HE DUKE OF HAWTHORNE slowly lowered his arm, the smoking pistol still in his hand, and gazed dispassionately at the crumpled figure of Lord Grangerfield lying motionless on the ground. Jealous husbands were a damned nuisance, Jordan thought—almost as troublesome as their vain and frivolous wives. Not only did they frequently leap to totally unwarranted conclusions, but they also insisted on discussing their delusions at dawn with pistols. His impassive gaze still resting on the elderly, wounded opponent, who was being tended by the physician and seconds, he cursed the beautiful, scheming young woman whose relentless pursuit of him had caused this duel.

At twenty-seven, Jordan had long ago decided that dallying with other men's wives often resulted in more complications than any sexual gratification was worth. As a result, he had long made it a practice to restrict his frequent sexual liaisons to only those women who were unencumbered by husbands. God knew there were more than enough of them, and most were willing and eager to warm his bed. Flirtations, however, were a normal part of life amongst the ton, and his recent involvement with Elizabeth Grangerfield, whom he had known since they were both children, had been little more than that—a harmless flirtation that sprang up when she returned to England from an extended trip of more than a year. The flirtation had begun as nothing more than a few bantering remarks—admittedly with sexual overtones—exchanged between two old friends. It would never have gone further, except that one night last week Elizabeth had slipped past Jordan's butler and, when Jordan came home, he found her in his bed—all lush, naked, inviting woman. Normally, he would have hauled her out of his bed and sent her home, but that night his mind was already dulled by the brandy he'd been imbibing with friends, and while he deliberated over what to do with her, his body had overruled his sluggish mind and insisted he accept her irresistible invitation.

Turning toward his horse, which was tethered to a nearby tree, Jordan glanced up at the feeble rays of sunlight that streaked the sky. There was still time to get a few hours of sleep before he began the long day of work and social engagements that would culminate late tonight at the Bildrups' ball.

Chandeliers dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals blazed above the vast mirrored ballroom where dancers attired in satins, silks, and velvets whirled in time to a lilting waltz. Pairs of French doors leading out onto the balconies were thrown open, allowing cool breezes to enter—and couples, desiring a few moments' moonlit privacy, to exit.

Just beyond the furthest pair of doors, a couple stood on the balcony, their presence partially concealed by the shadows of the mansion itself, apparently unconcerned with the wild conjecture their absence from the ballroom was creating among the guests.

"It's disgraceful!" Miss Leticia Bildrup said to the group of elegant young men and women who composed her personal retinue. Casting a ferociously condemning look, liberally laced with envy, in the direction of the doors through which the couple had just exited, she added, "Elizabeth Grangerfield is behaving like a strumpet, chasing after Hawthorne, with her own husband lying wounded from his duel with Hawthorne this very morning!"

Sir Roderick Carstairs regarded the angry Miss Bildrup with an expression of acid amusement for which he was known—and feared—by all the ton. "You're right, of course, my beauty. Elizabeth ought to learn from your own example and pursue Hawthorne only in private, rather than in public."

Leticia regarded him in haughty silence, but a telltale flush turned her smooth cheeks a becoming pink. "Beware, Roddy, you are losing the ability to separate what is amusing from what is offensive."

"Not at all, my dear, I strive to be offensive."

"Do not liken me to Elizabeth Grangerfield," Leticia snapped in a furious underbreath. "We have nothing in common."

"Ah, but you do. You both want Hawthorne. Which gives you something in common with six dozen other women I could name, particularly"—he nodded toward the beautiful red-haired ballerina who was waltzing with a Russian prince on the dance floor—"Elise Grandeaux. Although Miss Grandeaux seems to have gotten the best of all of you, for she is Hawthorne's new mistress."

"I don't believe you!" Letty burst out, her blue eyes riveted on the graceful redhead who had reportedly bewitched the Spanish king and a Russian prince. "Hawthorne is unattached!"

"What are we discussing, Letty?" one of the young ladies asked, turning aside from her suitors.

"We are discussing the fact that he has gone out on the balcony with Elizabeth Grangerfield," Letty snapped. No explanation of the word "he" was necessary. Amongst the ton, everyone who mattered knew "he" was Jordan Addison Matthew Townsende—Marquess of Landsdowne, Viscount Leeds, Viscount Reynolds, Earl Townsende of Marlow, Baron Townsende of Stroleigh, Richfield, and Monmart— and 12th Duke of Hawthorne.

"He" was the stuff of which young ladies' dreams were made—tall, dark, and fatally handsome, with the devil's own charm. Amongst the younger females of the ton, it was the consensus of opinion that his shuttered grey eyes could seduce a nun or freeze an enemy in his tracks. Older females were inclined to credit the former and discard the latter, since it was well-known that Jordan Townsende had dispatched hundreds of the French enemy, not with his eyes, but with his deadly skill with pistols and sabers. But regardless of their ages, all the ladies of the tonwere in complete agreement on one issue: A person had only to look at the Duke of Hawthorne to know that he was a man of breeding, elegance, and style; a man who was as polished as a diamond. And, frequently, just as hard.

"Roddy says Elise Grandeaux has become his mistress," Letty said, nodding toward the stunning, titian-haired beauty who appeared to be oblivious to the Duke of Hawthorne's departure with Lady Elizabeth Grangerfield.

"Nonsense," said a seventeen-year-old debutante who was a stickler for propriety. "If she was, he certainly wouldn't bring her here. He couldn't."

