He left the emerald in her navel as he continued over her belly, his tongue trailing fire over her damp skin. Slowly, he revealed her thighs, her calves, bared her feet, taking each little pink toe into his mouth in turn, stroking the soles of her feet with his tongue until finally she wriggled with a soft moan of half-hearted protest at the tickling.

Julian looked along her length, holding her feet in both hands. The diamonds winked at him from the dark, moist cleft of her body.

“Sorceress,” he said softly. It was the first word that had been spoken in the small jewel-encrusted chamber for many minutes.

He rose from his knees, and she turned her head to watch him as he bent over one of the caskets, running gems through his fingers, selecting, discarding. He turned back to the bed with a handful of necklaces, bracelets, and single stones. Kneeling beside her again, he began to adorn her body, an intent expression in his eyes. He fastened bracelets at her wrists and ankles, an opalescent string of pearls around her neck. He slipped a gold chain studded with emeralds beneath her and fastened it around her waist, another to encircle her breasts.

Then he stood back and surveyed his handiwork, a tiny smile playing over his mouth. He looked down at the smooth diamond he held in his palm, and the smile spread to his eyes. “Turn over.” His voice was a rich sensual throb. “But be very careful.”

Tamsyn eased herself onto her stomach, and the belt of emeralds and gold pressed into the skin of her belly, cool and hard against her heated flesh.

Julian leaned over her prone form, and her skin rippled beneath the edge of the diamond as he drew it down her back, tracing the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, the delineation of her ribs, the bony column of her spine. Her toes curled into the mattress as the stone scribbled in the small of her back and then moved over her buttocks, slowly outlining their curves, before he parted the soft folds of flesh and planted the gem in the diamond garden between her thighs.

Tamsyn drew a swift, almost startled, breath, then smiled to herself This was a lover who could meet and match any fantasy. But still she said nothing. As Julian straightened, she turned over again, careful not to disturb the garden, her eyes still rivalling the rich decorations of her body.

She watched hungrily while he undressed as if he had all the time in the world, as if he was not on fire for her as she was for him. When he stood naked, she gazed with unabashed greed at the power in his aroused body and raised her arms to him.

He leaned over her, taking her mouth with his, and there was a fierce assertion in this kiss, his tongue plundering the warm, sweet cavern of her mouth. She reached her arms around his neck, her lips parted for this driving possession, opening herself to him.

Finally he drew back, his eyes predatory, sharp-edged with needy desire. Slowly he drew his hands down her body, playing with the chains and the stones that encircled her. And finally, slowly, he drew her thighs apart, revealing the secret places of her body and the treasure they kept.

“And now, treasure trove,” he said quietly.

London

“THE KING'S INSANE, PRINNY'S AN ARROGANT DUNderhead, and the rest of ‘em are clods.”

This succinct, wholesale condemnation of the royal family was received in a gloomy, accepting silence. The speaker took a deep draft of his wine and glared around the table in the square chamber in the palace of Westminster as if challenging potential dissent. He was a man in his late sixties, black eyes hard and sharp as flint beneath bushy gray brows and a mane of iron-gray hair.

“And they're demmed expensive into the bargain, Penhallan,” one of his three companions rumbled, leaning back in his chair, loosening a button on the striped waistcoat that strained over his ample belly. “Prinny's monstrous fantasy pavilion in Brighton! I've never seen anything like it. All those domes and dragons.”

Cedric Penhallan snorted. “Hideous monstrosity. And Society nods and beams and congratulates the fool on his taste and imagination and Parliament foots the bill.”

“Quite so.” The agreement came from the prime minister, who sat up straight in his chair with an air of resolution, as if deciding it was time to take control of the meeting. “That is precisely the issue, gentlemen. We have Wellington demanding money on every mail ship from the Peninsula, the Admiralty needs more ships, and the palace grows greedier by the day. We cannot defeat Napoleon and indulge every bizarre whim of Prinny's… not to mention the demands of his brothers on the civil list.”

Cedric Penhallan took an apple from a chased silver bowl on the table and carefully peeled it with a tiny dessert knife, frowning as he took the peel off in one perfect spiral. The conversation at this dinner with the prime minister and his few closest intimates had taken a familiar turn: how to balance the conflicting needs of a country at war, with the financial demands of an idle, autocratic regent who saw no reason why his demands shouldn't be instantly gratified by a servile Parliament.

“The Stuarts learned their lesson the hard way,” he said with a cynical curl of his lip. “Maybe we should give the House of Hanover a taste of Stuart medicine.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then an awkward laugh rippled around the table. Men who dined with Lord Penhallan learned to expect the sardonic harshness of his opinions and remedies, but to hear Penhallan recommend revolution and regicide, even ironically, was a little too much even for his intimates.

“You've a dangerous sense of hum or, Penhallan,” the prime minister said, feeling a slight reproof was required.

“Was I jesting?” Lord Penhallan's eyebrows lifted, and a disdainful amusement sparked in his eyes. “How long does the British government intend to pander to the vulgar extravagances of a German lout?” He pushed back his chair. “You must excuse me, gentlemen. My lord.” He nodded at the prime minister. “An excellent dinner. I look forward to your presence in Grosvenor Square next Thursday. I've a consignment of burgundy I'd like you to try.”

Having made his farewells, Cedric Penhallan left his companions still at the table and walked out into the chilly March evening. The conversation had irked him, but he'd made his irritation felt and hopefully sowed a little seed in the corridors of power that might bear fruit. At some point someone had to put a rein on the royal family's profligacies. It was high time to remind the government that the king and his family were merely foolish mortals who could be controlled by Parliament.

He smiled to himself as he walked briskly through the streets, his step surprisingly light for such a big man. He'd enjoyed shocking them with that insouciant reference to Charles I's execution. Of course, he'd never seriously advocate such a course, and they knew it… or at least they thought they knew it.

His smile broadened as he climbed the steps to his own front door. He worked his own political influence behind closed doors, more with whispers and innuendo than with direct statements. In the House of Lords he was rarely seen on his feet, but Lord Penhallan's power was many-tentacles and had a long reach.

His front door swung open before he could put his hand on the knocker, and the butler bowed him into the hall.

“Good evening, my lord. You had a pleasant evening, I trust.”

Cedric didn't respond. He stood frowning in the candlelit hall. A high-pitched squeal came from the library, followed by a burst of drunken male laughter. “My nephews are home for the evening,” he commented acidly. It was the butler's turn not to respond.

Cedric strode to the library door and flung it open.