t Christopher’s expression, Beatrix snickered and wrinkled her nose impishly. “I’m teasing. Really. I know who you are. I’m perfectly all right.”

Over Christopher’s shoulder, Beatrix caught sight of Leo shaking his head in warning, drawing a finger across his throat.

She realized too late that it probably hadn’t been an appropriate moment for teasing. What to a Hathaway would have been a good chuckle was positively infuriating to Christopher.

He glared at her with incredulous wrath. It was only then that she realized he was shaking in the aftermath of his terror for her.

Definitely not the time for humor.

“I’m sorry—” she began contritely.

“I asked you not to train that horse,” Christopher snapped, “and you agreed.”

Beatrix felt instantly defensive. She was accustomed to doing as she pleased. This was certainly not the first time she’d ever fallen from a horse, nor the last.

“You didn’t ask that specifically,” she said reasonably, “you asked me not to do anything dangerous. And in my opinion, it wasn’t.”

Instead of calming Christopher, that seemed to enrage him even further. “In light of the fact that you were nearly flattened like a pikelet just now, I’d say you were wrong.”

Beatrix was intent on winning the argument. “Well, it doesn’t matter in any case, because the promise I made was for after we married. And we’re not married yet.”

Leo covered his eyes with his hand, shook his head, and retreated from her vision.

Christopher gave her an incinerating glare, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Without another word, he lifted himself away from her and went to the stable in a long, ground-eating stride.

Sitting up, Beatrix stared after him in perplexed annoyance. “He’s leaving.”

“It would appear so.” Leo came to her, extended a hand down, and pulled her up.

“Why did he leave right in the middle of a quarrel?” Beatrix demanded, dusting off her breeches with short, aggravated whacks. “One can’t just leave, one has to finish it.”

“If he had stayed, sweetheart,” Leo said, “there’s every chance I would have had to pry his hands from around your neck.”

Their conversation paused as they saw Christopher riding from the stables, his form straight as a blade as he spurred his horse into a swift graceful canter.

Beatrix sighed. “I was trying to score points rather than consider how he was feeling,” she admitted. “He was probably frightened for me, seeing the horse topple over like that.”

“Probably?” Leo repeated. “He looked like he had just seen Death. I believe it may have touched off one of his bad spells, or whatever it is you call them.”

“I must go to him.”

“Not dressed like that.”

“For heaven’s sake, Leo, just this one time—”

“No exceptions, darling. I know my sisters. Give any one of you an inch, and you’ll take a mile.” He reached out and pushed back her tumbling hair. “Also... don’t go without a chaperone.”

“I don’t want a chaperone. That’s never any fun.”

“Yes, Beatrix, that’s the purpose of a chaperone.”

“Well, in our family, anyone who chaperoned me would probably need a chaperone more than I do.”

Leo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

Rare was the occasion when her brother was unable to argue a point.

Repressing a grin, Beatrix strode toward the house.

Christopher had forgiven Beatrix before he had even reached Phelan House. He was well aware that Beatrix was accustomed to nearly unqualified freedom, and she had no wish to be reined in any more than that devil of a horse had. It would take time for her to adjust to restrictions. He had already known that.

But he had been too rattled to think clearly. She meant too much to him—she was his life. The thought of her being hurt was more than his soul could bear. The shock of seeing Beatrix nearly killed, the overwhelming mixture of terror and fury, had exploded through him and left him in chaos. No, not chaos, something far worse. Gloom. A gray, heavy fog had enclosed him, suffocating all sound and feeling. He felt as if his soul were barely anchored in his body.

This same numb detachment had happened from time to time during the war, and in the hospital. There was no cure for it, except to wait it out.

Telling the housekeeper that he didn’t want to be disturbed, Christopher headed to the dark, quiet sanctuary of the library. After searching through the sideboard, he found a bottle of Armagnac, and poured a glass.

The liquor was harsh and peppery, searing the inside of his throat. Exactly what he wanted. Hoping it would burn through the chill in his soul, he tossed it back and poured a second.

Hearing a scratch at the door, he went to open it. Albert crossed the threshold, wagging and snorting happily. “Useless mongrel,” Christopher said, bending to pet him. “You smell like the floor of an East End tavern.” The dog pushed back against his palm demandingly. Christopher lowered to his haunches and regarded him ruefully. “What would you say if you could talk?” he asked. “I suppose it’s better that you don’t. That’s the point of having a dog. No conversation. Just admiring gazes and endless panting.”

