Kit's friends had been urging him to join them at the race meeting for the past two weeks. Originally he'd been reluctant to agree, what with circumstances so unresolved with Eliza.

Now he couldn't wait to get away.

"See to it these are carried down," Kit's valet, Cherry, instructed a footman, pointing to a large brown leather portmanteau and another small traveling case that sat near the door. The footman collected his burden and made his way out into the hallway.

"If you need nothing further, my lord, I shall await you below."

Kit glanced at the other man. "Go on, Cherry. I'll be along directly."

The servant nodded, gathered up a last couple of items of his own and exited the room.

Kit checked the amount of money in his possession, then tucked his coin purse into his suit coat pocket. He added a small penknife and a silver brandy flask before crossing to pick up a copy of the latest racing news he planned to peruse on the journey north. Deciding he had everything he needed for his trip, he strode out into the corridor.

Not expecting to encounter anyone this time of morning, he rounded the first corner at a brisk clip and nearly collided with Eliza.

She let out a faint cry, obviously as startled as he, and took a stumbling step backward. Instinctively, he caught her, steadying her with a firm pair of hands on her upper arms. Becoming suddenly aware that he was holding her, and enjoying the sensation, he let her go, setting her away from him as if she carried the plague.

"Kit. I didn't see you." Her voice sounded breathless, no doubt from her surprise.

"Nor I you."

They stared at each other for a long moment, an awkward silence between them.

"Well, I had best be going." Kit leaned down to retrieve the copy of the racing news he had dropped onto the floor.

"Oh. Do you have an engagement?" she asked.

He nodded brusquely. "Traveling up to Newmarket for a race meeting."

"Ah."

Another uncomfortable pause settled between them.

He tried not to look directly at her but couldn't help himself, tracing hungry eyes over her face. Drawing a quick breath, he immediately regretted the action, his body tightening as her familiar fragrance wound inside his head, sweet and intoxicating as apple blossoms in the spring.

Almost violently, he squeezed the pamphlet in his hand, fighting a battle of conflicting urges-half of him wanting to shake her for agreeing to marry another man, the other half wanting to yank her into his arms and kiss her senseless, kiss her until she begged for no one and nothing but him.

He did neither, holding himself in check.

"I never offered my best wishes on your upcoming nuptials," he said, unsmiling.

Her eyelashes fanned across her cheekbones. "No, you did not."

And I'm not going to either, by God, he growled to himself.

Flattening a palm against the wall next to her head, he leaned close, effectively caging her with his much larger body. When he spoke, his voice registered barely above a whisper, sounding rough as gravel even to his own ears. "So? Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"About us? And more to the point, the fact that he won't be getting a virgin bride."

She drew in a harsh breath, her gaze wide and deeply gray. Her shoulders stiffened. "Actually, he does know."

His brows arched. "Now I am shocked. How amazingly understanding of Brevard. He's never struck me as the liberal sort. So he doesn't mind sharing you with me, does he?"

"He isn't sharing me at all. And he doesn't know it's you, not specifically. I told him there was a man. I also told him the relationship between us is over."

A jagged pain lanced through his chest, a pain that made him want to strike back. "Over, is it? I wouldn't be entirely certain of that. You may find after a few nights in his bed that you'd much rather be back in mine. If you ask nicely, I may decide to let you."

Before either of them knew what she meant to do, her hand flashed up, making solid contact with his cheek. The blow stung, but not as badly as the wound to his dignity, the damage to what remained of their old, comfortable friendship, tatters now of its former self.

Nerves raw, he moved away, cursing himself for the punishing need that still roared inside his veins. Even now, he wanted her with a hunger he could barely control, and was helpless to deny.

"I'm late and my carriage awaits me below." He executed a curt bow. "Good day, Eliza."

Forcing himself not to look at her again, he strode away.

Chapter Twenty-one.

The last days of June arrived, each one warm and long and crammed full of activity. Word of Eliza's engagement to Viscount Brevard spread quickly, like fire through an old-growth forest, an instant topic on everyone's lips.

As a result, Eliza had even less time to herself than before, deluged by a constant barrage of visits, inquiries and invitations from all manner of well-wishers and curiosity-seekers. Part of her took comfort in the frenzy since it helped keep her troubled thoughts and emotions at bay. Kept her from questioning her decision to marry Brevard. And more importantly, from dwelling on Kit, especially their last encounter with each other.

