She had tried to remain aloof from the arrogant rake, but he had to go and be insufferably clever and charming and witty, and good God was he handsome! Ah, but she knew what he was about. At five and twenty, she was well acquainted with the signs of subtle seduction-reading her palm, indeed! It galled her to think that she might still succumb to such adolescent games!

"Ah. See this line? It means you will love well and be well loved in return," he said, and lifted his raven eyes to hers.

"Rather, you wish that's what it meant."

"You've no idea how much," he easily agreed, and dropped his gaze to her palm again as he languidly traced the line with the tips of his fingers, his touch feather light. Her skin tingled deliciously, and she recalled. Beatrice Heather-Pratt, the wife of the invidious Viscount Dillbey, whispering to her, 'Wo man can pleasure a woman like Kettering-dear me, what that man can do with his hands!" This, she had said breathlessly to Claudia as she tried to adjust her coif, having just come from the closed morning room at a Harrison Green party. She and Beatrice had been standing along one wall, both of them surreptitiously watching Kettering saunter across the crowded room like a bantam cock upon his exit from the very same morning room.

"And this line means you will live a long life, apparently with many grandchildren to comfort you in your old age."

Her skin was on fire.

"What nonsense, your palmistry!" she scoffed, and withdrew her hand.

"Perhaps, but I think there is something to be said for it. After all, one's skin reveals many things about one's character."

Her scalp prickled; she took a gulp of wine. "By one's skin?" she asked, feeling a little light-headed.

"Yes, indeed." He leaned forward, only inches from her face, and peered closely. "For example, the fine lines around a woman's eyes," he murmured, lifting his hand to brush her temple, "tell a man that she likes to laugh, that she is happy." Heat shot down Claudia's neck and into her chest as he traced a line around the corner of her eye. "And the fine lines around her mouth," he continued, his gaze and his finger dropping to her lips, "tell a man when she is not happy." He touched the corner of her mouth so lightly that Claudia's pulse was suddenly racing. Impossibly, he leaned closer. He meant to kiss her. Her mind screamed to pull back, but Claudia froze, unable to stop him, wanting him to touch her with his lips- "Pardon, monsieur."

Claudia started, her cheeks flaming, but Julian calmly leaned back and removed his hand from her cheek, his gaze still riveted on her lips. "Oui?"

The innkeeper reported something in rapid-fire French.

"Merci," Julian said, his gaze still locked on her. "It would seem the Maiden's Heart is ready for boarding."

"Oh! That's very good news," she blustered clumsily, and looked down as she tried to fit her hand into a glove that Julian had somehow coaxed off her. The innkeeper said something more, and by the time Claudia had managed to stuff her hand into the tight kid leather glove, Julian had come to his feet, was shoving a hand through the thick tousle of his hair as the innkeeper walked away. He regarded her rather sheepishly. "We've a bit of a problem, I'm afraid."

She didn't like the sound of that.

"It would seem we owe the man a little more than a franc. Claims we drank from his finest stock," he said, and motioned lamely toward the empty bottle.

Judging by the trouble she was having getting to her feet, Claudia thought that she in particular had drunk from his finest stock. Grasping the table for support, she hauled herself up, smiled broadly at Julian, and could have sworn she heard something very much like a groan. "Claudia . . . it's rather a long story, but the short of it is, I'm afraid you find me without my purse." She blinked.

He frowned. "I have no money."

That sobered her. A thousand things tumbled through her mind, not the least of which was the distasteful notion that he had insisted on keeping her company because he had no money. And exactly how was it that one of the richest men in England could find himself in such a predicament? She did not want to know. "I see," she said, and snatched up her reticule.

"No, you really don't."

She raked a look across him, and with surprising dexterity given her state, managed to pull open the little bag and produce several coins that she tossed onto the table.

"That is very kind of you," he muttered.

"Think nothing of it," she responded tightly. The man was a rake, had always been and undoubtedly would remain so for the rest of his bloody life! She should have known his interest was insincere, his attentions self-serving!

