The other applicants to her advertis.e.m.e.nt hadn't impressed her one bit. They'd practically ignored her because she was only a lady's companion, a paid servant, and not worth bothering about. She knew that she should be grateful that her little deception had worked. As a mere companion, she faded into the background while Miss Beattie held center stage. Even the conversations with Mr. Townsend had included Miss Beattie. No one had sought her out for herself. No one seemed to see her as a person in her own right.

Except Max Worthe. Lord Maxwell, she corrected. He'd been gone for two days, and she never expected to see him again. He'd finally accepted that there could never be anything between them, and he'd graciously left: the field.

Now that she didn't have to worry about him, it was safe to admit that she missed him. Corinthian or no, she liked him, really liked him. She even liked his ta.s.seled boots and his foppish neckcloth with its pretty bow. He said the most outrageous things that no lady should permit. He teased her, and that was a new experience for her. Perhaps, if things had been different, he could have taught her how to tease, too.

If things had been different. It happened all the time. Penniless aristocrats married heiresses whose fathers had made their money in trade. It had nearly happened to her. But Sara Carstairs, whom everyone believed was a murderess, was no one's idea of a bargain. Then again, neither was Max. He'd told her that his t.i.tle was a courtesy t.i.tle. She was curious, of course, but she'd stifled her questions because she feared that if she and Max became too involved, their parting would be that much harder to bear, at least on her part.

The less they both knew about each other, the better it would be in the long run. She was going to lock Max away in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart and remember him fondly from time to time. And that's all he could ever be, a distant, pleasant memory.

And there would be no regrets.

Miss Beattie was waiting for her in the front hall. She looked very smart in a dark blue gown and matching bonnet. Poor Bea had been quite cast down since Max had deserted them. She couldn't be made to see that he was a dangerous complication.

"Ready?" Miss Beattie asked quietly.

"Quite ready. Where is Mrs. Hastings?"

"She went on ahead with Miss Perry and Mrs. Harman."

"Then let's get started."

They were on their way to Sydney Gardens, to take in a concert and afterwards, when the sun had set, a fireworks display.

And that's when she would slip away to the Sydney Hotel and seal her bargain with Mr. Townsend.

Max did the return trip to Bath in record time, and he gave the postilions of his hired chaise a handsome gratuity for living up to their promise. His first order of business when he entered his hotel was to ask the landlord to arrange for one of the hotel's footmen to be a.s.signed personally to him. He was tired of haring back and forth across England in wretched hired carriages with broken springs, and tired of waiting his turn with servants who did not belong to him. And if that made him undemocratic, he could live with it.

The landlord noted the arrogant cast of his lordship's profile, the cold blue eyes and the smile that wasn't quite a smile, and he touched his forelock before he was aware of what he was doing.

That was the trouble with the quality, he told his wife as he personally saw to the drawing of his lordships bath. They could be nice to you one minute and turn on you the next. And there was no redress, because they held all the cards. If you answered them back, they would tell all their friends, and after that, no one of any consequence would darken your doors. Then where would they be?

The footman he a.s.signed to Max was his son and heir, and because Rollo had a vested interest in keeping his lordship satisfied, Max found himself, less than an hour later, bathed, changed and fortified with one of the best beefsteak sandwiches he had ever tasted.

The service improved his temper. It also tweaked his conscience. He hadn't been raised to lord it over his subordinates. He salved his conscience by leaving another large gratuity in his wake, then went to find the landlord and his wife, to compliment the astonished couple on their excellent establishment.

He left the hotel with a smile on his face, but as he struck out along the High Street and made the turn to the Pulteney Bridge, his smile soon faded. He was thinking about his meeting with Peter Fallon, and Peter had given him much to think about.

Maybe she's waiting for someone - a husband, a lover - who knows what she's been up to in the last three years?

I'm going to be married, Max.

He hadn't believed her, but after his conversation with Peter, he was seeing things in a different light. She hadn't come to Bath for the good of her health. If she was going home to Stoneleigh, then why was she hanging around here?

I'm going to be married, Max.

The more he thought about it, the more his suspicions bubbled over like a pot of burning stew.

Ahead of him, lights blazing from every window, was the Sydney Hotel, and beyond that, Sydney Gardens, with lanterns strung from tree to tree. Before he'd left Bath, Miss Beattie had informed him that she and Sara would be here tonight to see the fireworks display. In fact, she'd practically invited him along.

After paying his subscription, he halted just inside the gates. It was after ten o'clock and almost dark enough for the fireworks to begin. The orchestra was still playing, however, and the strains of a country air carried to him above the laughter and singing. People were strolling about, admiring the elaborate illuminations that adorned the fountains and shrubbery.

