9

That new butler of yours seemed inclined to deny me." Bernard Melville, third Earl of Gracemere, entered Lady Barret's boudoir without ceremony. "I trust it doesn't mean the gouty Sir Thomas is turning suspicious."

"No. He's at Brooks's, I believe. Snoring over his port, probably." Agnes stretched languidly on the striped chaise longue, where she had been taking a recuperative afternoon nap. "Hodgkins is overly scrupulous about his duties. He knew I was resting." She held out her hand. "I wasn't expecting you to return to town for another week."

He took her hand, carrying it to his lips. "I couldn't endure another day's separation, my love."

Agnes smiled. "Such pretty words, Bernard. And am I to believe them?"

"Oh, yes," he said, bending over her, catching her wrists and holding them down on either side of her head. "Oh, yes, my adorable Agnes, you are to believe them." His hard eyes, so pale their blueness was almost translucent, held hers, and she shivered, waiting for him to bring his mouth to hers, to underwrite his statement with the fierce possession of his body.

He laughed, reading her with the ease of long knowledge. "Oh, you are needy, aren't you, my love? It's amazing what an absence can do." Still he held himself above her, taunting her with promise.

"And you are cruel, Bernard," she stated softly. "Why does it please you to taunt me with my love?"

"Is it love? I don't think that's the right word," he murmured, bringing his face closer to hers but still not touching her. "Obsession, need, but not love. That's too tame an emotion for such a woman as you."

"And for you," she whispered.

"Obsession, need," he responded with a smile that did nothing to soften the cruel mouth. "We feed on each other."

"Kiss me," she begged, twitching her imprisoned hands in her need to touch him.

He let his weight fall onto her hands so that her wrists ached and very slowly brought his mouth to hers. She bit his lip, drawing blood, and he pulled back with a violent jerk of his head. "Bitch!"

"It's what you like," she said, with perfect truth.

He slapped her face lightly with his open palm and she gave an exultant crow of laughter, bringing her freed hand to his face, wiping the bead of blood from his lips with her fingertip and carrying it to her own mouth. Her tongue darted, licking the red smear, and her tawny eyes glittered. "Shall I come to you tonight, my lord?"

He caught her chin with hard fingers and kissed her, bruising her lips against her teeth in answer. A knock at the door brought him upright. He swung away from her, picking up a periodical from a drum table, idly flicking through the pages as a footman silently mended the fire.

"What's this I hear about Carrington taking a wife in Brussels?" Gracemere asked casually. "It's the talk of the town. Some nobody, I gather."

"Yes, I haven't met her yet. We came up to town ourselves only yesterday," Agnes said in the same tone. "Letitia Moreton says she's stunning and seems very much up to snuff. She's charmed the Society matrons at all events. Sally Jersey raves about her."

"Not another Martha, then?" He tossed the periodical onto the table again as the footman left, and he sat down, carefully smoothing out a crease in his buff pantaloons.

"Hardly," Agnes said. "No little brown mouse this, as I understand it. But no one knows anything about them… there's a brother too. Equally charming, according to Letitia."

"Plump in the pocket?" There was an arrested look in the pale eyes, a sudden predatory hunger.

Agnes shook her head. "That I don't know. But if he's Carrington's brother-in-law… why?"

Gracemere's manicured fingernails drummed on the carved arm of his chair. "I'm looking for another pigeon to pluck. Newcomers to town tend to provide the easiest pickings. I wonder if he plays."

"Who doesn't?" Agnes said. "I'll see what I can find out this evening at Cavendish House. But I have another idea for improving your financial situation, my love." She sat up, her tone suddenly brisk.

"Oh?" Gracemere raised his eyebrows. "I'm all ears, my dear."

"Letitia Moreton's daughter, Harriet," Agnes announced, and lay back again on the piled cushions with a complacent smile. "She has a fortune of thirty-thousand pounds. It should last you quite a while, I would have thought."

Gracemere frowned. "She must be barely out of the schoolroom."

"All the better," Agnes said. "She'll fall easily for the flattering attentions of a charming older man. You'll be able to sweep her off her feet before she has the chance to lay eyes on anyone else."

The earl tapped his teeth with a fingernail, considering. "What about Letitia and the girl's father? They'll be unlikely to look kindly on rhe suit of a fortune hunter."

"They don't know you're a fortune hunter," Agnes pointed out. "And you have the earldom. Letitia will jump at an earl for her daughter so long as you behave with circumspection. I've already become fast friends with the lady." She laughed unkindly. "Such a nincompoop she is, with die-away airs. She professes to be an invalid and can't chaperone her daughter as much as she should. So who do you think has offered to take her place?" Her eyebrows rose delicately, and Gracemere laughed.

"What a consummate plotter you are, my dear. So I can expect to meet the sweet child in your company."

"Frequently," Agnes agreed with another complacent smile.

"In the meantime, bring me your impressions of Carrington's brother-in-law. I might as well pluck a pigeon while I'm waiting for the heiress to ripen and fall," he said, rising. "I'm not invited to Cavendish House, since I'm still supposed to be in the country, so I'll rely on your acute senses, my love." He bent over her again, laying one hand on her breast, feeling the nipple rise in immediate response. "Adieu, until later."

Agnes shifted on the couch, one leg dropping to the floor. The earl moved his hand down, pressing the thin silk of her negligee against the opened deft of her body, feeling her heat. "Until later," he repeated, and then left her.

Marcus tossed the reins to his tiger and alighted from his curricle in Berkeley Square.

"Take a good look at the leader's left hock when you get them to the mews, Henry. I sensed a slight imbalance as we took that last corner."

"Right you are, governor." The lad tugged a yellow forelock before going to the horses' heads.

Marcus strolled up the steps of the handsome double-fronted mansion. The front door opened just as he reached the head.

"Good afternoon, my lord. And it's a beautiful one, if I might be so bold." The butler's bow was as ponderous as his words.

"Afternoon, Gregson. Yes, you may be so bold." Marcus handed him his driving whip and curly-brimmed beaver hat. "Bring a bottle of the seventy-nine claret to my book room, will you?" He crossed the gleaming marble-tiled expanse of hallway and went down a narrow passage behind the staircase to a small, square room at the back of the house, where a young man was arranging papers on the massive cherrywood table that served as desk.

"Good afternoon, my lord." He greeted his employer's entrance with a bow.

"Afternoon, John. What are you going to entertain me with now?"

"Accounts, my lord," his secretary said. "And Lady Carrington's quarterly bills. You did say you wished to settle them yourself." His tone conveyed a degree of puzzlement, since in general he was responsible for settling on the marquis's account all the bills that came into the house.

"Yes, I did," Marcus said absently, picking up a neat pile of bills. "Are these they?"

"Yes, my lord. And there are some invitations you might want to look at."

"I can't think of anything I'd like to do less," Marcus said, leafing through the bills in his hand. "Give them to Lady Carrington."