She stooped to fetch her portmanteau, but Julian was there before her, and easily hoisted it onto his shoulder. "Please allow me," he said, balancing himself with his small satchel in his other hand.

Oh, but she already had. She had allowed him to make a fool of her. Again. Claudia started walking- weaving, really-out the door, her heart thumping angrily in her chest, and marched indignantly down the pedestrian walkway toward the pier.

"Claudia, I'm as anxious to get to England as you, believe me, but I can't fly," he said somewhere behind her.

She realized she was practically sprinting and stopped, folded her arms across her chest, and glared out across the Avant-port. Julian paused to catch his breath, adjusting the heavy bag on his shoulder. "It's not what you think," he said, reading her mind. Bloody hell if it wasn't.

"The Captain has my purse- and my pistol-it's Renault's way of aggravating me. When we reach Newhaven, I'll repay your generosity, every last franc of it."

"You must think my manners quite appalling if you think I would begrudge a fellow traveler some wine," she said in her best aristocratic voice. "There is the Maiden's Heart," she quickly interjected before he could speak further, and marched onward, not caring if he kept up or not.

Fortunately, the captain was the same one who had brought her to France, and was quick to show her to his best cabin-a small, airless pocket, really. Lying on the hammock that served as a bed, Claudia battled herself, trying not to think about The Rake. That man was one of the original Rogues of Regent Street, a libertine with a nasty reputation for breaking hearts, a ruthless charmer. Her biggest mistake was sharing a bottle of wine with him in the first place.

That was true in more ways than one, she realized as soon as the ship began to move. She'd never been terribly good at sea, particularly in the fast little clippers, and with a good amount of wine in her, she was feeling ill before the ship had hardly put to sea. She tried to brave it as best she could, but an hour into the voyage, she was in desperate need of air.

She hurried up onto the deck, smiled thinly at two sailors who were coiling a rope as thick as a man's arm, and frantically sought a place where she might be alone. On the lee side of the ship, she found a spot that seemed about as private as one could hope, and leaned over the railing, taking deep gulps of the salt air. That helped to steady her roiling stomach, and after a few moments, she was feeling much improved, her head clearer. She glanced up; the night sky formed a brilliant canopy above her. The full moon illuminated their course and stars glittered like diamonds suspended from the heavens. It was a vast, natural wonder that she never tired of, and for a few moments, she forgot everything else.

"Few things are as breathtakingly beautiful as a starlit night on the Channel."

Slowly, she lowered her head and turned toward the sound of his voice. He was standing several feet away with one foot propped on a barrel, his arm resting on his knee, and a cheroot dangling carelessly from his hand. He had loosened his collar and untied the neckcloth; in the moonlight, the tails of it fairly glowed down the front of his chest. He dragged on the cheroot; its tip flared red hot against the backdrop of the night before he flicked the remainder over the railing. "I know of only one other sight with the power to seize my heart so."

A good Scotch whiskey and a demimondaine at Madame Farantino's, she would wager.

Julian dropped his foot from the barrel and, shoving his hands in his pockets, strolled toward her. "There is another beauty that takes my breath away time and again."

Perhaps it was the starry night or the lingering warmth of the wine-Claudia didn't know exactly-but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

She laughed-a rather loud belly laugh.

One of his thick brows floated upward, but he kept on, closing the distance between them. Her heart did a strange little flutter, an internal warning of danger. It was the wine. It was the wine making her heart beat so.

She laughed again.

"And now," he said softly, ignoring her snicker, "I see that beauty in the moonlight." He lifted his hand to touch her neck; Claudia flinched as if he'd scorched her. A smug smile curved his lips, and he leaned into her so that she could feel his breath on her neck. "I see that beauty in the moonlight, and I am compelled by an unearthly desire to hold it in my arms," he murmured.

And the sudden desire to be held in his arms stunned her-Claudia promptly took one very large step backward. "My, my," she said behind a nervous little laugh, "I thought I had drunk most of the wine, but apparently, my lord, you indulged in a goblet or two. You must think me terribly naive."

"Naive? No. Innocent, yes."