Someone spoke from the threshold behind him, startling him. “I hope that’s not what you’ll expect...”

Reacting with explosive instinct, Christopher turned and fastened his hand around a soft throat.

“... from a wife,” Beatrix finished unsteadily.

Christopher froze. Trying to think above the frenzy, he took a shivering breath, and blinked hard.

What in God’s name was he doing?

He had shoved Beatrix against the doorjamb, pinning her by the throat, his other hand drawn back in a lethal fist. He was a hairsbreadth away from delivering a blow that would shatter delicate bones in her face.

It terrified him, how much effort it took to unclench his fist and relax his arm. With the hand that was still at her throat, he felt the fragile throb of her pulse beneath his thumb, and the delicate ripple of a swallow.

Staring into her rich blue eyes, he felt the welter of violence washed away in a flood of despair.

With a muffled curse, he snatched his hand from her and went to get his drink.

“Mrs. Clocker said you’d asked not to be disturbed,” Beatrix said. “And of course the first thing I did was disturb you.”

“Don’t come up behind me,” Christopher said roughly. “Ever.”

“I of all people should have known that. I won’t do it again.”

Christopher took a fiery swallow of the liquor. “What do you mean, you of all people?”

“I’m used to wild creatures who don’t like to be approached from behind.”

He shot her a baleful glance. “How fortunate that your experience with animals has turned out to be such good preparation for marriage to me.”

“I didn’t mean... well, my point was that I should have been more considerate of your nerves.”

“I don’t have nerves,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry. We’ll call them something else.” Her voice was so soothing and gentle that it would have caused an assortment of cobras, tigers, wolverines, and badgers to all snuggle together and take a group nap.

Christopher gritted his teeth and maintained a stony silence.

Pulling what looked like a biscuit from the pocket of her dress, Beatrix offered it to Albert, who bounded over to her and took the treat eagerly. Leading the dog to the door, she gestured for him to cross the threshold. “Go on to the kitchen,” she said in an encouraging tone. “Mrs. Clocker is going to feed you.” Albert was gone in a flash.

Closing and locking the door, Beatrix approached Christopher. She looked fresh and feminine in a lavender dress, her hair neatly swept up with combs. One could not fathom a different picture from the outlandish girl in breeches.

“I could have killed you,” he said savagely.

“You didn’t.”

“I could have hurt you.”

“You didn’t do that, either.”

“God, Beatrix.” Christopher went to sit heavily at a hearthside chair, glass in hand.

She followed him in a rustle of lavender silk. “I’m not Beatrix, actually. I’m her much nicer twin. She said you could have me from now on.” Her gaze flickered to the Armagnac. “You promised not to drink spirits.”

“We’re not married yet.” Christopher knew he should have been ashamed of the sneering echo of her own earlier words, but the temptation was too much to resist.

Beatrix didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry about that. It’s no fun, caring about my welfare. I’m reckless. I overestimate my abilities.” She lowered to the floor at his feet, resting her arms on his knees. Her earnest blue eyes, starred with heavy dark lashes, stared contritely into his. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did earlier. For my family, arguing is a sport—we forget that some people tend to take it personally.” One of her fingertips drew an intricate little pattern on his thigh. “But I have redeeming qualities,” she continued. “I never mind dog hair, for example. And I can pick up small objects with my toes, which is a surprisingly useful talent.”

Christopher’s numbness started melting like spring ice. And it had nothing to do with the Armagnac. It was all Beatrix.

God, he adored her.

But the more he thawed, the more volatile he felt. Need surged beneath the thin veneer of self-control. Too much need.

Setting the unfinished liquor on the carpeted floor, Christopher drew Beatrix between his knees. He bent forward to press his lips to her forehead. He could smell the tantalizing sweetness of her skin. Settling back in the chair, he studied her. She looked angelic and guileless, as if sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Little rogue, he thought with tender amusement. He stroked one of her slender hands, which was resting on his thigh. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly.

“So your middle name is Heloise,” he said.

“Yes, after the medieval French nun. My father loved her writings. In fact, it occurs to me... Héloïse was renowned for the love letters she exchanged with Abélard.” Beatrix’s expression brightened. “I’ve rather lived up to my namesake, haven’t I?”