Even now she couldn't quite believe she'd slapped him. Until the moment her palm actually connected with his cheek, she hadn't realized she was capable of such an action. But Kit seemed to draw the full range of emotions from her, from sweet tenderness to raging temper.

How could he have said such things to her? Never before had she heard him be so scathing to anyone. For a second, it was as though he wanted to hurt her, as if she had injured him and he craved a measure of revenge at her expense.

But why?

Wounded pride, she supposed, his self-esteem pricked by her agreeing to marry another man so soon after his own proposal. She considered the glimpse of shock and pain she thought she'd seen in his eyes the day of the picnic, just after her engagement had been announced. Had the look been one of real distress? Surely if he did feel something more for her, he would have declared himself instead of saying such horrible things to her. Instead of making her cry.

After their confrontation, she'd fled to her room and sobbed for an hour straight. The bout of tears left her nose stuffed, her eyes swollen and her head aching so fiercely she'd had no need to prevaricate to her maid, or to Violet, about feeling unwell.

Later that evening, she had composed herself enough to attend the opera with Lance, telling herself over and over again that he would make her happy if only she would give him the chance.

And in the days to follow, he had certainly tried. No woman could ask for a more attentive bridegroom. At every turn, he went out of his way to please her, seeing to her every comfort, surprising her with one gift after another.

He'd begun first by presenting her with a magnificent diamond engagement ring, the stone so large and glittering, it drew envious comments from every woman who viewed it. And last night he'd given her a beautiful pearl and diamond bracelet to match. Ear bobs, he'd hinted, just might be next.

She gazed down upon the gemstones now and sighed.

At least the Season was nearly at an end. Soon Jeannette, Darragh and their family would return to Ireland, while she, Violet, Adrian and their children traveled to Winterlea. They would remain there for a month, then journey north to visit Lance and his sister in the Cotswolds, so she could become acquainted with her future home.

The thought made her tremble. Quite frankly, she didn't know if she was cut out to be a viscountess. Lance assured her she would do splendidly, leaving her to hope his prediction proved true.

She took comfort in knowing he didn't expect her to be a great hostess. Already he had assured her they could remain in the country much of the year, if that is what she preferred, saying that he loved the quiet, rural life.

She was lucky to be marrying him, she told herself. Lance was a marvelous man and he loved her. If only she felt the same intense devotion for him. Guilt jabbed her with a nasty finger, then poked a second time when memories of Kit flooded into her mind.

Closing her eyes, she fought to banish him from her traitorous thoughts.

"Is everything all right?" Violet asked from her place next to Eliza on a bench in the Raeburn House garden. "That's twice now that you've sighed."

"Is it?" Eliza murmured in consternation, watching the duke and his rambunctious sons playing on a nearby patch of green lawn. Adrian was giving the boys piggyback rides, much to their giggling delight.

"Indeed it is," Violet continued.

"I am fine."

A small silence followed.

"I wasn't sure," Violet said. "You have seemed...well, not always your usual, happy self lately."

"Have I not? Do not worry, I am only a touch weary of the heavy press of social rounds and obligations."

"Well, you have been running yourself ragged these past few weeks. Why don't you stay in a little more. Adrian and I shan't mind turning down a few invitations and having the occasional night at home, I assure you."

"I appreciate the suggestion, but I don't want to disappoint Lance."

"Do you think he would be disappointed? We could invite him here to take dinner with the family. I do not believe he would object."

Eliza gave a genuine smile. "No, likely not. Yes, all right, but only for an evening or two."

Violet turned her eyes forward to watch her husband and children play. "And is everything well between you and Lance? You are glad of the engagement, are you not?"

"Of course. Lance is everything a woman could want."

"And you love him, yes? I know that is what you wanted, to love and be loved in return. If you are not certain-"

"Of course I am certain. I am very much in love."

Violet reached across and squeezed her hand. Eliza smiled and said nothing further to correct her friend's mistaken assumption.

She hadn't lied, Eliza thought. She was in love. Just not with the man Violet imagined her to mean.

Kit slumped in his chair before the fire.

A few feet distant, his friends sat circled around a table in one of the inn's two private parlors, playing cards and drinking, the last of their dinner long since cleared away.

Groans of defeat rose from three of the men, while a fourth crowed in victory as he scraped his winnings toward himself.

