"I suppose that I could tell you that your skin possesses the purity of a rare pearl and that your eyes have been kissed with gold dust. Or that your lips are perfectly formed to fit my own and your body so sweetly curved that I ache to feel it pressed beneath me."

Rachel was trembling from head to toe as those seeking fingers plunged beneath the silk of her bodice to caress the soft curve of her breast.

"Oh."

Clearly sensing her rising passion, Anthony slowly lowered his head to claim her lips in a branding kiss. Rachel tilted her head back, readily allowing him access to her mouth. He groaned as he hungrily tasted her desire, his hands cupping the fullness of her breasts.

Rachel grasped his arms, afraid she might fall to her knees as a sharp, unbearably sweet pleasure flooded through her. Gads, she felt as if she were drowning in the sensations she had never even dreamed existed.

With an impatient urgency his mouth moved from her throbbing lips to sear a path over her cheek and down the line of her neck. He nuzzled the frantic pulse at the base of her throat and Rachel moaned in approval.

"I did not know a kiss could feel like this," she said in broken tones.

His soft laugh brushed her sensitive skin. "Is that good or bad?"

"I am not entirely certain," she admitted.

He trailed his lips over her collarbone, making another shudder rack her body.

"You do not find our kisses pleasurable?"

She closed her eyes as she battled the dizzying need that clutched deep within her.

"Too pleasurable. I can not think when you hold me like this."

"Then do not think. Just enjoy," he commanded, returning his lips to her mouth with a barely restrained hunger.

Rachel melted against him, her hands stroking the firm muscles of his chest. For the moment it did not matter what magic he possessed that set her body ablaze. She only knew that she wished to discover where these tumultuous sensations would lead.

Then without warning Anthony was pulling away and glancing toward the shadowed garden.

"What is it?" she whispered, feeling oddly bereft as his hands dropped to his side.

"I heard something," he retorted, moving toward the stone railing.

Rachel followed him, her own gaze probing the darkness until she at last spotted the vague outline of two forms beside a distant fountain.

"Someone is in the garden," she whispered, pointing toward the figures. "Over there."

He leaned forward, his gaze narrowed. "It appears to be your uncle."

Rachel felt a stab of unease as she recognized the unmistakable shape of her father and the smaller, obviously female form with him.

"Yes," she breathed, instinctively moving toward the nearby stairs, "and Miss Carlfield."

She had taken only a few steps before Anthony had reached out to grasp her arm in a restraining grip.

"Where are you going?"

She glanced at him in surprise. "To speak with them."

"I do not believe they wish to be interrupted."

"They should not be out here alone."

He smiled wryly at her impatient words. "Neither s-should we, my dear."

The truth of his words sent a warm heat to her countenance. Still, it did not lessen her unease.

"What if Mr. Carlfield or Mr. Wingrove should happen out here and catch them?" she demanded.

"It is their risk to take, Rachel," he said with firm insistence. "We should not interfere."

She heaved a sigh, giving a reluctant shake of her head. He was right, of course. Although her father could be wildly impulsive and anxious to take risks that would make most gentlemen tremble in fear, he was a grown man capable of choosing his own path. It was not her place to chastise him for his behavior. Especially not when her body still throbbed from Anthony's bold caresses.

"You are always so logical," she murmured.

He gave a short laugh. "No, not always, I fear."

She met his wry gaze. "No?"

"If I were l-logical I would pack my bags and leave for London before I am completely under your spell."

Her heart came to a halt at the thought of him disappearing from her life.

"But you will not?" she demanded.

"No." His hand lifted to gently cup her cheek. "Like a moth I will dance close to the flame. I can not seem to resist."

Nine.

Broswell Park was a ponderous house built of heavy gray stones with two long wings awkwardly attached to the main building. Behind the imposing structure was a tidy garden that was laid out in a predictable manner with the proper beddings and occasional fountains scattered near the pathways.

Like a queen presiding over her court, Lady Broswell was situated near the long tables groaning beneath a vast array of food and numerous bottles of champagne. About her the guests mingled and chatted with seeming indifference to the fact that they had seen each other every evening for the past fortnight.

Rachel stood with her father at the edge of the garden, watching the elegant scene with a jaundiced gaze. Although she had been anxious to see the home of her aunt and cousins, she discovered that it was as cold and impersonal as the people who inhabited it.

"Well, what do you think, my dearest?" her father murmured.

"It is precisely as I expected," she retorted with a grimace. "Solid, respectable and utterly boring."

The green eyes flashed with amusement. "Lady Broswell has never been accused of possessing an imagination."

"No, she is determinedly tedious." Her gaze lingered on Lady Broswell's aloof expression and stiff form encased in a heavy gray gown. "Still, it is rather depressing."

"The view?"

She waved a hand to include the entire garden. "Everything. The house, the gardens, and even the Misses Hamlin. It is all quite perfect, but there is no life behind the proper image. It is as if one were regarding a well-arranged painting upon a wall."

The Devilish Dandy gave a slow nod of agreement. "You are quite right, of course. Lady Broswell has always considered her image of prime importance. Absurd notions of warmth and kindness and even love are meaningless when compared to the need to present an appearance of lofty superiority."