“Since Abélard was eventually castrated by Héloïse’s family, I’m not especially fond of the comparison.”

Beatrix grinned. “You have nothing to worry about.” As she stared at him, her smile faded. “Am I forgiven?” she asked.

“For endangering yourself?... Never. You’re too precious to me.” Christopher took up her hand and kissed it. “Beatrix, you are beautiful in that dress, and I love your company more than anything in the world. But I have to take you home.”

Beatrix didn’t move. “Not until this is resolved.”

“It is.”

“No, there’s still a wall between us. I can feel it.”

Christopher shook his head. “I’m just... distracted.” He reached for her elbows. “Let me help you up.”

She resisted. “Something’s not right. You’re so far away.”

“I’m right here.”

There were no words to describe this infernal sense of detachment. He didn’t know why it appeared or what would make it go away. He only knew that if he waited long enough, it would disappear of its own accord. At least, it had before. Perhaps one day it would appear and never leave him. Christ.

Staring at him, Beatrix clamped her hands lightly on his thighs. Instead of standing, she hitched her body higher against him.

Her mouth came to his, gently inquiring. He felt a little shock, a sudden pitch of his heart as if it had remembered to start beating again. Beatrix’s lips were soft and hot, teasing in the way he had taught her. He felt lust come raging up, dangerously fast. Her weight was on him, her breasts, the mass of her skirts compressed between his thighs. He surrendered for a moment, fusing his mouth to hers and kissing her the way he wanted to take her, deep and hard. Beatrix immediately went pliant, submissive, in a way that drove him mad, and she knew it.

He wanted everything of her, wanted to subject her to every craving and impulse, and she was too innocent for any of it. Tearing his mouth from hers, Christopher held her at arms’ length.

Her eyes were wide and wondering.

To his relief, she levered away from him and stood.

And then she began to unfasten her bodice.

“What are you doing?” he asked hoarsely.

“Don’t worry, the door is locked.”

“That isn’t what I—Beatrix—” By the time he had lurched to his feet, her bodice had listed open. A thick, primitive drumbeat started in his ears. “Beatrix, I’m not in the mood for virginal experimentation.”

She gave him a purely ingenuous look. “Neither am I.”

“You’re not safe with me.” He reached for the neckline of her bodice and yanked it together. While he fumbled to fasten it, Beatrix hiked up the side of her dress. A tug and a wriggle, and her petticoat dropped to the floor.

“I can undress faster than you can dress me,” she informed him.

Christopher clenched his teeth as he saw her push her dress below her hips. “Damn you, I can’t do this. Not now.” He was perspiring, every muscle hard. His voice shook with the force of suppressed need. “I’m going to lose control.” He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from hurting her. For their first time, he would have to approach her with absolute restraint, give himself release beforehand to take the edge from his lust... but at the moment, he would fall on her like a ravening animal.

“I understand.” Beatrix pulled the combs from her hair, tossed them into the pile of discarded lavender silk, and shook out the gleaming sable locks. And she gave him a look that caused every hair on his body to lift. “I know you think that I don’t understand, but I do. And I need this as much as you do.” Slowly she unhooked her corset and dropped it to the floor.

Dear God. How long it had been since a woman had undressed for him. Christopher couldn’t move or speak, just stood there aroused and starving and mindless, his eyes eating up the sight of her.

As she saw the way he watched her, she disrobed even more deliberately, drawing the chemise over her head. Her breasts were high and gently curved, the tips rose colored. They bounced delicately as she bent to remove her drawers.

She stood to face him.

Despite her audacity, Beatrix was nervous, an uneven blush covering her from head to toe. But she watched him closely, taking in his reactions.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, slim and lithe, her legs sheathed in pale pink stockings and white garters. She devastated him. The sable locks of her hair draped over her body, hanging down to her waist. The little triangle between her thighs looked like rich fur, an erotic contrast to her porcelain skin.

He felt weak and brutal at the same time, desire pumping through him. Nothing mattered except getting inside her... he had to have her or die. He didn’t understand why she had deliberately pushed him over the edge, why she wasn’t frightened. A rough sound was torn from his throat. Although he made no conscious decision to move, somehow he had crossed the space between them and seized her. He let his splayed fingers travel over her back, down to the curve of her bottom. Pulling her high and tight against him, he found her mouth, kissing her, almost savaging her.