"Not so innocent that I don't know what you are doing."

He grinned. "I wear my admiration openly." And his gaze casually swept the length of her as if to prove it. "You are as stunning in moonbeams as you are by morning's light, Claudia."

With a shout of laughter, Claudia wildly shook her head. "Please God, would you stop? I'm quite fearful you will cause me to snap a rib or some such injury."

"I can't stop."

Curse her knees, but they were starting to shake, giving credence to the ridiculous theory circulating around London salons that his smile could actually melt a woman. "Look here, I know what men are about, and I am not a wanton, Julian."

"Ah, so you do remember my name," he said as he took another step toward her. And another. There was suddenly nothing but a sliver of moonlight between them. "So tell me, fair Claudia, what are men about?"

She knew exactly what they were about, but she was having trouble speaking up at the moment because his dark eyes were piercing hers, boring down into her, past the facade of propriety and well into the very core of the heat that was suddenly creeping into her neck and face. "P-pleasure," she stammered.

"Hmm," he mused, and one hand appeared from behind his back to clasp her elbow. "Not a bad pursuit all in all. Perhaps," he said thoughtfully as the other hand snaked very casually around her waist, "you are a bit jealous of men and all that pleasure?"

She would have protested, but she was caught off guard by the grain of truth in his statement, and besides, his head descended so quickly that she was being swept away on a tide of pleasure before she even knew what had happened. The soft pressure of his lips on hers threw her completely off balance and turned everything upside down; she lost all sense of reason when his tongue touched the seam of her lips, at once shaping and devouring them. The faint taste of tobacco mingled with the masculine smell of him, and the tingling sensation in her lips was suddenly spreading like wild fire through her entire body.

His hands came up and cupped her face; through no accord of her own, Claudia opened her mouth beneath his, and he thrust his tongue deep inside, swirling over her teeth, the soft skin inside her cheeks, around her tongue. She stumbled backward-he caught her with an arm tight around her back and crushed her to him.

Never in her wildest dreams did she think a kiss could be so shamelessly erotic! Her body squirmed for more, all of a sudden pushing against him, her hands around his neck, her tongue darting around his. It felt as if she had drifted into a strange fog and she was suddenly pushed up against the railing, his thigh wedged deep between hers while his tongue thrust into her mouth in an ancient rhythm she instinctively understood and responded to in kind. His hand fell to her leg and he grasped a handful of her skirts, inching the brocade up. A primordial warning sounded in Claudia's fogged mind and she tried to push his hand away.

Julian responded by hoisting her up until she was sitting on the railing, her legs on either side of him, one of his sinewy arms anchoring her firmly to him. With his free hand, he gathered her skirts until his hand found her leg beneath.

If it weren't for his iron grip around her, Claudia would have tumbled right into the sea and drowned in a state of happy delirium. The gentle caress on the inside of her knee-the forbidden touch of a man-sent a current of desire through her that culminated in a raw, moist heat between her legs. Her heart thrashed madly about in her chest and, scarcely able to breathe, she gasped against his mouth. Julian dragged his lips from hers and buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Let me show you pleasure, Claudia," he murmured. "Let me show you pleasure you've never dreamed of."

The passion in his voice made her shudder. But though her body ached for more- begged for more-her conscience squeaked a faint protest. This was Julian Dane, a man who had once crushed her tender heart and then killed her intended, no matter how much she didn't want to think of that now. Julian was right-she might be innocent, but she wasn't naive.

His skill at seduction far surpassed that of any man she had ever known and it frightened her to know how quickly and easily she had surrendered to it. But he was still a rogue polished in the art of seducing women, and the sensual words whispered in her ear were firm evidence of it.

"Let me down," she muttered.

A moment's hesitation and he lifted her from the railing, held her against him while her body slid through his arms till she stood. He didn't let her go immediately, but kissed her forehead and the place on her cheek rubbed raw from the bristle of his beard. "Where is your cabin?"

