Gideon shrugged. "Indeed, it works to my advantage that you are here and not dancing attendance on a certain young lady whom I just chanced to see at the Barrington gala. I take it you're aware that, in your absence, your compet.i.tors are moving in on the lady in question? Rumor has it that she had a steady stream of callers both today and yesterday."

Scowling, Justin grabbed Gideon's elbow and steered him to the corner. He was not a pleasant drunk. He never had been and never would be. "Our wager is off," he advised tightly. "I should never have made it."

Gideon didn't back down. "It's too late for that now, my friend. You won't get off so easily."

Justin expelled a breath. "Dammit, Gideon -"

"Need I remind you a wager is a wager? I won't let you renege."

"And I have no intention of dishonoring it," Justin responded curtly. "I'll see that a draft is sent to you in the morning."

Gideon, it appeared, had other intentions. "Those were not our terms," Gideon reminded him bluntly. "Yours within the month, I believe it was. I'm a sporting man," he said with a shrug. "My only regret is that I'm off to Paris for the next month or so and so will be unable to watch your progress - or lack thereof, as it were."

Justin locked his jaw hard. He purposely maintained his silence, aware of Gideon's curious gaze.

"What! Losing ground already, eh? Is the lady so staunchly opposed to your suit, then? Ah, but I fear you are losing that golden touch*"

Gideon's smile did not set well. Arabella would hate him forever. He'd made certain of that last night. But he wasn't about to divulge such a thing to Gideon. "That's none of your affair," he said sharply.

At least the man knew when to back down. Gideon inclined his head. "Adieu, then. I shall look forward to seeing you upon my return."

Justin stalked back to the hazard table, where he lost a considerable sum. He told himself he didn't give a d.a.m.n what nitwit Arabella chose to a.s.sociate with, when she did it, or why. It was none of his business.

Yet a scant hour later, he was standing on the fringes of the Barrington ballroom, greeting Lord Barrington.

And there she was*

She sat not far from the refreshment table. She was dressed in green, a low, square-necked gown that revealed the rounded tops of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her hair was caught up and away, coiled loosely at her crown. He approved the style, for it flattered to perfection the long, slim column of her neck. He pondered what it would be like to sweep aside the errant curls at her nape and plant his mouth there, in the vulnerable hollow that divided her nape. Her skin would be warm and soft, velvety smooth.

Christ! he thought disgustedly. What the h.e.l.l had ever possessed him to come here? Why was he chasing after her like some foolish, lovesick schoolboy? He was a man about town, a man who confined his relationships to women of experience, women who knew the stakes and expected no more of him than he expected of them - an a.s.sociation uncluttered by nothing more complicated than a mutual l.u.s.t. That was why he'd always avoided virgins like the plague!

Two men stood before her. Gideon had been right, he acknowledged grimly. He recognized both of them from that night at White's, Drummond and Gregory Fitzroy. The wolves had begun to circle indeed*Something savage welled in his breast. G.o.d rot it! It wasn't her they wanted, it was that d.a.m.n bet! They would use her, discard her as carelessly as*as he would have, if it had been any woman but her.

He should warn her. Oh, but that should go over well, a voice inside chided snidely. She would see it as another insult.

A pa.s.sing footman offered wine. He took it, draining it in one gulp.

When his gaze returned, yet another man had posted himself near her right shoulder - Charles Brentwood. Justin slammed his gla.s.s down on the table next to him. Brentwood was standing, and availing himself of the view from above. He was peering quite lasciviously into the generous swell of cleavage offered by a gown that Justin decided then and there was far too revealing. Granted, it was a tactic many a man employed, but it suddenly made him madder than blazes. Also granted, the gown was entirely the fashion, but what did that matter?

He wanted nothing more than to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Brentwood's countenance.

It was then that Justin felt the bite of something utterly foreign. It brewed inside him like a fiery poison, seeping through him until he saw the world through a mist of crimson. A dull roar pounded in his ears. He wanted to stalk across the ballroom and tear apart every last man who surrounded her. At first he thought it was the wine; he'd had far too much to drink today. But this was a feeling so completely alien to him that it took a while before he realized what it was.

The stinging bite of jealousy.

Oh, but this was rich! he decided in some muddled, fog-laden corner of his mind. He was jealous. He, Justin Sterling, the most notorious rake in the city, who could have his pick of the most exquisite women in the land! Indeed, he felt almost insanely jealous.

How the h.e.l.l had it happened? And why Arabella? How could she, a completely respectable innocent, have captivated him so? How was it possible that this flame-haired h.e.l.lion had managed what no one else had managed to do? The most lush, beautiful women in Europe had tried to make him jealous. None had succeeded. None*save Arabella.

He wanted her. He wanted her almost violently. The way he'd wanted her that night at Vauxhall Gardens, a rampant, untamed hunger that burned like fire in his soul. He wanted her so badly that he had to clench his fists to contain it. And if he stood here much longer, the violent surge in his loins would be obvious to the entire ballroom.

If it had been any other woman, he would have taken what he wanted. He would have laid siege to her defenses with single-minded intent until he had her exactly where he wanted her, swooning and half-mad with yearning. Denying his desire for a woman wasn't something Justin was used to. It wasn't something he had done ever. It wasn't greed or arrogance that a.s.sured his success. It simply was.

But this was Arabella. Arabella.

And she couldn't stand the sight of him.

An acrid darkness stole through him. He'd been a fool to come here. If he left now, she would never even know he'd been here. But he knew he wouldn't leave. Not yet. Perhaps this was his own particular brand of punishment - G.o.d knew he deserved it! - to bear witness as she lavished her attentions on her devotees, sc.u.m though they were! But his temples were throbbing. That last gla.s.s of wine had done him in*The air in the ballroom was suddenly stifling.