"He could and he would," another young lady announced, her gaze glued to the French doors through which the duke and Lady Grangerfield had just departed, as she waited eagerly for another glimpse of the legendary duke. "My mama says Hawthorne does whatever he pleases and the devil fly with public opinion!"

At that moment, the object of this and dozens of similar conversations throughout the ballroom was lounging against the stone railing of the balcony, gazing down into Elizabeth's glistening blue eyes with an expression of unconcealed annoyance. "Your reputation is being shredded to pieces in there, Elizabeth. If you have any sense, you'll retire to the country with your 'ailing' husband for a few weeks until the gossip over the duel dies down."

With a brittle attempt at gaiety, Elizabeth shrugged. "Gossip can't hurt me, Jordan. I'm a countess now." Bitterness crept into her voice, strangling it. "Never mind that my husband is thirty years older than I. My parents have another title in the family now, which is all they wanted."

"There's no point in regretting the past," Jordan said, restraining his impatience with an effort. "What's done is done."

"Why didn't you offer for me before you went off to fight that stupid war in Spain?" she asked in a suffocated voice.

"Because," he answered brutally, "I didn't want to marry you."

Five years ago, Jordan had casually considered offering for her in the distant, obscure future, but he hadn't wanted a wife then any more than he did now, and nothing had been settled between them before he left for Spain. A year after his departure, Elizabeth's father, intent on adding another title to the family tree, had insisted she marry Grangerfield. When Jordan received her letter, telling him she'd been married off to Grangerfield, he'd felt no keen sense of loss. On the other hand, he'd known Elizabeth since they were in their teens, and he had harbored a certain fondness for her. Perhaps if he had been around at the time, he might have persuaded her to defy her parents and refuse old Grangerfield's suit. Or perhaps not. Like nearly all females of her social class, Elizabeth had been taught since childhood that her duty as a daughter was to marry in accordance with her parents' wishes.

In any case, Jordan had not been here. Two years after his father's death, despite the fact that he hadn't produced an heir to ensure the succession, Jordan had bought a commission in the army and gone to Spain to fight against Napoleon's troops. At first his daring and courage in the face of the enemy were simply the result of a reckless dissatisfaction with his own life. Later, as he matured, the skill and knowledge he acquired in countless bloody battles kept him alive and added to his reputation as a cunning strategist and invincible opponent.

Four years after departing for Spain, he resigned his commission and returned to England to resume the duties and responsibilities of a dukedom.

The Jordan Townsende who had returned to England the year before was very different from the young man who had left. The first time he walked into a ballroom after his return, many of those changes were startlingly evident: In contrast to the pale faces and bored languor of other gentlemen of his class, Jordan's skin was deeply tanned, his tall body rugged and muscular, his movements brisk and authoritative; and, although the legendary Hawthorne charm was still evident in his occasional lazy white smile, there was an aura about him now of a man who had confronted danger—and enjoyed it. It was an aura that women found infinitely exciting and which added tremendously to his attraction.

"Can you forget what we've meant to each other?" Elizabeth raised her head, and before Jordan could react, she leaned up on her toes and kissed him, her familiar body willing and pliant, pressing eagerly against his.

His hands caught her arms in a punishing grip and he moved her away. "Don't be a fool!" he snapped scathingly, his long fingers biting into her arms. "We were friends, nothing more. What happened between us last week was a mistake. It's over."

Elizabeth tried to move against him. "I can make you love me, Jordan. I know I can. You almost loved me a few years ago. And you wanted me last week—"

"I wanted your delectable body, my sweet," he mocked with deliberate viciousness, "nothing else. That's all I've ever wanted from you. I'm not going to kill your husband for you in a duel, so you can forget that scheme. You'll have to find some other fool who'll purchase your freedom for you at the point of a gun."

She blanched, blinking back her tears, but she didn't deny that she'd hoped he would kill her husband. "I don't want my freedom, Jordan, I want you," she said in a tear-glogged voice. "You may have regarded me as little more than a friend, but I've been in love with you since we were fifteen years old."

The admission was made with such humble, hopeless misery that anyone but Jordan Townsende would have realized she was telling the truth, and perhaps been moved to pity her. But Jordan had long ago become a hardened skeptic where women were concerned. He responded to her painful admission of love by handing her a snowy white handkerchief. "Dry your eyes."

The hundreds of guests who surreptitiously watched their return to the ballroom a few moments later, noted that Lady Grangerfield seemed tense and left the ball at once.

However, the Duke of Hawthorne looked as smoothly unperturbed as ever as he returned to the beautiful ballerina who was the latest in his long string of mistresses. And when the couple stepped onto the dance floor a few moments later, there was a glow of energy, a powerful magnetism that emanated from the beautiful, charismatic pair. Elise Grandeaux's lithe, fragile, grace complemented his bold elegance; her vivid coloring was the perfect foil for his darkness, and when they moved together in a dance, they were two splendid creatures who seemed made for one another.

"But then that is always the way," Miss Bildrup said to her friends as they studied the pair in fascinated admiration. "Hawthorne always makes the woman he is with look like his perfect mate. "

"Well, he won't marry a common stage performer no matter how excellent they look together," said Miss Morrison. "And my brother has promised to bring him to our house for a morning call this week," she added on a note of triumph.

Her joy was demolished by Miss Bildrup: "My mama said he plans to leave for Rosemeade tomorrow."

"Rosemeade?" the other echoed blankly, her shoulders drooping.

"His grandmother's estate," Miss Bildrup clarified. "It's to the north, beyond some godforsaken little village called Morsham."