Claudia shoved against his chest, clearly startling him. "I won't be one of your conquests. I will not be swayed by your charms! Save your kisses for someone who wants them, Julian." And with that, she stepped free of him and walked away, silently castigating herself for being so weak and almost yielding to his charms. What a fool she could be! There was not a more celebrated rogue in all of England! What, would she fall into a man's arms just because he spoke prettily to her? Certainly not, and least of all his arms!

She despised him!

She did, didn't she?

Four.

BERKELEY STREET, LONDON.

MARSHALL WHITNEY, THE Earl of Redbourne, had just returned from St. James Palace and was holding his own court in the south drawing room of his rather impressive town house on Berkeley Street. The men of the King's Privy Council gathered here every afternoon at precisely six o'clock, and Randall, the earl's butler, served brandies all around.

That's where Claudia found her father upon arrival from Newhaven, where the Maiden's Heart had weighed anchor that morning in a steady downpour. Claudia's father and his guests came to their feet the moment they saw her. "I wasn't expecting you today, moppet," he said as she ignored his outstretched hand and embraced him. "I understood you would remain at Madame Renault's another fortnight."

"Renault's aunt is failing, and I felt rather in the way," she said, and pressed her cheek to her father's shoulder.

"Ah, pity, that. You shall tell me all about your little adventure into France over supper." He stepped back, out of her embrace, and smiled. "You know my guests?"

She dipped a polite curtsy. "Good afternoon, Your Grace," she said to the Duke of Dartmoor.

"Lady Claudia," he mumbled with a quick bob of his head.

"My Lord Hatcliffe, how good to see that your ankle is much improved."

The smaller of the two men, Lord Hatcliffe smiled sheepishly and wiggled his ankle. "Much improved indeed, my lady. Nasty twist of the thing."

"My dear, you will want to rest now," her father interjected, and grasping her elbow, steered her toward the door and rapped softly. It was immediately swung open by a footman who stood ready to attend. "Rest now, and I shall see you at supper," he said, and releasing her elbow, turned back into the room. "Randall?" As the door swung shut, Claudia saw him motion his guests to be seated as he resumed his seat, extending his hand so that Randall could fill it with his snifter.

Dismissed. It was the same scene that had been played out hundreds of times in this house and one that never failed to embarrass her. She was to retire to her rooms, fret over hats and gowns and teas while they, the men, talked about the king and the affairs of the monarchy, and reforms and- "Madam? Shall I ring for your maid?"

She realized she was still standing in the corridor, staring at the closed oak door. Claudia glanced at the footman from the corner of her eye. "Thank you, Richard, that won't be necessary." Pivoting on her heel, she marched smartly down the corridor.

Even the footmen were trained to think her helpless and fragile, she thought irritably as she bounced up the wide, curving staircase to the floors above. Fragile and empty-headed and useful for only one thing in particular. Ah, but it was the way of the man's world-a little fact of life she had never realized until Phillip was gone.

. She supposed that at the very least, she could thank the Rake for waking her up to the inequities between men and women.

That, and the passion between them.

Claudia paused at the door of her suite and laid her forehead against the cool oak as she recalled that wondrous, searing kiss. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about it for even a moment all day, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw his tousled hair, the glitter in his black eyes, the dark stubble on his chin. Worse, she felt him-oh God, she felt him-his hands on her skin, his tongue in her mouth, his breath in her ear. . ..

She abruptly straightened and frowned at the door. She had never felt such gut-wrenching yearning for Phillip. Phillip! Lord above, she was making herself insane! Shoving the heavy door open, she stepped across the threshold and headed straight for her bedchamber, not bothering to ring for her maid. She peeled off her pelisse, untied the sash at her waist, and unbuttoned the front of her travelling gown as she went, then collapsed, facedown, on her bed.

There he was again. That devilish smile haunted her mind's eye. Why did he have to charm her so? Why must he be such a rotten rogue? Seeing him again in France had dredged up old feelings for him that she had thought long dead. If he hadn't kissed her like that, she was quite certain she could have buried them again. She had to bury them, because, unfortunately, the passage of time has not really changed her opinion: Julian Dane had led Phillip on that fatal course with no regard for anyone but himself, and least of all, her. But then, he had made it quite clear that she was not worthy of Phillip's affections . . . just as he had once made it abundantly clear she was not worthy of his.

