A pleasurable shiver raced through Rachel as she instinctively realized she was pressed next to the mysterious Mr. Clarke. Just for a moment she allowed her hand to rest upon the contoured muscles of his chest, the male heat swirling about her. Then slowly she tilted back her head to meet the black gaze, unprepared for the strange jolt of awareness that had her hastily stepping back.

She was uncertain what had just occurred. Over the past few years she had encountered countless gentlemen. Some charming, some witty, and some wickedly dangerous. But none had actually managed to flutter her heart until now.

Telling herself that she was being ridiculous, Rachel summoned an apologetic smile.

"Forgive me. I fear that I was not paying proper heed to where I was going."

Expecting the usual expression of dazzled delight, she was intrigued when the dark gaze merely made a lazy survey of her perfect features.

"Understandable under the circumstances."

She gave a rueful grimace. "You witnessed that horrid scene?"

"Difficult not to."

"Yes, I suppose. I possess a dreadful temper."

A faint smile touched the generously carved lips. "I believe that you were suitably provoked."

Provoked? Rachel clenched her hands beneath the cloak. Lady Broswell had thrown down the gauntlet. Clearly she hoped Rachel was too cowardly to accept her challenge.

"That harridan," she muttered. "I shall make her sorry."

"Ah, I thought as much. Miss Cresswell, may I offer you a warning?"

She met the deep black gaze with a small frown, barely noting the fact that he obviously knew her identity. "What do you mean?"

"The path of revenge is rarely fulfilling. You would be better served forgetting Lady Broswell's insults."

"Not on this occasion. It is high time the woman learned a lesson in common manners."

Slender fingers reached up to softly stroke her heated cheek. "Such a b-beautiful lady should be enjoying her life, not dwelling upon retribution for meaningless slights."

Delighted by the sensations of his gentle touch, she gazed at him in surprise.

"You have a stutter."

"Yes, I have noticed," he said in dry tones.

"Oh, I am sorry."

His hand dropped as he gave a vague shrug. "F-for what? You spoke nothing but the truth."

"I think it is charming," Rachel informed him sincerely. There was something very enticing about that low, smoky voice, even with its faint stutter.

He gave a low chuckle at her artless words. "You are a delicious minx and far too aware of your own powers, my dear." His hand once again rose to trace the outline of her lips. Rachel's heart shuddered at the brief caress. "But have a care. I should not like to see you hurt by the flames of your own passions."

Perhaps for the first time in her life Rachel felt that she was out of her depth. Always before she had set out her lures and calmly watched as her prey entangled themselves. It was a game she had played on a hundred occasions. Now, she wondered who precisely was the prey.

Her thoughts were disturbed as a footman stepped into the foyer. The carriage had arrived and she suddenly realized that she did not wish this moment to end. What if she never saw him again?

"Mr. Clarke?" she said urgently.

"Yes?"

"I should like to see your inventions someday."

He smiled, but his expression was inscrutable. "Perhaps."

She bit her lip, not at all satisfied with his vague response. Was it possible that he did not feel the same tingling excitement that she did? The thought was rather sobering. And more than a little provoking.

Still, with the footman hovering at her side she could do nothing more than sweep an elegant curtsy and follow the servant to the waiting carriage.

She should be considering how best to carry out her revenge, she chided herself as she stepped into the chilled February night. It was no time to be distracted by a pair of midnight eyes and a voice of smoke.

Even if he did send chills down her spine.

Anthony Clarke remained in the shadows as the bewitching Miss Cresswell swept from the foyer.

A smile curved his lips.

He had not wanted to come to the opera this evening. Indeed, it had only been a direct command from his great-aunt that had prodded him to make a reluctant appearance among society. Now he realized he owned the old tartar his gratitude.

It had been far too long since he had experienced the sharp thrill of desire, he acknowledged. For the past few years he had devoted his attention to his various inventions. Not only was he fascinated by the process of using his hands to create the ideas that hovered in the back of his mind, but it provided a welcome distraction from the aimless social rounds and gaming hells that dominated the lives of most gentlemen in his position. It also kept him too occupied to be plagued by the endless fortune hunters who had hovered about him like vultures since coming to London.