A pang tugged at Rachel's heart at the sheer waste of it all. Lady Broswell was a lady of means and position. She could have whatever she wished and yet she had chosen a shallow existence that benefited no one.

"Do you suppose it makes her happy?"

Solomon gave a shake of his head. "No, but it satisfies her pride."

She turned to meet her father's gaze. "I would rather be happy."

His expression softened as he regarded her upturned countenance.

"That is what I wish for you. This is nothing more than an empty setting without love and a family."

"Yes."

"I am very pleased that both Sarah and Emma have found such happiness."

Rachel smiled as she thought of her sisters. She missed their companionship, but she knew they were well satisfied with their choice of prospective husbands. And who could blame them? Although Lord Chance could be a trifle arrogant, he was well matched with the strong-willed Sarah and no one who met Lord Hartshore could deny that he was thoroughly besotted with the gentle Emma.

"As am I."

A speculative expression descended upon the lean countenance. "Now I have only to see you suitably settled and I shall have done my duty."

Rachel waved a chiding finger in his direction. "Do not turn your matchmaking efforts upon me, Father," she warned. "I have no interest in being under the heel of any gentleman."

"Fah. Do you believe either Sarah or Emma are under the heels of their fiances?"

The very fact that she had lately begun to wonder if being at the mercy of one gentleman in particular would be so terribly bad made her determinedly square her shoulders. She was not a maiden destined to become a traditional wife and mother. It was ludicrous to even think of such things.

Ludicrous, and somehow vaguely painful.

"They are fortunate in their choices," she said in firm tones.

"I have no doubt that you will be equally fortunate." A rather mysterious smile curved his lips. "Of course, a gentleman would have to possess great courage and fortitude to willingly acquire you as a bride."

A dangerous spark entered the hazel eyes at his deliberate teasing.

"Indeed?"

"You can not deny that you are extraordinarily stubborn and far too fond of having your own way," he said dryly. "You have also been shamelessly spoiled by your numerous admirers."

"I must wonder if I shall ever discover a gentleman who would wish such a shrew," she mocked.

He shrugged in a negligent manner. "Oh, I believe we shall be able to hunt down one gentleman who possesses the necessary pluck to dare the challenge."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "You relieve me greatly."

The Devilish Dandy gave a bark of laughter, his expression fond as he reached out to tap the end of her slender nose.

"Ah, Rachel, you are indeed a rare and independent creature, but your heart will demand that you seek someone to love. Like your sisters you will need a gentleman who is true and honorable and strong enough to tame your wild tendencies."

She shifted uneasily as the sudden image of Anthony's countenance rose to mind. She did not doubt that he was true and honorable. And certainly he had a habit of making her want to behave in a manner that would make him proud of her.

But her father was wrong. She was not like her sisters. Instead she was far more in the image of the Devilish Dandy.

"At the moment I have no desire to be tamed," she quipped lightly.

He smiled in a complacent fashion. "I sense that you will soon alter your opinion."

Rachel was not at all certain that she liked the confident assurance in his tone.

"And what makes you say such an absurd thing?"

Rather than replying, the Devilish Dandy raised his quizzing glass to regard the paunchy gentleman bearing down upon them attired in a hideous puce coat.

"Egads, we are about to be descended upon." The Devilish Dandy gave a delicate shudder. "Would you just look at that atrocity of a coat? It is really bad enough to be forced to endure the man's coarse manners and lack of wit. To also be constantly insulted by his glaring want for taste is really more than any gentleman should be forced to bear."

Although rather relieved to have the unsettling conversation brought to an end, Rachel regarded Mr. Carlfield with barely hidden dislike.

Her time under his roof had not improved her initial impression of the gentleman.

Quite frankly he was a buffoon.

Not only for his callous determination to marry off his daughter to save his worthless hide, but for his supreme lack of anything approaching intelligence. Heavens, he actually boasted that he had never finished reading a book and that a true gentleman never bothered thinking about anything beyond a rousing card game and his current mistress.

How Violet could be even remotely related to the fool went beyond all imagination.

"Mr. Foxworth," Mr. Carlfield puffed, rubbing his hands together in a manner that set Rachel's teeth on edge. "A lovely party, is it not?"

The Devilish Dandy dropped his quizzing glass with a languid motion.

"Tedious, I should say."

"Oh, well, country gatherings are rather dull when compared to London," Mr. Carlfield readily agreed, anxious to appear a gentleman of sophistication. "Lady Broswell does offer a fine spread, however. Her chef is French, you know."

Solomon waved a dismissive hand at the proud claim. "Any fool with a cleaver and a ludicrous accent can pass himself as a chef. A true artist has no need to disguise his inadequacies in heavy sauces."

"Oh yes, quite true." The older gentleman paused before loudly clearing his throat. "Ah, I have some gentlemen who are quite anxious to meet you, Mr. Foxworth."

"I thought you might," the Devilish Dandy drawled in bored tones. "I do hope they are not related to Mr. Wingrove. My constitution could not bear the grim stupidity."

Rachel was forced to duck her head as she smothered a giggle. Mr. Carlfield, however, obviously did not realize that he was being mocked by the elegant gentleman.