Georgie shook her head. "She's Simon's great-aunt. And anyway, I don't mind."

No, of course you don't, Gabrielle thought affectionately as the door closed on her friend. Georgie had the sweetest nature.

It was decidedly unpleasant to deceive her friends, Gabrielle reflected, but the cause was too important to let personal scruple get in the way. She'd had to produce some credible reason for her willingness to jump into a liaison when she was officially supposed to be a grieving widow. Georgie would tell Simon the real reason for Gabrielle's apparent depression and neither of them would question subsequent events.

Subsequent events. She stood up. dripping, and wrapped herself in the towel. First she had to maneuver herself into Nathaniel Praed's bed. Guillaume would understand, she knew. He'd approve of the reasons behind her actions; they belonged to the world of dark secrets that he'd made his own. But how would he feel about the other thing, about the sexual current between herself and the man who'd ordered his death? She thought he'd understand it. He was a man of such passions himself and he knew her own. But Gabrielle wished with all her heart that she felt only revulsion for Nathaniel Praed. To go willingly-no, not just willingly, eagerly and filled with excitement-to his bed was a betrayal of Guillaume, however pure the motives.

But Guillaume was dead. She was twenty-five and the years ahead stretched into a bleak wasteland.

She reached for the bellrope and rang for Maisie to help her dress.

Nathaniel was waiting for her to enter the drawing room. He tried to tell himself he wasn't, but his eyes were constantly on the door. When his vigil was rewarded, he was again breathless at the bold statement of her appearance. Black velvet fell open over a flame satin underdress. Her hair was piled high on her head, held by a diamond-studded comb. A diamond pendant nestled in the deep cleavage of her gown. They were her only adornment.

She walked directly across the room to his side as if she saw no one else, as he saw no one but her. Heads turned, but Gabrielle appeared unaware.

"Good evening," she said softly, reaching him.

"Good evening." He smiled at her and brushed a fingertip over her cheek where the faintest scratch marred the pale translucence. "The tree branch scratched you."

"Yes," she said. "Battle scars."

They were alone in the crowded room, oblivious of the startled looks, the whispers, the nudges.

"We have to do something," Georgie whispered urgently to Simon, who, having heard the details of Gabrielle's bath-time confession, was watching the encounter with amused fascination. "Everyone's staring at them."

She crossed the room swiftly, her husband at her heels. "So what do you think of our hunt country, Lord Praed?"

Her voice broke the charmed circle, but Nathaniel's eyes were glazed for a split second as he turned to respond. "Rough on occasion, Lady Vanbrugh," he said, recovering smoothly.

"Georgie doesn't hunt," Gabrielle said, recovering her own senses as swiftly and smoothly. "So when she talks about hunting, you have to realize that she's only being polite. She trots out the terms but doesn't have the faintest idea what they mean."

"Oh, unjust," Georgie said, laughing. "I've listened to you and Simon most of my life. Of course I know what they mean, don't I, Simon?"

Her husband smiled down at her. "It doesn't matter, my love, one way or the other. Why should you need to know what they mean?"

"Well, I own I dislike hunting excessively," Georgie agreed. "I feel so sorry for the fox."

"There is that," Gabrielle agreed.

"Oh, come now, countess," Nathaniel put in. "You made absolutely certain you were in at the kill, and I'll swear you didn't flinch."

"I'm not squeamish," Gabrielle said. "But that doesn't mean I can't feel sorry for the fox."

The conversation rapidly became general, and when Gabrielle went into the dining room on Nathaniel's arm, the strange and disconcerting moment of intimacy was forgotten by most of the guests, if not by its participants.

"It's been a long time since I've heard that sound," Miles observed to Simon as they entered the drawing room after dinner.

Simon needed no expansion of the remark. The deep, warm sound of Nathaniel Praed's laughter seemed to fill the" corners of the long, high-ceilinged room. He was leaning over the back of Gabrielle's chair; her head was tilted upward, turned against the taffeta cushions as she spoke to him. Whatever she was saying seemed to be amusing his lordship mightily.

"He says she's trouble," Miles continued thoughtfully. "But I'm getting the impression the gentleman doth protest too much."

"Does it surprise you, my friend?" Simon chuckled. "If I weren't happily leg-shackled to Georgie, I could almost be tempted myself."

"Not I," Miles said. "Gabby's too much of an enfant terrible for me. A man would never know whether he was on his head or his heels with her. She's got the devil's own sense of humor, always mocking. Half the time I don't know whether she's serious or not."

"But one would never be bored," Simon commented. "Perhaps that's what Nathaniel needs."

"Perhaps." Miles took snuff with an indolent flick of his wrist. "It certainly won't hurt him to cross swords with someone who can give as good as she gets. A lesson in humility might be the saving of him. Gabby's not one to be intimidated by Nathaniel's particular brand of arrogance."

Simon laughed. "She has more than her own share of imperiousness-much as I love her. Maybe they'll take each other down a peg or two."

"Well, it'll certainly be an interesting spectator sport. Let's suggest a game of whist. I'd dearly love to see them partner each other."

They sauntered over to the engrossed pair and Miles said cheerfully, "Gabby… Nathaniel.. you have to rescue us from certain disaster. Lady Alsop and Colonel Beamish are looking for another pair to make up a whist table. If you don't agree to play with us. Georgie will volunteer us the minute she looks in our direction."

Gabrielle examined Lord Praed with an air of speculation that was as mischievously inviting as it was challenging. "How well do you play, sir?"

"Well enough, ma'am," he responded without a blink of an eyelid. "But I might ask you the same question."

"I play as well as I hunt," she asserted glibly.

"But not, I trust, as recklessly."

"I take no unnecessary risks."

"You'll have to forgive me if I doubt that." His eyes held hers and that charmed circle enclosed them again.

Simon cleared his throat. "I can vouch for Gabby's cardplay, Nathaniel. She's not a conservative bidder, certainly, but she'll not leave you in the lurch."

"No," Gabrielle agreed with a sweet smile at her prospective partner. "I am an utterly reliable partner, Lord Praed. In whist as in other things. Perhaps it's time I proved it to you."

Nathaniel's head waswhirling, his scalp tight, as if he were in the gripof a fever. And perhaps he was, he thought distantly. The woman was drawing them both to the brink of the devil'sown inferno. Somehow he had to keep from toppling in. He looked for the cold, formal response so much a habit with him.

Fot a moment nothing would come to his lips, and he knew he was smiling and his eyes were warm. Gabrielle's crooked smile and dark eyes hung like the moon in a mist before his rapt gaze, wisps of dark red hair escaping from the diamond comb. She was scarlet and black-she was trouble. Helen's soft features came suddenly to his rescue-the liquid eyes, the tentative expressions, the gentle hand.