Perhaps he had been a bit too determined to avoid society, he admitted with a tingle of anticipation. Although he had heard rumors of the dashing Miss Cresswell, and of course, her father who was a wanted criminal, he had never expected her to be quite so intriguing.

Certainly she was a minx with a brash confidence in her potent charm. But there was also a hint of sweet vulnerability in the depths of those magnificent hazel eyes. And a wild passion that would tempt a saint.

Yes, indeed, it was obvious he would have to put aside his inventions for the moment.

It was high time he indulged a few of his less intellectual senses.

"There you are, Anthony," an impatient voice broke into his musings. "What are you doing skulking in the shadows?"

Turning his head, Anthony regarded his cousin, Lord Varnwell, with a half smile. As always the young dandy was attired in a painfully bright waistcoat with a cravat that threatened to engulf half his face. Anthony had attempted to instill a trace of restraint in his relative's unfortunate choice in fashion, but his efforts had thus far proved to be sadly ineffective.

Still, Varnwell was a pleasant, if trifle stupid young man and Anthony was fond of him.

"You would b-be amazed what you can discover in the shadows."

A sly expression settled upon the youthful features. "Such as the delectable Miss Cresswell?"

Anthony crossed his arms over his chest. "She is delectable."

"Egads, do not tell me that you have at last encountered a female who can stir that cold heart?" Lord Varnwell teased.

"Just because I allow myself to be led by logic rather than lust does not mean I possess a cold heart."

"I do not think you were pondering logic when you were flirting with the Cresswell wench."

Anthony recalled the raw heat that had flared through him when Miss Cresswell had slammed into his arms. He slowly smiled. It was a heat he was anxious to rekindle.

"N-not entirely."

"Perhaps you will have more luck than the rest of us in bedding the chit." Lord Varnwell sighed, blithely unaware of the tightening of his cousin's mouth. "She has proved to be annoyingly elusive, but I doubt even she could resist your scandalous fortune."

"Must you be so crude?" Anthony snapped, uncertain whether he was angered at the insult to Miss Cresswell or the implication that his only attraction lay in a nearby bank.

Lord Varnwell was instantly contrite. "Forgive me. I just assumed that you were seeking a new mistress. You have given Pandora her conge, have you not?"

His anger became resignation. Bloody hell. It did not seem to matter how diligently he avoided society, it appeared that his movements were still open to speculation. Of course, he inwardly acknowledged, he had known when he had decided to put an end to his lengthy involvement with the elegantly beautiful widow there was bound to be some gossip. The aloof Spanish beauty was one of the most sought-after women in London. The fact that he had willingly ended their liaison was certain to raise brows.

In truth, Anthony had simply grown bored. Although Pandora's cool composure and dislike of excessive emotions had suited his desire for an undemanding companion, he had discovered their occasional interludes becoming increasingly tedious. Ice was all very well and good, but he suddenly realized that he longed for a taste of fire.

Perhaps the fire that shimmered about Miss Cresswell.

"You possess an inordinate interest in my private affairs, Varnwell," he said in soft tones.

"It is entirely your fault," his cousin complained. "If you were not so devilishly secretive about your affairs then the rest of us would not be consumed with curiosity."

"You would prefer that I b-boast of my conquests with all and sundry at the club?"

"It is the accepted practice of most gentlemen."

Anthony's lips twisted. "I rarely bother myself with what is the accepted practice."

"True enough," Varnwell readily agreed. "Still, Miss Cresswell would be a tasty morsel. If you are not interested then I shall continue my pursuit."

The dark eyes narrowed. "You believe her to be open to a liaison?"

"Why else make such a push into society? She can not hope for a respectable offer."

"Why not?"

"Gads, she is the daughter of the Devilish Dandy, the most notorious criminal in England."

