Seeing Lady Broswell gnash her teeth at the eligible gentleman's interest in her, Rachel readily placed a hand on his proffered arm. With her head held high she allowed herself to be led through the thickening crowd, barely paying heed to the numerous gentlemen attempting to capture her attention.

It was not until she was neatly turned through a doorway that she abruptly glanced about to discover that Mr. Clarke had pulled her into the library and that he was even now firmly closing the door behind him.

"Did Miss Carlfield wish to meet me here?" she asked in surprise.

Smiling, he strolled to tower over her. "No, I merely thought that it was time to intervene. The sparkle in your lovely eyes had grown distinctly dangerous and Lady Broswell's complexion was becoming the shade of an overripe plum."

Rachel shrugged her unconcern at the nasty encounter. "She was rather displeased to discover that I am a guest of Mr. Carlfield."

"That was fairly obvious," he stated in dry tones.

"She very desperately wished to command me to leave. Unfortunately for her I do not accept commands from anyone."

His head suddenly tilted back to emit a low chuckle. "You have no need to tell me, Miss Cresswell. You are shockingly perverse."

She met his gaze squarely. "Thank you."

"S-so, your games begin."

"Yes." She slowly narrowed her gaze. "And you need not fear that I will use that poor girl in my evil plot."

The dark gaze moved over her delicate features. "I see that I am still not forgiven. My only defense was my concern for the child."

"You seem to have a very low opinion of me, Mr. Clarke."

"On the contrary, Miss Cresswell, my opinion of you increases every passing moment," he returned in low, smoky tones. "You are quite fascinatingly unique."

Rachel sucked in a sharp breath, recalling the feel of his warm lips trailing over the sensitive skin of her neck. Heavens, she had nearly fallen to her knees at the heady pleasure that had flooded through her body. She had never experienced anything so shockingly delightful. Not even the most experienced rogues had managed to create the faintest flutter within her.

The knowledge that this gentleman had managed to arouse her senses with such ease should no doubt have terrified her. It made her vulnerable in a manner she was uncertain how to battle. Instead she shivered with a delicious excitement. A little risk always added pleasure to her day.

"Do you really think so?" she asked in coy tones.

His lips twitched, almost as if he could read her very thoughts. "Yes. And perhaps a bit dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Tell me, my dear, are you always so swift to enact justice upon those you feel have wronged you?"

Rachel abruptly lowered her eyes. She realized that to Mr. Clarke her behavior must appear outlandish. He could not know that the revenge she intended to enact was as much for her mother as for herself. That was something she could never confess.

"The night of the opera was not the first occasion Lady Broswell has attempted to shame me from society," she retorted with a lift of her hands. "She has devoted considerable energy to spreading nasty rumors and vicious lies. Do you feel I should simply ignore her insults?"

A slender hand reached out to cup her chin and gently press her face upward to meet his dark, probing gaze. Rachel shivered as the heat of his fingers seared her skin.

"Unfortunately Lady Broswell is not the only sharp-tongued shrew within society. I can not believe that others have not offered you insult."

She stiffened at his words. "Because I am the daughter of the Devilish Dandy?"

The dark gaze swept over her with open admiration. "Because you are a vibrant, beautiful maiden who collects gentlemen with the ease most women collect jewels. It is bound to create jealousy. So why Lady Broswell?"

Rachel suddenly realized that she would have to take care. This gentleman was no witless dandy. He would not be easy to fool.

"She annoyed me."

"You did not travel to Surrey because you were annoyed," he persisted.

With a swift motion she pulled away from his touch, knowing she needed her wits fully about her.

"I have told you the truth."

He studied her for a long, unnerving moment. "There is more to this than you are willing to reveal, but I s-shall not press you. In time you will confide in me."

Much to her surprise Rachel realized that she wished she could confide in this man. There was a strength and steadfastness about him that inspired her instinctive trust. But the secret was not hers alone. She was not in the position to reveal the truth.

"You are very certain of your charms," she teased in an effort to distract him.

She perhaps succeeded too well as a fire smoldered to life in his dark eyes.

"But of course. They are irresistible, you know."

"Are they?"

"Oh yes," he murmured, then with a slow, deliberate motion he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her bare shoulder.

Rachel gasped, feeling as if she had been branded. He did not grasp her or attempt to hold her in any manner. It would have been a simple matter to step from his caress. But she did not move. Indeed, she was quite certain she could not have twitched a muscle.

His lips tasted, stroked, and nibbled her shoulder, sending violent shudders through her body. Her lashes fluttered downward as she became lost in the utter pleasure sizzling through her.

She did not know what it was about this gentleman that set her senses on fire. And at the moment she did not care. She only wanted to close her eyes and drown in her stirring passions.

His lips trailed a blazing path over the delicate line of her collarbone, lingering on the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat. He gave a low growl of satisfaction at her obvious response to his touch.

"I am developing a deep, lingering appreciation for the scent of roses," he muttered against her throat.

Her hands lifted to grasp the lapels of his black jacket. It was that or melt to her knees.

"Mr. Clarke, you should not be doing this."

He chuckled, boldly nipping her skin with the edge of his teeth.

"Do you wish me to halt?"

Rachel was incapable of playing her role as the coy flirt. "No."

"Neither do I." The lips stroked upward and Rachel parted her mouth in anticipation of his long-awaited kiss. But the kiss never arrived and reluctantly lifting her lashes, she discovered he had pulled back to regard her flushed countenance with tense restraint.

