Charlotte couldn't shake off the sensation of being watched. No, it wasn't quite that. She had been stared at from the moment she arrived in London, mostly by jealous females. This felt more intense and not completely unpleasant.

She let her gaze wander as her feet followed the music. As a girl, she'd loved dancing, but now it was simply a means to an end. It showed off her charms and grace, and allowed her to flirt.

There. Leaning against a pillar. A tall, exquisitely tailored man with dark-blond hair, sardonic amus.e.m.e.nt in icy blue eyes. Their gazes clashed.

Heat flared in her body, the fire of desire, even as her heart twisted in pain and her stomach plummeted to her royal-blue slippers.

Gerard. The sound of his name in her head was a cry of despair.

He acknowledged the brief meeting of their eyes with a slight dip of his head. I dare you, those cold eyes said. Her smile suddenly felt stiff, her cheeks tight.

Her heart rattled against her ribs while her mind absorbed this latest disaster. Nom d'un nom. He wasn't supposed to be in town. Her spy had promised he would not return until autumn.

His gaze drifted away.

Perhaps she'd imagined the challenge. Perhaps he hadn't recognized her after five long years. Lord, she hoped so.

Dragging her gaze back to Lord Graves as he took her hand in the centre of their four, she swallowed dry fear. Serious-faced and hazel-eyed, he was the answer to all her prayers and Father's last hope of rescue from his dank Calais prison.

She smiled and he flushed a bright pink. She wanted to ruffle his gleaming curls, pat his shoulder. He was a nice young man. The kind of man to whom she'd be a loyal and dutiful wife. That he had more than enough money to cover father's debts made him the perfect suitor. If she could bring him up to scratch.

Worry gnawed at her stomach. Gerard was here. His presence sent her mind spinning, her heart tumbling.

The cotillion concluded and Lord Graves walked her back to Miles O'Mally, her father's loyal friend and her supposed uncle. A dandy in his youth, he was still a fine figure of a man with a penchant for flashy waistcoats. Tonight ivory brocade embroidered with pink roses hugged his paunch.

With a light laugh, she fanned her face. "So energetic. I protest, I am quite parched."

"Let me fetch you a drink," Lord Graves said eagerly.

"A true knight indeed, My Lord." She gave him a glowing smile of approval. He hurried away.

A twinge of conscience twisted her insides.

Why should she feel ashamed? She was doing exactly what the n.o.bility had done for centuries, binding two families together for the good of both. She would be good for the f.e.c.kless youth. A steadying influence. Not for a moment would he have cause to suspect her lack of emotional engagement. Never would he know the sting of betrayal. Such loyalty as she promised came at a price: her father's freedom.

She leaned close to Miles, her fan hiding her lips, her voice lowered. "He returned."

The charming Irishman's florid face frowned. "Are ye sure?"

"My dance, I believe," a rich tenor murmured behind her.

O'Mally's brown eyes widened, then his brow lowered.

Dread filling her heart, her breath held fast in her chest, Charlotte turned and faced Gerard.

The Duke took her hand. He deftly turned it over, his lips brushing the pulse point at her wrist as he bowed. Her mind went blank. Fire tingled up her arm. The searing scorch of his warm lips had taken no more than the time required to blink, yet left her trembling.

"Madame Beauchere," he murmured. "Such a delight to meet you again." The modulated voice held an underlying warning.

"I-"

"The music starts." One hand in the small of her back, the other clasping her fingers, he guided her between the guests towards the dance floor. One or two heads turned to look. Her mouth dried. This was a catastrophe.

Her gaze travelled to a pair of mocking blue eyes. "This is a waltz," she said, frowning. "I don't waltz. Ever." It always felt much too personal for her taste.

"Really?" He swirled her into his arms and on to the dance floor. He was taller than she remembered. Broader. A man, no longer a boy, and more handsome than ever.

"Despicable," she muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" His drawl shimmered and danced over the skin of her shoulders as if he'd stroked her nape, yet all the while his hands remained decorously placed.

She glared up at him. "You did that on purpose. Made it impossible for me to refuse without causing a scene. So I said 'despicable'."