Vickery grinned over at Kit. "Come play, Winter. We're just about to begin a new game, and I could use fresh pickings."

Kit raised his glass of port in a silent salute, then waved the other man off. "I am content to remain here with my wine. Lost too much already at the races today."

Actually he hadn't lost much at all, a pound or two in total, but he was in no mood tonight to indulge in cards. Lately he was in no mood for much of anything, and hadn't been since he'd left London. He didn't know how his friends tolerated him, he'd been in such a foul, black humor. When he'd arrived in Newmarket, he had hoped that convivial company, entertaining sport and a change of scenery would provide sufficient diversion to rid him of his impossible craving for Eliza.

But it had not. If anything, his absence from her had only made his longing increase, made the terrible melancholy inside him grow deeper and darker. During the day, he tried to ignore his discontent, but at night such attempts became impossible as he tossed against the sheets in a torment of restless frustration, unable to escape thoughts of her even in his dreams.

What was she doing tonight? he brooded. Out on the town no doubt with her fiance. He tossed back his wine and set down the glass with a sharp snap that came close to breaking the stem.

Engaged.

He still couldn't believe it, his mind even now shying away from the reality of that nightmarish day a little more than a week ago when he'd been slapped with the news.

Why in the blazes had she done it? How could she have promised to marry Brevard when she had refused Kit only a couple weeks before?

Well, if she preferred the viscount, so be it, he derided. The pair of them would probably bore each other to death with their incessant politeness and perfection, while he remained free to do as he chose without encumbrance or responsibility.

And since he was able to do as he wished, what he ought to do was go down to the inn's taproom and find a willing bed partner. There was one wench in particular who'd been giving him the eye ever since he'd arrived, smiling and flirting with him every time she sauntered near. Pretty and young, she had enough padding on her to give a man a hard, healthy ride, and a huge bosom that would surely overspill even his large, inquisitive palms.

But even as he considered the notion of taking the girl to his bed to slake his hunger, his body remained unmoved.

Instead he found himself craving another pair of breasts, smaller but utterly exquisite, with nipples the color of rose petals and skin that smelled every inch as sweet. Delicate, slender arms, legs and hands that could stroke and twine and intoxicate. And gently flaring hips that pressed against his own as if they had been formed by a divine hand, fitting in perfect accord as if their two separate bodies were meant to join as one.

Body thrumming, he forced himself to retreat from such dangerous musings. Wallowing in his present gloom would do him no earthly good. He would simply have to find a way to get over his desire for Eliza. The days and weeks would pass, and with them his near desperation for her would wane until eventually the yearning disappeared altogether. Physical passion was always like that, and so it would be again.

At least that's what he was going to tell himself.

If only he didn't have to go back to London tomorrow. But the races were finished, his friends ready to return. He supposed he could go in search of other entertainment-Selway and Lloyd were always prime for new adventures-but racketing off to another town would smack of cowardice, no more than a febrile excuse designed to put off the inevitable.

He would have to see Eliza again sometime, so he might as well get it over with as soon as may be. And perhaps if he was lucky, he would return to find her hold upon him diminished, the magnetism of her allure weakening already.

Still, he was no masochist. When the household left soon for Winterlea, he would not be traveling with them. Perhaps he would spend a few months at his country house instead, invite Brentholden and the others to go shooting with him come fall. By the time Christmas arrived and he was forced to put in an appearance at the family estate, he would be done with this insane infatuation for Eliza.

Closing his eyes, he prayed he would be over her.

Loud exclamations issued from the card table, his friends growing increasingly noisy in their exuberant play. Deciding he'd had enough company for the night, Kit climbed wearily to his feet.

"Ho there, Winter. Where are you off to?" Selway questioned, the other three men at the table turning inquiring gazes on Kit.

"If you must know, I'm off to bed."

"At this hour? It's barely midnight. Surely you can't mean to hie off to your sleep like some plaguey old man?"

"We have a long day's travel tomorrow and I'm in no mood to be miserable through it."

"You can rest in the coach," Lloyd muttered. "Best thing to do in a coach, if you ask me."

He could think of other activities, Kit mused, then wished he hadn't as heated memories of Eliza washed through him. An ugly scowl descended across his brow. "Nonetheless, bed is where I am bound."

"Sad waste, if you ask me," Selway persisted. "Surely we can coax you into playing one hand of cards."