All right. In truth-not that she would ever admit it- no one was more surprised than she when she caught Phillip's eye at the Sutherland ball. It had astounded her that Lord Rothembow, one of the Rogues of Regent Street, the elite of the ton's most eligible bachelors, would be interested in her. As charming as he reputedly was reckless, he was a figure bigger than life to her, terribly handsome with his blond curls and laughing blue eyes. She had thoroughly enjoyed his attentions, but who wouldn't? In the beginning, Phillip made her feel as if she meant something to him, as if she were important. He escorted her to a number of events, gave her trinkets as a token of his admiration, and seemed truly genuine in his affection.

Naturally, it hadn't been very long before her friends were whispering that Phillip would offer for her. Even Phillip hinted at it once-nothing very direct, really, but just a casual remark of their future together. God knew she was certainly open to the possibility. Rather hoped for it, actually. But then, in the last few weeks of his life, Phillip grew distant-even belligerent-and that could only be blamed on the Almighty Lord Kettering. She remained quite convinced that Phillip never would have fallen so far had it not been for him. Even that horrible, wretched night Phillip had called unexpectedly, well into his cups-even then he had been out with Julian.

That night was her worst memory. Phillip was obviously quite inebriated, although he was usually a master at masking it. But she hadn't really known just how inebriated until she did not receive him as ardently as he thought she should. Angered, he had lunged at her, trapping her against the door in an attempt to force her affection.

A shiver ran down Claudia's spine as she recalled how he had shoved his hand into her bodice, cruelly squeezing her breast while his other hand groped for the most private part of her. Fear had quickly turned to terror when she could not stop him, could not stop him from taking her like that, in her father's house, like a whore. . . .

By some miracle, she had managed to wrench her arm free and slap him, hard, with every ounce of strength she possessed. Stunned by the blow, Phillip had staggered backward as he lifted a hand to his face. And then he had laughed. Had laughed at her in that same indolent way Julian had laughed when she insisted Phillip cared deeply for her.

She never saw Phillip again. He was dead a scant two weeks later, having followed Julian Dane and the others to some remote hunting lodge for a weekend of debauchery.

Adrian Spence pulled the trigger, but Julian Dane put him in the line of fire.

And she could not, would not, forgive it, no matter how hotly he made her blood run.

But really, with the extraordinary exception of last night, he had never shown her the slightest bit of attention in all the years she had known him. If anything, he had run with horror in the other direction. She couldn't help but recall the summer of her twelfth year and the night she had done the unthinkable by kissing him full on the lips. She scarcely had a moment to wonder at her own madness before he jerked her away from him so hard that her arms felt as if they had been yanked from their sockets. "If you ever do something so foolish again, I will send you home at once with a letter explaining to your father exactly why you are being sent home from Kettering Hall!" he snapped in a terrifying voice.

Her stomach had twisted with the horror of her mistake, and she had whirled away from him, fleeing the terrace with tears of shame blinding her.

Thirteen years later and it was still a painful memory.

Claudia restlessly pushed herself off the bed and crossed to the window.

Even though she continued on at Kettering Hall each summer, she saw him less frequently after that-rarely, if at all, by the time she was grown. But oh, how she had relished the many rumors that circulated about the Rogues of Regent Street! Julian was considered the most handsome scoundrel among them, the one who could turn a woman to butter with just a smile, which he apparently did with alarming frequency-if one listened to gossip, one would think he changed his attentions as often as he changed his shirt. Of course, now that she was older and more experienced in the ways of the world, Claudia understood men like Julian ultimately loved themselves above all else.

Devil take him.

Oh, all right. She had seen a different Julian when Valerie died. The Julian who stood vigil at Valerie's coffin in the black-draped drawing room as friends and family came to pay their last respects. He would not eat or drink for two days. When Louis Renault tried to coax him to come away, if only to rest, he had lashed out in grief, assailing those around him, begging them to leave him be.