His eyes warmed to cerulean and one corner of his mouth kicked up a fraction. Attraction sparked, crackling in the air like unspent lightning bolts. Incendiary. Explosive. She found it hard to draw a breath.

"I suppose I should be honoured," she said. "Although we lack a formal introduction."

"We need no introduction, Charlotte," he said with dispa.s.sion. "You knew me the moment you saw me."

He remembered. Her heart leaped with joy. Expending every ounce of will power she possessed, she kept her expression coolly remote. "I wasn't sure if my memory was playing tricks, Your Grace. You've changed."

An eyebrow rose. "We both have. You even have a different name."

"As do you. My condolences on the loss of your father."

He shrugged carelessly. "My congratulations on your marriage and my commiserations on your husband's demise."

Revulsion churned in her stomach. She hated the pretence. But having killed off a non-existent husband for the freedom widowhood gave her, there was little she could do but accept his condolences. "Thank you," she said, as calmly as her trembling body would allow.

"You are all graciousness," he said.

"And anger," she replied, arching a brow. "I never waltz."

He laughed, the sound deep and dark. It tugged at something low in her stomach. Lower. A place not to be imagined in relation to this man.

"You used to waltz with me," he said. "Remember?"

She smiled at him sweetly. "Your Grace is incorrigible."

"And you, Madame Beauchere, are beautiful."

These words delivered in honeyed tones caressed her ear. A shiver ran down her spine at the promise of remembered pleasure. An offer of delights she had once mourned.

That part of her life was over. She must not let him distract her from her purpose. Father's life depended on her ability to net a husband with money. Panic tightened her throat. The Duke could easily spike her guns should he choose. He knew too much about her past. h.e.l.l. He was her past.

Would he expose her? He'd been fond of her once. Might she convince him to say nothing? Dash it, she'd been prepared for the chance they would meet in the small world of the ton, but she'd prayed it would be later. After she married.

Forcing herself to relax, she let the music and the imperceptible pressure of his guiding hands carry her where they would. In truth, she hadn't waltzed since she was a young impressionable girl, when the world seemed a much kinder place.

"For a woman who doesn't waltz, you are very accomplished," he murmured close to her ear, sparking waves of delicious heat.

With a coolly raised brow, she let him know she was not unaware of his intent to fl.u.s.ter. "You misunderstand, Your Grace. I do not waltz as a preference, not because I cannot." She easily accomplished the complex turn beneath his arm. When he recaptured her hands, he gazed deep into her eyes. A licking hot blue flame of naked desire, more potent than anything she'd seen in young Graves' expression, made her gasp.

This man, this duke, had no qualms about letting his intentions be known. Her heart picked up speed. Her pulse fluttered and raced. Her indrawn breaths barely filled her lungs until she felt dizzy.

d.a.m.n her for a fool. His gaze plucked another chord. A song of longing. A tune close to her heart.

A heart required too high a price. Her father's life.

For a second, she entertained the idea of asking Gerard for help. He was rich. He'd easily parted with a few hundred guineas to be rid of her once before. Her and Father.

He would surely not aid a man he'd deliberately set on the path to destruction. Given their past, allowing even a hint of her desperation to come to his ears would be a dreadful mistake.

Whirling in his arms, she pretended not to notice his blatant ardour, while her skin tingled and her blood burned its way through her veins. She lifted her chin and regarded him dispa.s.sionately. "Are you enjoying the season, Your Grace? I haven't seen you at any other ball or rout these past few weeks."

Amus.e.m.e.nt quirked his finely drawn lips. "Keeping track of me, Charlotte? I gather you only recently arrived in town yourself."

"I am honoured someone of your exalted station noticed someone as lowly as myself." She couldn't help the tinge of bitterness in her voice, remembering his cruel words delivered so coldly by his father.

"Rare beauty never escapes my lofty attention."

The wry note in his voice surprised a chuckle from her lips. At least he was honest.

He smiled, and all at once she saw a glimpse of the boy she remembered from her youth, when he'd been bookish and kind, not the cold, hard man he'd become.