This was Bath at its wildest, Max thought, and grinned.

He found his quarry, sans Sara, on the sweep of lawns where the orchestra was playing. Miss Beattie and Mrs. Hastings had availed themselves of one of the many benches that had been set out for spectators.

Mrs. Hastings saw him first, and letting out a squeal of delight, waved him over. Miss Beattie's face registered nothing but shock.

"I thought you had left Bath for good," Miss Beattie said as he bowed over her hand.

"Didn't I mention that I'd be back in a day or two?"

"Yes, but-" She shrugged helplessly. "Young people sometimes say one thing and do another."

Max searched Miss Beattie's face. She seemed tense, and, at the same time, now that her shock was beginning to wear off, genuinely glad to see him.

Mrs. Hastings drew his eyes to her. "If only we'd known you were returning in time for this gala evening, Lord Maxwell, we would have invited you to our little party after the fireworks." She smiled coyly. "I don't suppose you'd care to join four or five ladies for a bite of supper in the Sydney Hotel?" Her hand flew to her mouth. "I beg your pardon, Miss Beattie. I quite forgot that this is your treat."

Miss Beattie's smile was strained around the edges. "Of course you're invited, Lord Maxwell, but you won't hurt our feelings if you turn us down. I'm sure a young man can find better things to do than entertain a gaggle of elderly ladies."

"A hen party?" said Max. "Oh, no, I'd only be in the way." Then he added innocently, "But won't Miss Childe be there?"

His question seemed to throw Miss Beattie into some confusion. "Sara?" She looked around her as though she expected Sara to suddenly emerge from the crowds.

Her sigh, to Max's ears, sounded resigned, but when she looked up at him, it wasn't resignation he saw in her eyes, but something akin to hope.

"Of course Sara will be there," she said. "In fact, she's there now, in the private parlor I reserved in the hotel, making sure that everything will go off perfectly for our little supper. She doesn't care for fireworks, you see, so she offered to take care of things."

Having discovered what he wished to know, as he was sure Miss Beattie had already deduced, he made some idle remarks on the orchestra and gardens, then strolled away.

When he'd turned his steps toward the Sydney Hotel, he had a shrewd idea that Miss Beattie's blessing went with him.

At the front desk, he asked for the private parlor reserved in Miss Beattie's name. Five minutes later, he pushed through the door, and the sight that met his eyes made his temper explode.

Sara was in some man's arms, and that man was kissing her on the brow. Max sent the door back on its hinges with an almighty crash. The couple broke apart with a guilty start.

"Max!" Sara breathed out.

Max sauntered into the room, the glitter in his eyes at odds with the smile on his face. "Mr. Townsend, is it not?" He made an elegant bow, which Mr. Townsend acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. "I was sent by Miss Beattie," Max drawled, "to chaperon the chaperon, and that puts me in an awkward position. As a rule, I wouldn't interfere, but you see how it is."

Mr. Townsend said stiffly, "Sir, I hope you recognize an innocent kiss when you see it."

"Of course," replied Max in the same grating drawl. "I knew it was innocent, you being, Mr. Townsend, old enough to be this lady's father." He paused. "You were on the point of leaving, I believe?"

Mr. Townsend flushed scarlet, and that got Sara's dander up. She deliberately turned her back on Max and offered Mr. Townsend her hand. Smiling up at him, she said warmly, "Good night, Mr. Townsend, and I do thank you for ... for everything." She turned to Max. "And now, gentlemen, if you'll both excuse me, I have work to do."

Max said, "May I help?"

"No, you may not!"

"Then I'll wait quietly for Miss Beattie to arrive. It's what she expects of me. Good night, Mr. Townsend."

Mr. Townsend looked at Max, opened his mouth as if to say something, then, thinking better of it, bowed curtly and quit the room.

Ignoring Max, Sara began to fuss with the cutlery and napkins on the table. Max strolled to the sideboard, lifted the cover from a silver server and began to munch on a chunk of cuc.u.mber that was filled with chopped apple and dates. When he was finished, he started on another.

When Sara could bear the silence no longer, she stopped fussing and looked directly into Max's eyes. "I don't believe Miss Beattie sent you here to chaperon me."

"Well," acknowledged Max, "she didn't use those exact words, but I could see that she was worried about you. So when she told me where you were, I took it upon myself to offer my protection."

"I'm in more need of protection from you than from Mr. Townsend."

The glitter in Max's eyes had long since faded. Now they were brilliant with laughter. "If that means I wouldn't kiss you as Mr. Townsend kissed you, you're right."

She gave him a cool stare, then went back to fussing.

