mother of ten grown children smiled knowingly. "It's true enough, signorina, but my lips are sealed," she promised. "You should marry soon though so there won't be whispers about the bambino when he's born."

"Maybe the baby's a girl," Serena offered, smiling, wondering if she'd have dark curls like her father.

"It's a boy, mark my words," Mrs. Calvacanti declared. "And I should know after seven boys. Now Father Danetti would make a fine papa," she cheerfully said, insistent on Serena marrying. "I'm not sure God has taken him completely yet and he's very handsome."

"It's a thought," Serena politely said, not about to discuss marrying a priest, however kind and handsome.

"Make sure you eat well, signorina," Mrs. Calvacanti ordered. "The baby needs plenty of food to grow strong and healthy like his father." She'd talked to the groom who'd escorted Serena to Florence and knew of Serena and Beau's stay at the inn, so she had little doubt assigning paternity. "I'm making a zuppa inglese in honor of your homecoming. The baby will like it. Now you sleep and I'll clean up here. You're going to need more rest."

Serena didn't argue, a benevolent lethargy seeping through her senses. She was having Beau's child, she blissfully thought. He wasn't gone from her life after all. And when Mrs. Calvacanti brought up the rich custard dessert later that morning, Serena ate two servings-one for herself and one for the baby.

Beau had a multitude of tasks to accomplish when he reached Florence, and reinvigorated after two days of sobriety, he set to work, taking rooms at the Locanda della Rossa and immediately calling for a tailor.

His other requirements were fulfilled, while the tailor and a dozen assistants called in to help, sewed and fitted and set the Earl of Rochefort to rights.

The consul-general arrived in breathless haste shortly after the first bastings were adjusted on a pair of black trousers. A summons from Pitt's young man required a speedy response, not to mention the necessary respect due the Duke of Seth's heir. Then a priest was called in and a jeweler, two jewelers ultimately when Beau required a sapphire in addition to a diamond ring; a clerk (to write up a marriage contract) was added to the throng as well as a florist, all of whom awaited instructions from the young man being fitted for a new suit in the middle of the large suite, an army of tailors with pins in their mouths bent to the task.

Beau issued orders with polite authority, intent on speedily achieving his aims. He didn't get himself a wife every day of the week and a certain amount of work was required to accomplish his purpose, none of which he cared to wait for overlong.

As his minions labored around him, putting his plans en train, he cautioned himself to woo Serena more gallantly this time. He'd reason with her-speak of romance, say all the flattering things lovers say when proposing. Flowers should help too; women like flowers. He called the jewelers over to study the rings he'd selected again, scrutinizing the stones with an eye to Serena's tastes. Large, but not too large; she'd not appreciate a nouveau riche ostentation. He liked the sapphire best but women usually preferred diamonds-the diamond he'd been told was newly arrived from India.

He glanced at the clock, impatient to be off on his mission and mildly nervous too. Marriage was a huge step, but he couldn't have her any other way, he realized. So ... He drew in a steadying breath.

An hour and a half later with the consul-general and the priest in tow, Beau set out for Serena's apartment, the carriage filled with bouquets of flowers, two small ring boxes in his pocket. The men spoke of the newly signed truce on the short ride to Serena's, none too optimistic of its holding for long, and they discussed the state of Austria's readiness to take on Napoleon again.

Mrs. Calvacanti met Beau and his entourage in the courtyard, so very pleased to see him again, she said, beaming, the young lord's carrying flowers a gratifying sign. Miss Blythe was at the Castellis "at home" that evening she told him. And she just knew Miss Blythe would be thrilled to see him.

Beau debated waiting until Serena returned but wasn't in the mood to delay what he'd come here to do and neither did he care to keep polite company with the consul-general and the priest until the entertainment at the Castellis was over.

He could send a note asking her to see him, but he wasn't sure she'd respond, regardless of what Mrs. Calvacanti implied. Serena's manner of leaving Piacenza denoted resentment, if not a more volatile anger.