But she'd been different then, too.

Plump and awkward. So innocent in her youthful adoration. Bitterness welled.

The musicians began their final flourish. She glanced around for Graves with her promised refreshment, but found herself on the other side of the dance floor and headed for the balcony doors.

"Where are you taking me?"

"The evening is warm. I thought you might like to take the air for a moment or two." He snagged two gla.s.ses of champagne from a pa.s.sing footman.

She could insist he return her to her friends. She could play the haughty widow and make a scene, but the French doors were open and other couples meandered outside in the cool air on the well-lit terrace. A moment's fresh air posed no danger.

The challenge in his gaze gave her pause. Did he mean her harm? She had to know.

Young Lord Graves would wait. She rested her gloved fingertips on the fine wool of his sleeve. "You tempt me, Your Grace."

"So I hope," he said softly.

Something inside her fluttered and stirred. Excitement. Pa.s.sion. He tantalized her senses. Wickedly. More than any man she'd ever met.

But then he always had.

They pa.s.sed through the balcony doors and into the soft glow of torches. He guided her down a flight of stone steps, along a pathway to a grotto lit by a single lantern on a stone frieze of nymphs by water. A fountain sparkled and glittered beside a stone bench. They were alone.

"Your Grace," she protested.

"Call me Gerard," he demanded. "It will be like old times."

Remember, her heart whispered.

"A time of youthful folly," she scoffed lightly, aware of his size, his hard male form in the softly shadowed small s.p.a.ce. She glanced around. "How did you find this place?" She laughed. "Of course, you have been here before."

He didn't deny her accusation, but handed her a gla.s.s of champagne. His fingers, long and strong and warm, closed around hers as she grasped the stem. An intimate gesture of possession she tried to ignore.

"To us," he said softly and guided the rim to her lips. He held it there for a heartbeat, then let her go.

Absurdly, she missed his touch. She forced a sultry smile. "To you, Your Grace," and tossed the liquid off, the froth of bubbles cool and tart on her tongue. "Now, if you will excuse me, I promised Lord Graves the next dance." She made to brush by him.

His arm caught her around the waist, swung her about to face him. "I will ride with you in the morning."

She gasped. "How did-"

He laughed softly. "I hoped you hadn't changed that much." His hands captured one of hers and he lifted it to his mouth. Even through her gloves the heat in his lips scalded her flesh and curled her toes. "Tomorrow, Charlotte."

The promise held a threat. If she didn't find a way to stop him, he was going to ruin everything. Heart pounding, she turned and fled.

Gerard trotted his mount back along Hyde Park's Rotten Row. She wasn't coming. The disappointment he felt surprised him, but not her absence. Cowardly wench.

He'd thought he'd forgotten her, but the scent of her fragrance not the perfume she wore, but her own personal essence had been as familiar in his nostrils as his own shaving soap, and far more intense.

He patted his gelding's high-arching neck. "We 'll find a way to bring her to heel, old fellow." The sound of wild galloping brought him up. A grin broke out on his face as he recognized the rider. Late then, but here. And alone. Now that was a surprise.

Perhaps not such a coward, after all.

He rode to meet her. They drew up side by side.

"The dawn is all the brighter for your presence," he said, bowing over her outstretched hand encased in York tan.

She flicked her whip. "Flirt. Don't hand me false coins, Gerard."

The sound of his name in her sweet low tones aroused his l.u.s.t.

She was lucky she'd fled the grotto so swiftly the previous evening or he might have convinced her to let him engage in more than mere banter. The attraction between them had sparked and flashed like a mighty storm striving for freedom.

"A race," she said and was off, strands of her chestnut hair flying in the wind, along with the ribbons of her fetching bonnet.

He kneed his mount and gave chase. The bigger horse gained ground and he soon overtook her. He slowed to let her catch up.

Laughing, she joined him. "He's a fine animal." She ran a glance over the gelding. "Will you sell him?"

"Not for any amount of money." But there was a price he'd let her pay.

She pouted a little and he laughed. "Walk with me while the horses cool," he said and dismounted.