He grasped her shoulders. "A pretty fellow, am I? Take a fit, will you? I'll show you a fit."

Before she could exhale, he clamped one hand on the back of her neck, pulled her head back, and brought his mouth down upon hers.

It was her fault, Dorian told himself. She should not have looked at him in that bone-melting way. She should not have stood so near and caught him in her scent, rich and heady as opium to his starved senses. She should have run, instead of staying so close and snaring him in awareness of the fine, porcelain purity of her skin.

He could not help yearning for that purity and softness, and then he could not keep from reaching for her.

He clamped his needy mouth upon her soft, trembling one, and the clean, sweet taste of her made him shiver-in pleasure or despair, he couldn't tell. For all he knew the chill was the emptiness inside him, ever-present, impossible to fill.

He should have stopped then, for his sanity's sake, if nothing else. He knew it was hopeless. This innocent could never sate him. No woman, no matter how experienced and skilled, had ever done it.

But her lips were so soft, warming and yielding to the pressure of his. He had to draw her nearer, seeking the warmth of her young body while he savored the untutored surrender of her innocent mouth.

He pressed her close, greedy for her warmth and softness. He pressed her to his famished body while he deepened the kiss, seeking desperately, as always, for more.

He felt her shudder, but he couldn't stop-not yet. He couldn't keep his tongue from searching the mysteries of her mouth...feminine secrets, promising everything.

Lured by scent and taste and touch, he slipped into the darkness. He stroked over her back, heard silk whisper under his fingers, and felt her shift under his touch. Then he was truly lost because she moved into his caress as though she'd done it many times before, as though she belonged in his arms, had always belonged.

Warmth...softness...sinuous curves under whispering silk, melting against him...woman-scent, enveloping him...and her skin...

He trailed his lips over her satiny cheek, and she sighed. The soft sound ignited the too-quick inner fuse of desire. His fingers found a fastening...

"If you're trying to scare me off," came her foggy voice, her breath tickling his ear, "you're going about it all wrong."

His hands stilled.

He raised his head and looked at her. Her eyes opened, and slowly her hazy green gaze sharpened into focus. His own haze instantly dissipated under that penetrating study.

"I was taking a lunatic fit," he said, aware that his thick tones told another story. He wrenched his gaze from the mesmerizing trap of hers and drew back.

Curling red tendrils had escaped their pins to tumble wildly about her flushed face and neck. Her gown was twisted askew.

He stepped back and looked at his hands, afraid to think where they'd been and what he might have done to an innocent, l.u.s.ting oaf that he was.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Why didn't you make me stop? Do you have any idea what I might have done?"

She tugged her gown back into place. "I have a very good idea," she said. "I am familiar with the mechanics of human reproduction, as I told Mama. But she felt it was her maternal duty to explain it herself."

She smoothed her bodice. "I must say, she did point out a few subtleties I was unaware of. And Genevieve, as you would expect, enlightened me further. It turned out to be not quite as simple as I thought." She pushed a few pins back into her hair. "Which is not to say I haven't experienced considerable enlightenment under your tutelage, my lord," she added quickly. "It is one thing to be told about intimate kisses. Experiencing them is another matter altogether. What are you staring at?" She looked down at herself. "Have I missed something? Is anything undone?" She turned, presenting, her slim back. "Do I need fastening?"

"No." Thank G.o.d, he added silently.

She turned back and smiled.

Her mouth was overwide. He had noticed that before...and felt and tasted every luscious atom of it.

He could not remember seeing her smile before. If he had, he would not have forgotten, for it was a long, sweet curve that coiled about him like an enchantment.

He did not know how to resist its warm promise. He did not know how to fight her and himself simultaneously. He did not know how to drive her away, as he must, when she made him want so desperately to hold her.

It seemed he did not know how to do anything.

The doc.u.ment he'd been asked to sign, the reasons they'd given him for signing, had made him face what he'd tried to ignore. He'd come, intending to scare her off for her own safety-and his peace of mind. Yet he, once capable of making hardened wh.o.r.es tremble, could not stir the smallest anxiety in her, any more than he could rouse his feeble conscience.

Once capable.

Past tense.

Before the headaches. Before the disease had begun its insidious work.