"So are her sisters and they have both managed to contract eligible proposals."

Realization dawned with painful slowness. "I say, you are right. Did not one land the Flawless Earl?"

"And the other Lord Hartshore."

"Damn. You believe her to be dangling for a proposal?"

"I haven't the least notion."

Varnwell heaved a deep sigh. "I knew she was too good to be true."

Anthony's gaze shifted to the door through which Miss Cresswell had so recently disappeared.

Was she too good to be true?

Beautiful, passionate, intelligent, and yet utterly innocent beneath her pretense of sophistication?

It was something that he was determined to discover.

Two.

Rachel stifled a yawn as the carriage rattled over the narrow road. She disliked traveling. After several hours on the road her elegant carriage gown was wrinkled and her toes nearly frozen. Even worse she was thoroughly and utterly bored. Only the knowledge that she would soon have her plans of revenge set in motion prevented her from commanding the coachman to return her immediately to the comfort of London.

With an effort she attempted to soothe herself with thoughts of watching the shock and horror upon Lady Broswell's countenance when she discovered that Rachel was to be her close neighbor for the next few weeks.

Along with the Devilish Dandy.

A faint smile curved her chilled lips. In truth she had never intended to accept the invitation to Miss Carlfield's upcoming engagement ball. Although she was very fond of dear Violet, she possessed an abiding dislike for country house parties where one was forced to endure the same guests for days on end. Not to mention the tedious country assemblies, musicales, and teas that were unavoidable. But the knowledge that Broswell Park was less than a mile from Mr. Carlfield's home had swiftly changed her mind. She was about to prove to Lady Broswell that she was far more welcome among Surrey society than she and her pasty-faced daughters.

Across the carriage a tall, leanly muscular gentleman, with gray-streaked dark hair pulled into a tail at his neck, stirred. Attired in an elegant blue coat and silver waistcoat, Solomon Cresswell appeared far too subdued for the Devilish Dandy. Only the brilliant green eyes sparkled with the familiar wicked amusement.

Rachel had not requested that her father accompany her to Surrey. She disliked the notion of him exposing himself in such a manner.

Granted, for years he had kept his criminal activities a secret. Although everyone throughout England and Europe had heard of the dashing and rather romantic Devilish Dandy, his identity was unknown.

Unfortunately that had all changed when a common thug had fingered Solomon as the notorious thief. Without warning, her father had been hauled to Newgate to await the hangman's noose. It had been no less than a miracle that her father had managed to escape unscathed.

Thankfully, the authorities had kept her father well secluded from the curious crowds that had surrounded the prison, hoping for a glimpse of the scandalous thief. Less than a handful had actually caught a glimpse of the Devilish Dandy.

Still, the mere fact that all of England knew that Solomon Cresswell was the Devilish Dandy deepened Rachel's fear he would be recognized. And being in her company would only increase the chance that someone might realize the obvious.

But her father had been adamant. Young ladies did not travel about the countryside on their own, he insisted. And she did not doubt he inwardly worried just how far she might take her desire for revenge.

"Well, my dearest," her father drawled, "we have almost reached our destination. Are you certain you wish to continue onward?"

Rachel lifted her chin in determination. "Of course. I have tolerated enough of Lady Broswell's insults and attempts to shame me out of society."

"You do realize, Rachel, that Lady Broswell is merely attempting to punish me for possessing the audacity to fall in love with her sister? She will never forgive me for sweeping Rosalind away from that debauched marquis that they had chosen for her. As the beauty in the family Rosalind was expected to barter herself for the sake of the family. Which was no doubt why they put out that Rosalind had died rather than admit she had married a gentleman quite beneath her."

Rachel's lips tightened. She did not like being reminded that she was in any way related to Lady Broswell. It was the fact they had driven her father out of the country that had forced him to become a thief to support his wife and growing family. And after all these years only her mother's brother, Lord Scott, revealed the least amount of remorse.

"So you agree that she needs to be punished?" Rachel demanded.