"I think it would be best if we return to the others."

Rachel longed to protest. She did not want to bring an end to the sweet passion he had stirred to life. But belatedly realizing that the midst of a large party was hardly the setting for such activities, no matter how entrancing, brought her sharply to her senses.

"Yes."

He smiled gently into her darkened eyes. Before he could speak, however, the door to the library was thrust open and a tall gentleman with gray-streaked hair pulled to the nape of his neck stepped into the room.

Rachel discretely shifted away from Mr. Clarke as she met her father's speculative gaze.

"Rachel," the Devilish Dandy murmured. "I wondered where you had disappeared to."

"We were just returning."

The green gaze briefly shifted toward the silent Mr. Clarke before he moved forward to offer Rachel his arm.

"Perhaps it would be best if I escort you back to the salon. I should not wish unpleasant speculation to arise from your appearance together."

She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand on his arm. She did not dare glance at Mr. Clarke, knowing that she was certain to reveal precisely what had been occurring before her father's arrival.

In silence the Devilish Dandy led her back into the crowded room, firmly steering her toward a distant corner before coming to a halt and regarding her in a stern manner.

"You appear to be on very friendly terms with Mr. Clarke," he accused in smooth tones.

Rachel could not halt the smile that curved her lips. "He is a unique gentleman."

"Most women in England appear to think so," her father agreed dryly.

She gave an impatient click of her tongue. "I do not mean his fortune. Many gentlemen are wealthy. He is a mystery."

"He is also intelligent, eccentric, and indifferent to the usual rules of society." The green eyes narrowed. "Not at all the sort to be a dutiful sycophant."

"No," she agreed, not nearly so disturbed by the knowledge as she should have been.

A short silence fell before her father smiled in a wry manner. "You will have a care, will you not, my dear?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have learned over the years that there are rare individuals who will not be deceived, manipulated, nor seduced. They can not be controlled, which is always dangerous."

She did not need her father's warning to know that Mr. Clarke was dangerous. She sensed his danger in every glance and every touch.

"I shall keep your warning in mind."

"See that you do, or you might find yourself the one on the leash."

Rachel widened her eyes in outrage. "Never."

"We shall see."

Any protest Rachel might have desired to utter at the absurd warning was halted as their host came bearing down upon them with a thin, dour-faced gentleman with graying brown hair.

"Mr. Foxworth, there you are," Mr. Carlfield cried in a hearty voice. "I wished to introduce you to Mr. Wingrove. Mr. Wingrove, this is Mr. Foxworth, a close acquaintance of the Prince."

Rachel stiffened in shock. This dried-up gentleman was engaged to Violet? Gads, he was old enough to be her father. And there was a sour, unpleasant cast to his hatchet features. Surely her dear friend could not have willingly chosen such a repulsive suitor?

With a prim sniff, Mr. Wingrove regarded the Devilish Dandy with glittering disapproval.

"The Prince?" He sneered. "I fear I possess nothing but disgust for the fop. A most obscene and unsavory character. Nothing at all like his father."

Mr. Carlfield stiffened in dismay at the man's traitorous disregard for England's royal Prince. The Devilish Dandy, however, smiled in a manner that made Rachel feel a pang of sympathy for the stiff-rumped fool. No one bested Solomon Cresswell.

"True. The Prince rarely needs to be locked in his room due to madness, nor does he foam at the mouth when his will is crossed."

"How dare you, sir?" Mr. Wingrove demanded, his eyes bulging like a toad.

The Devilish Dandy shrugged. "Quite easily."

"Our King demonstrates the finest of English sensibilities. He is an upstanding and righteous gentleman. Nothing at all like his wastrel of a son."

Solomon flicked a mocking glance at the gentleman who was quivering with outrage.

"He is a dull, plodding, incompetent fool who managed to lose the greater part of our colonies."

For a moment Rachel thought the rat-faced man might jump up and down in his frustrated anger. Then, clearly anxious to avoid an unpleasant scene, Mr. Carlfield loudly cleared his throat."

"Yes, well, this is a party. Shouldn't argue politics in front of the ladies, you know."

Neither gentleman paid him the least heed as they continued to regard one another in open contempt.

"No doubt Mr. Foxworth prefers to discuss the latest gossip from London or perhaps the current styles in fashion."

Remaining annoyingly aloof, the Devilish Dandy calmly withdrew his snuffbox to carefully measure out a pinch of the scented mix.

"I am certainly a notable expert on fashion."

"Fah. A waste of a true gentleman's intellect."

"You would think so, of course."

Mr. Wingrove pursed his lips as he watched the elegant gentleman replace his snuffbox and carefully wipe his hand on a lace handkerchief.

"And what precisely does that mean?"

"Any gentleman willing to employ a valet with such a painful lack of talent in tying a cravat must be indifferent to good taste. I should have him hung at first light if I were you."

The thin face darkened to an interesting shade of purple. "I have no desire to appear like a ridiculous dandy."

"No doubt a wise choice," Solomon drawled. "A gentleman must possess an elegance of form to carry off true style." Ignoring the man's gasp of fury, he grasped Rachel's elbow. "Come along, my dear. There must be someone of interest among this dreary gathering to converse with."

Rachel smothered her laugh as her father swept her regally away, leaving behind a sputtering Mr. Wingrove.