The answer came then, chilling him: the tenuous link between will and action, mind and body, was breaking down already. He was healthy and strong, she'd claimed, but that was only outwardly. His degenerating mind was already sapping his will.

He turned away, lest she read his despair in his countenance. He would master it. He needed but a moment. It had caught him unawares, that was all.

"Rawnsley."

He felt her hand upon his sleeve.

He wanted to shake it off, but he couldn't, any more than he could shake off his awareness of her. The taste of her lingered in his mouth, and her drugging scent wafted about him. He recalled the soft look in her beautiful eyes and the smile...warm promises. And he was cold, chilled to his soul.

And too selfish, too weak, he thought with bitter resignation, to let her go.

He brought his hand up and covered hers. "I do not want to go back into that curst library and listen to their solemn speeches and read their b.l.o.o.d.y doc.u.ments," he said levelly. "I signed the settlements. You'll get your hospital. That is enough. I want to be wed. Now."

She sqeezed his arm. "I'm ready," she said. "I've been ready for hours."

He looked down at her. She smiled up at him.

Warm promises.

He drew her arm through his and led her back to the house. It wanted all his will not to run. The sun was setting, evening closing in with its blessed darkness. Soon, this night, they'd be wed. Soon, they would go up to his room, to the bed. And then...G.o.d help them both.

He took her through the door and hurried her down the hall. He saw the library door standing open, the light streaming into the gloomy corridor.

He turned to speak to her-then he caught it, faint but unmistakable, at the periphery of his vision.

Tiny zigzags of light.

He blinked, but they would not wash away. They hovered, sparkling evilly, at the edges of his vision.

He shut his eyes, but he saw them still, winking their deadly warning.

He opened his eyes and they were there, inescapable, inexorable.

No, not yet. Not so soon. He tried to brush them away, though he knew it was futile.

They only signaled back, glittering, remorseless: soon, very soon.

4.

"This is your doing," Mr. Kneebones raged at Hoskins. "I told you my patient's fragile health could not withstand any strain. I told you he must be insulated from all sources of nervous agitation. No newspapers. No visitors. You saw what the news about his family did to him: three attacks in one week. Yet you let strangers descend upon him at a time when he was most vulnerable And now-"

"A man become a peer of the realm, he ought to know about it," Hoskins said. "And attacks or no attacks, it was a relief to him to learn the old gentleman couldn't trouble him anymore. And as to letting in strangers, I reckon I can tell the difference between a friend and an enemy. Even if I couldn't, I'd like to see you shut the door in Lady Pembury's face-and her the grandmother of the only friend my master ever had. Maybe it wasn't my place to tell her what was wrong with him, but I judged it best to warn her beforehand that he wasn't as strong as he looked, and his nerves weren't what they used to be."

"Which means they should not have been subjected to any source of agitation," Kneebones snapped.

"With all due respect, sir, you never clapped eyes on him until a few weeks ago," Hoskins said. "You may be qualified to judge his medical condition, but you don't know his character or his wishes. I've had more than nine months to learn, and I promise you, the last thing he wishes is to be treated like a vaporish female." He glanced at Gwendolyn. "Meaning no offense, my lady."

"None taken," she said. "I've never succ.u.mbed to vapors in my life."

The middle-aged veteran smiled.

Kneebones glared at her.

He'd been glowering at her ever since she'd summoned him into the drawing room, after he'd visited his patient. They had not spoken together ten minutes before hostilities broke out. Hoskins, waiting outside in the hall, had hurried in and leapt to her defense, unware she didn't need defending.

Still, that had not been unproductive. The man servant's skirmish with the doctor had clarified several matters, and heaven knew Gwendolyn needed as much enlightenment as she could get.

Rawnsley seemed determined to keep her completely in the dark about his illness.

She had noticed something was wrong within minutes of their returning to the house, after the episode in the garden. During the following hours, while Gwendolyn was marshalling everyone into order, she had watched the earl change. By the time of the ceremony, his voice had settled into a monotone...while his movements became painfully slow and careful, as though he were made of gla.s.s and might shatter at any moment.

The fingers slipping the wedding ring onto hers had been deathly cold, the nails chalk white.