Max came away from the sideboard. "What did Townsend want?"

"Nothing. He saw me come in here, and came in to exchange a few words. He was only being polite."

"And what did you thank him for?"

"We got talking about books and he offered to lend me some. All right?"

"And why did he kiss you?"

There was a challenge in the way she lifted her chin. "I had just told him that I was to be married soon, and he was wishing me well. Not that it's any of your business."

"Ah, the phantom suitor again. At least, I hope he's a phantom, for your sake as well as his."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you? You know, you're far too young to wear those lace caps. Is that supposed to put me off?"

Before she could evade him, he plucked the cap from her head, dislodging pins, and her hair tumbled down in a cascade of waves.

He grasped her shoulders. "Why is Miss Beattie worried about you, Sara?"

"You're talking nonsense, Max."

His hands brushed along her arms and slid around her waist. "There's only one language you seem to understand."

He brought his lips to hers in a kiss as chaste as the one Mr. Townsend had given her, only Max's kiss made her come alive. She'd known he was going to kiss her, and this time she was prepared. She fought the onslaught on her senses-the heaviness behind her eyes, the need to cling to him, the weakness that made her bones turn to water-she fought his power with the only weapon she possessed, her formidable self-control.

It was an effective weapon. When Max lifted his head, she was sure she had won, and she let out a relieved breath.

Laughter filled his eyes. "Sara," he said softly, "that won't work either."

The arms at her waist tightened, pulling her flush against his body, and his mouth came down hard on hers. This time he wasn't wooing her, he was taking possession, and her formidable self-control began to crack.

His fingers plowed into her hair and held her fast. Her mouth was soft, pliable; her body flowed over his. He could feel the current of pa.s.sion sucking them both under. He wanted to take her here, right now, on the floor.

Thunder and lightning seemed to explode overhead. His power awed her. But at the next explosion of thunder and lightning, rational thought returned. Desire gradually receded, and her shoulders began to shake.

When Max released her lips, she choked out between gurgles of laughter, "I thought it was you! I thought it was you!"

She pushed out of his arms and waved toward the window.

"I thought it was you. And it was only a few fireworks going off."

Max's frown gradually melted, and he began to laugh, too.

Max was captivated by the sprite she had turned into. There were more facets to this woman than in a priceless diamond, and each one intrigued him. Now he understood the connoisseur's pa.s.sion to possess. He would give just about anything to have her.

When he stepped toward her, her laughter died, but she held her ground. He cupped her cheek. "That's how it will be when we finally come together," he said. "I promise you fireworks."

Her eyes flashed then darkened. "My no is final, Max."

"Then make me believe it, Sara. Make me believe it."

When she stared at him doggedly, he patted her cheek as Mr. Townsend might, and strolled from the room.

He wasn't interested in the fireworks display, and when he reached the ground floor, he entered the taproom. The room swarmed with gentlemen who, Max gathered from the jokes that were flying around, had stolen away from their womenfolk while their eyes were on the sky, gentlemen who hoped to steal back again before their absence was noticed.

He ordered a neat brandy and, with one elbow on the bar counter, surveyed the room. He knew next to n.o.body in Bath, but the one face he did recognize, a gentleman he'd been introduced to in the Pump Room, rose from a table and began to weave his way toward the bar.

Bloor was the name, Max remembered, and he smelled of horses. On this occasion, Mr. Bloor smelled only of strong spirits.

"The same again," he told the barmaid in a belligerent tone of voice.

Max moved over to give Mr. Bloor room.

"d.a.m.ned impertinence," muttered Mr. Bloor. When the barmaid handed him a half tumbler of whiskey, he drank l.u.s.tily. His next few utterances were unintelligible, but when his eyes focused on Max, he said clearly, "It's Mr. Maxwell, is it not?"

"Close enough," replied Max.

"That's what I thought. We met ... I forget where we met."

"In the Pump Room," said Max.

Mr. Bloor took another healthy swig of whiskey. "Blast and d.a.m.n them all," he declared and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Who?" asked Max without much interest. He was scanning the patrons to see if Mr. Townsend was among them. He'd been rude to the man, and he wanted to make it up to him by buying him a drink. Jealous of an old fogy like Townsend! His friends would laugh themselves silly if they knew how low he had sunk.

"Who?" demanded Bloor, glowering at Max. "Who? The whole regiment of women! d.a.m.n and blast them all, that's what I say. If I were not a gentleman, I would have laid her across my knee and walloped her backside."

"I know the feeling," commiserated Max.

It was time to go. Townsend was not here, Bloor was becoming a nuisance, and the taproom was beginning to empty now that the fireworks display was over.