She yielded completely, offering her body, her mouth, in any way he chose. As his mouth possessed hers, he reached farther between her thighs, forcing them to part. He found the tender pleats of her sex. Parting the softness, he massaged until he found wetness, and slid two fingers into the supple heat of her. Gasping against his mouth, she strained higher on her toes. He held her like that, tightly impaled on his fingers as he kissed her.

“Let me feel you,” she said breathlessly, her hands working at his clothes. “Please... yes...”

Christopher fought with his waistcoat and shirt, sending buttons scattering in his haste. When his upper half was bared, he enfolded her in his arms. They both groaned and went still, absorbing the feel of it, their skin pressed together, her breasts softly abraded by the hair on his chest.

Half dragging, half carrying her to the settee, he lowered her to the cushioned upholstery. She landed in a slow sprawl, her head and shoulders propped against one corner, one foot coming to the floor. He was there before she could close her legs.

Running his hands along the stockings, he discovered they were made of silk. He had never seen pink stockings before, only black or white. He loved them. He stroked along her legs, kissed her knees through the silk, untied the garters and licked the red marks they had left against her skin. Beatrix was quiet. Trembling. As he let his lips stray near the inside of her thigh, she squirmed helplessly. That wanton little movement of her hips maddened him, made him frantic.

He unrolled her stockings and stripped them away. Drugged with arousal, he glanced along her body up to her passion-drowsed face, her half-closed eyes, her dark cascading hair. He pushed her thighs open with his hands. Breathing in the erotic perfume of her body, he ran his tongue through the soft triangle.

“Christopher,” he heard her beg, and her hands pressed urgently against his head. She was shocked, her face deeply flushed as she realized what he was going to do.

“You started this,” he said thickly. “Now I’m going to finish it.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he bent over her again. He kissed his way into the soft, secret hollow, spreading her with his tongue. She moaned and drew up tightly, her knees bending and her spine curving as if she wanted to gather her entire body around him. He pushed her back, pressed her wide, and took what he wanted.

The entire world was nothing but delicate shivering flesh, the taste of a woman, his woman, her intimate elixir more powerful than wine, opium, exotic spices. She moaned at the tender traction of his tongue. Her responses became his, her every sound tugging at his groin, her desperate quivers sinking into him with darts of fire. He focused on the most sensitive part of her, tracing slowly, bewitched by the wet silk. He began to flick steadily, taunting her, driving her without mercy. She went still, tensing as the feeling came rolling up to her, and he knew that nothing existed for her except the pleasure he was giving her. He made her take it, and take it, until her sharp breathing turned into repeated cries. The climax was stronger, deeper, than anything he had given her before... he heard it, felt it, tasted it.

When the last spasm had left her, he pulled her farther beneath him, his mouth going to her breasts. She slid her arms around his neck. Her body was sated and ready for him, her legs spreading easily as he settled between them. Reaching for the fastenings of his trousers, he fumbled and tore at them, freeing himself.

He had no control left, his entire body an ache of need. He had no words, no way to beg please don’t try to stop me, I can’t, I have to have you. He had no strength to resist any longer. Looking down at her, he said her name, his voice hoarse and questioning.

Beatrix made little crooning sounds and caressed his back. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I want you, I love you...” She pulled him closer, arching in welcome as he took her with blunt, insistent pressure.

He’d never had a virgin before, had always assumed it would be a quick, easy breaching. But she was tight everywhere, untried muscles clenching to keep him out. He pushed into the innocent resistance, forcing his way deeper, and she gasped and clung to him. He worked inside her, shaking with the effort to be gentle when every instinct screamed to thrust hard into the luscious heat. And then somehow her muscles accepted the futility of trying to close against him, and she relaxed. Her head rested on his supportive arm, her face turning against the hard curve of his bicep. He began to thrust with a groan of relief, knowing nothing except the blinding pleasure of being inside her, being caressed by her. The rapture was severe, absolute as death, delivering him.

He made no effort to prolong it. The peak came fast, slamming into him with a power that took his breath, and then he tumbled into a violent, shuddering release, the spasms piercing. He came endlessly, cradling her in his arms, hunching over her as if he could protect her, even as he lunged into her with ravenous strokes.

She was shaking in the aftermath, thrills of reaction running through her from head to toe. He held her, trying to comfort her, pulling her head against his chest. His eyes were blurred and hot, and he blotted them against a velvet cushion.

It took a while for him to realize that the trembling came not from her, but him.