“That cannot be true. I am confined to whatever castle or party my brother and mother choose, and have known so little of men. But you have lived amongst London society. You must have had many adventures.”

“If by adventure you mean did I trust a man who promised to introduce me to”—a prince—“a possible employer and then discovered that he meant to introduce me instead to his own lust, why then, yes, I had an adventure.”

“Arabella! Was he a guest in the house at which you worked?”

“He was the elder brother of the children I cared for, and I had considered him a friend until then.” Her fingers curved around the ring dangling against her collar. “I told the housekeeper about what he did. She informed my employers, but they were unmoved by my story. They said I had seduced him. I was released from service.”

“They were unjust.”

“It was my fault.” It had always been her fault, from the first days at the foundling home to the terrible mess she was in now. “I was naïve. And I foolishly assumed that good character must always accompany a man’s fine appearance and wealth.”

The princess did not speak at once. “I see,” she finally said.

Arabella went to sit at the dressing table again and reached up to begin braiding her hair.

Jacqueline grasped her hand. “Will you leave tomorrow?”

“In the morning.”

“I will instruct the coachman to make the traveling carriage available for you.” She went to the door and paused there. “I will miss you, Arabella, as I would miss a sister, had I one. I do hope we will meet again soon.”

Arabella went to her and embraced her.

After Jacqueline left a maid entered to build the fire against the cool night. Arabella sat before the blaze plaiting her hair. But an hour later, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the window onto the black river, all the party lights doused and the magic gone, she was still cold. The castle was three hundred years old, and autumn had brought a damp chill to its chambers; it was no surprise she could not make herself warm enough to sleep. And she would never see him again.

She climbed onto her down-filled mattress and drew the draperies around her. The linens were all soft and scented of roses, and she was surrounded with ivory and gold. It was a princess’s bed, and for one more night she could pretend.

SHE AWOKE TO amber firelight spread across the coverlet from the foot of the bed. The comte’s silhouette showed dark as he parted the drapery. She saw only the contours of his shoulders and his arm holding aside the curtain and the outline of his waist; the full masculine beauty of his form was now concealed by the dark, where on the beach it had been revealed by the sun.

She sat up.

He said nothing but his chest expanded and, in the silence softened by the crackle and hiss of the fire, she heard his hard breath.

She went forward on her knees to the end of the mattress. He reached down and his hand curved around the side of her face, large and warm and strong. She turned her lips against his palm. He bent and lifted her to him and their mouths met.

He kissed her hungrily, holding her to him with his hands about her face. His thumb stroked along her jaw and down her chin, opening her mouth to him. He tasted of wine and heat and his desire for her. His tongue stroked hers gently, then sought her deeper. She took him in. With each meeting of his flesh and hers he made her want more of him.

“Sweet Arabella,” he whispered against her cheek. “What consequence could you fear so greatly, my little governess, that you run away from me?”

Loss. Betrayal. Heartbreak. The patina of too much pain lingered beneath her skin and circled her heart like a guard. She must not love him. But to remain with him and not love him was impossible.

“What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying what is mine by right.” He nuzzled her throat and she lifted her chin to allow him.

“You do not own me like you own this house and your ship.”

“Give me a wedding night. Finally.”

“We should not be wed. You should not be my husband.”

“Duchess.” He cupped her face in his hands and made her look at him. “You are my wife in God’s reckoning.”

“I don’t believe in God any longer.”

“Then believe in me.”

“Blasphemer.”

He grinned. “Hypocrite.”

“Kiss me.” Kiss me again and again, until I believe in God once more, because then I would know that this is a miracle and not merely a dream.

He stroked his fingertips over her face reverently, then he did as she bid him. She knew the flavor of him, the sublime shape and pressure of his mouth upon hers, the deep, pulling thrill inside her when his tongue touched hers. She knew the scent of sea and wind that even now clung to him.

Finally she allowed herself to touch him. Putting her hands on him, she followed the contours of his neck and shoulders with her palms and fingertips, learning his skin and sinew like she knew his character—strong, powerful, confident. His body was hard and large, and she knew he would never be hers, no matter what he said now, or did. He did not intend to hurt her; he would do so without even knowing it.

“You make me feel when I do not wish to,” she said, and to save her pride added, “And you are overbearingly arrogant.”

His thumbs caressed the undersides of her breasts. “Can we not call a truce?”

“As we did on the beach when you had me?”

“Perhaps for a bit longer than that.” He cupped her breast and she leaned into him. Then he stroked across the nipple. Her breaths stuttered. He caressed and she thought she might shatter into little pieces of desire if he ceased.

She clung to his shoulders. “You may have me now.”

“Yes, I was just coming to that.”

“Don’t laugh at me.” Inside her, everywhere, she needed him. “You don’t know what this does to me.”

“I know.” His hand swept down her back to her behind and pulled her against him. “Because it does it to me.” He kissed her deeply. She wanted to climb up him, to wrap herself around him. Her hands sought his chest, then his waist, needing to touch him everywhere and needing him closer. Her fingers collided with uneven flesh and his breaths caught. In the dim light the fresh scarring showed as a dark slash along his side.

“Ah,” he said low. “Minor inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience?” She had spoken wedding vows because of this wound.

“Rather, opportunity.” He tugged her from the bed, pulled her to him and kissed her. His hands ran over her back and down to her buttocks, then her thighs. Her nightrail slipped over her knees, his palms hot on her skin as he made her part her legs. She gasped, her body exposed to his, and he dragged her against him and her tender flesh met the fabric of his breeches.

“I—” She pressed into him. “I will fall.”

“I am here to catch you.” He drew her onto the bed, onto his lap, and made her straddle him. She did not understand what he wanted but she did it because he wished her to and because she longed to have him close. He kissed her, one hand tight around her hip, the other around her head. His fingertips dug at her bound hair.

“Dear God, why this infernal braid?” he cried as though in suffering.

She laughed.

He fumbled with the hair ribbon. “I will give you anything.” His voice was very rough. “Half—three-quarters—all of my worldly possessions if you will but help me here.”

She stilled his hands and easily unfastened the tie. “I don’t want those things.” She set to unbuttoning his breeches.

“Oh, duchess, duchess,” he groaned, spreading her hair over her shoulders, his gaze heavy with desire. “You may be the death of me yet.”

“I shan’t allow you to die because of me again.”

“I am dying now because of you.” His chest rose hard. “Touch me. Touch me now or watch me perish.”

“Another threat?” Her fingertips strafed his abdomen and the hard muscle there flinched.