Only after it was done, though, and they had signed their names as husband and wife, had Rawnsley told her he had a headache and was going to bed.

She'd sent her relatives away, as he'd asked, saying the earl needed absolute quiet.

He had spent his wedding night in bed with his laudanum bottle. He had locked his bedroom door, refusing to let even Hoskins in.

This morning, Gwendolyn had taken up the earl's breakfast herself. When she tapped at the door and called softly to him, he told her to stop the infernal row and leave him alone.

Since the servants hadn't seemed unduly alarmed by his behavior, she'd waited patiently until late afternoon before sending for Kneebones.

After the doctor left the room, the patient's door had been locked again-and Kneebones refused to discuss his condition with her.

Gwendolyn regarded the physician composedly, ignoring his threatening expression. Medical men had been glowering and glaring and fuming at her for years. "I should like to know what dosage of laudanum you have prescribed," she said. "I cannot get into my husband's room to determine for myself, and I am most uneasy. It is all too easy for a patient in extreme pain to lose track of how much he's taken and when he last took it. Laudanum intoxication rarely improves either calculating abilities or memory."

"I'll thank you not to tell me my business, madam," Kneebones said stiffly. "I have discussed the benefits and risks with my patient-for all the good that does him now, after what he's been subjected to. One shock after another-capped by a hurry-up wedding to a female he doesn't know from Adam. It was as good as killing him outright. You might as well have taken a hammer to his skull."

"I have discerned no symptoms of shock," Gwendolyn said. "What I have observed-"

"Ah, yes, during your lengthy acquaintance with His Lordship," Kneebones said with a cold glance at Hoskins. "My lady has known him all of what-thirty-six hours, if that?"

Gwendolyn suppressed a sigh. She would get nowhere with him. He was like virtually every other physician-with the blessed exception of Mr. Eversham-she'd ever encountered. How they resented being questioned! And how they loved to be mysterious and all-knowing. Very well. She could play that game, too.

"I noticed that the hallucinations were of very brief duration," she said.

Kneebones started. He recovered in an instant, his expression wary.

She could have told him she'd been trained to observe, but she said nothing of her background or of the conclusions she'd drawn after noticing the way Rawnsley had angrily blinked, and brushed at the air near his face, as though trying to clear cobwebs. If Kneebones chose to keep her in the dark, he must expect the same treatment.

She gave him the faintest of smiles. "Did His Lordship not tell you, sir? I am a witch. But I must not waste your valuable time. You have other sickbeds to attend, I know-and I must set my cauldron aboil...and look about for a fresh batch of eye of newt."

Kneebones's mouth set in a grim line, and without another word, he stalked out.

Gwendolyn met Hoskins's quiet gaze.

"I don't know the dosage," he said. "All I know is what the bottle looks like-and there's more than one."

Dorian awoke from a restless, nightmare-plagued sleep to nightmarish pain.

His head pounded relentlessly. His insides churned, raw with bile.

Slowly, carefully, he inched up to a sitting position and reached for the bottle on the nightstand. He put it to his lips.

Empty.

Already? he wondered dully. Had he finished it off in a single night? Or had several nights pa.s.sed in the oppressive haze of pain and opiates?

It didn't matter.

He had seen the silvery wraiths again. Today, they'd slowly closed in from the peripheries and shimmered everywhere he looked. He had watched the wedding preparations through sparkling ripples undulating in the air like waves in a ghostly sea.

Then, finally, the silver shards had vanished from his vision and sliced into his skull like white-hot blades.

Now he understood why his mother had claimed the "ghosts" had vicious talons, and why she'd screamed and torn at her hair. She had been trying to rip the wicked claws away.

Even he had trouble reminding himself there were neither ghosts nor claws, that it was all a sick fancy.

He wondered how much longer he would be able to distinguish between sick fancy and reality, how long before he began confusing those about him with ghosts and demons-and attacked them in mindless rage.

But he would not, he told himself. Kneebones had promised that the laudanum would quiet him, quelling the delusions along with the pain.

Dorian edged closer to the nightstand and opened the door. He reached in and found the porcelain cylinder.

He took it onto his lap and pried off the lid.

The narrow bottle, nestled in a wooden cloth, lay within.

The elixir of peace...perhaps eternal.