Without a word, he spun around and directed his steps toward the terrace.

Arabella knew the exact moment Justin entered the ballroom. It was most peculiar, the way it happened. First her heart picked up its beat. Then a strange tickle p.r.i.c.kled on her nape, almost as if someone had touched her there*

And she knew*she knew Justin was here.

And G.o.d above, there he was, talking with Lord Barrington. Tall, lean, clad in evening dress, a froth of snowy white lace at his wrists. No man had a right to look that virile, and she found the thought irksome.

She dragged her gaze away. One of the gentlemen asked a question. She heard herself respond, but for the life of her, she couldn't recall either her reply or the question! The faces before her were just a blur. There was George*or was it Gregory? asking to fetch her another gla.s.s of wine. Lord, she couldn't even remember their names!

When she dared to glance Justin's way again, his back was toward her. He was walking toward the terrace, with that fluid, unstudied grace so much a part of him.

She almost hurtled upright. "Please excuse me."

"Miss Templeton!"

"I say, wherever are you -"

She turned. "Gentlemen," she said pointedly, "I do not want wine, or lemonade, or a bite to eat. What I crave right now is a moment to myself."

She left them standing across the room. What they thought, she didn't know. Nor did she care. In truth, she couldn't quite say what came over her. All she could think of was Justin. Why hadn't he acknowledged her? A voice inside chided her. It wasn't wise to follow him, for he was surely the devil-at-large. Yet she could no more have stayed either her will or her steps than she could have stopped the earth from turning.

The terrace was deserted. Behind her, the musicians had struck up a waltz. Guided by the glittering lights of the ballroom, she followed a meandering path through the garden, enclosed on three sides by a high stone wall. There, in the far corner, at last she spied him. He stood before a gurgling fountain, staring at the sky as if spellbound.

Spellbound. That was exactly how she felt. What madness possessed her that she had followed him out here? The sight of him made her insides quiver and her knees quaver.

Yet somehow she managed to sound almost calm. "h.e.l.lo, Justin."

"Well, if it isn't Miss Vicar."

Miss Vicar. Arabella flushed.

Deliberately he turned his back on her. Arabella remained where she was, tentative and uncertain. It seemed he was determined to ignore her. She couldn't blame him, but still, it hurt.

"What! Not gone yet?" He glanced over his shoulder.

Her mouth felt suddenly parched. She was suddenly floundering. "I*it's just that*I haven't seen you for several days. Have you been ill?"

"No."

He turned back to face her.

It took every ounce of courage she possessed to remain where she was. "I saw you

inside," she finally blurted. "Were you going to leave without saying anything?"

"Yes."

Well, he was certainly direct.

"Look here, Justin. I suspect we are hardly going to be able to avoid seeing each other. So we

are simply going to have to come to some sort of agreement. We must be civil to each other, at

least."

"I quite agree. So if you've come to gloat - don't. And if you've come to deliver another diatribe, do not bother. Consider me duly chastised."

His manner was guarded, his tone cool. A gnawing guilt nagged at her. He couldn't know how

she regretted her outburst the other night.

"Justin," she said, her voice low, "the other night*I spoke out of turn - "

"You spoke what was on your mind.""But I didn't mean to -""Yes, you did," he cut in. "We both know it."She peered at him. His shoulders were stiff and square. Why, she could almost believe*"Never say that you've come to grief over my -" She broke off, staring at him.

What was wrong with him? He sounded odd. There was something strange about his eyes, and he wasn't entirely steady*Merciful heavens, he was foxed!

And, it seemed, he wasn't finished."Does that surprise you, Arabella? Startle you? I see it does. Scoundrel that I am, I do havefeelings. And contrary to your opinion, I do have a heart."

Arabella was too stunned to say a word.

"I believe I deserve an explanation. There must be some reason you dislike me so. From the

beginning you've disliked me. Why, as a child you disliked me! But I've never doneanything to you.""No, not to me, but -"She stopped short. This was not a discussion she cared to pursue, particularly in light of his sodden state."Justin," she said helplessly, "it's not that I dislike you -""Then why did you say such things?" His tone was almost accusing.He stepped close. The heavy aroma of wine and spirits a.s.saulted her. Dear Lord, it was a miracle she wasn't sotted as well!

"What if I told you I like you?" he went on. "What if I told you I'm fond of you?"

"You're fond of all women!"

"Not true. It's well known I have extremely fastidious tastes. Otherwise, I

wouldn't have danced with you that first night. Or the second. G.o.d, I wouldn't be here right now."Arabella stared at him dumbly. She couldn't help it. She was unaccountably fl.u.s.tered. What wa.s.she supposed to say to that? Dear Lord, how was she to interpret such a statement? She had come outhere to apologize to him. She'd prepared herself for his mockery. His acid barbs. His arrogance.Anything but this*

A dozen different emotions rushed at her from all sides. Dismay. Alarm. She was charmed when she didn't want to be charmed. Flattered when she should not have been flattered. Was this how he managed to gain so many conquests? By catching them off guard and vulnerable? Oh, stupid question, that! A man with his looks had no need to coerce and cajole a woman into his bed.

"What if I said I want to kiss you?"

Things were progressing from bad to worse.

Her heart seemed to stumble, along with her breath. Perhaps he had no idea what he was saying.

"Justin," she asked, "how much have you had to drink tonight?"

"Too much." He responded as if she'd asked the time of day. "But you haven't answered my question."

"I have no intention of answering it!"

"Why not? Don't you want to kiss me?"

"No. You're foxed." Why men relished spirits so, she couldn't imagine.

"But I'm the handsomest man in all England."

She feigned distaste. "Right now you're the most disgusting man in all England."

As if that could ever be true.

"Oh, come. It's said that I -"

"Pray do not boast, Justin! I know very well what's said about you! You think you have