n the weeks that followed, Victoria experienced the full impact of Andrew’s defection. At first she was hurt, then she was angry, and finally she felt a dull, aching sense of loss. But with strength and determination, she made herself come to grips with his betrayal and face the painful knowledge that her former life was permanently over. She learned how to cry lonely, private tears for all she had left behind—and then put on her best gown and her brightest smile for her friends and acquaintances.

She managed to keep her emotions well hidden from all but Jason and Caroline Collingwood, who both came to her aid in different ways—Caroline by keeping Victoria busy with a ceaseless round of social activities, and Jason by escorting her to almost all of them.

For the most part, he treated her like a patronizing older brother, escorting her to parties, the theater, the opera, and then, once there, leaving her to enjoy her own friends while he spent the evening with his. He was watchful, though, and protective—ready to swoop down and run off any beau he disapproved of. And he disapproved of several. To Victoria, who was now aware of his reputation as a shocking libertine, it was rather funny to watch Jason turn the icy blast of his gaze on some overly avid admirer and stare the unfortunate gentleman into mumbled apologies and a hasty retreat.

To the rest of the ton, the Marquess of Wakefield’s behavior was not only amusing, it was odd, and even a trifle suspect. No one believed that the couple intended to marry—not when Jason Fielding continued to welcome Lady Victoria’s beaux into his home and to state repeatedly that their betrothal wasn’t actually finalized. Because of those things, and because their betrothal had been announced before the countess ever set foot in England, it was generally believed the betrothal had been arranged prematurely by the ailing duke (who was openly fond of both of them) and that the couple was merely keeping up the pretense of being betrothed for his sake.

Now, however, that theory was beginning to be supplanted by a less kind one. From the very beginning, there had been a few sticklers who had voiced objections to Victoria’s living arrangement, but because she had seemed such a sweet girl and because Lord Fielding had shown her no real partiality, no one else had listened to their objections. However, as the number of Jason’s public appearances with Victoria increased, so did the gossip that the notorious Lord Fielding had decided to make a conquest of her—if he hadn’t already.

Some of the most vicious gossips even went so far as to intimate that the betrothal was nothing but a convenient disguise for a licentious liaison being carried on right beneath poor Miss Flossie Wilson’s nose. This piece of slander was repeated, but very little credited, for the simple reason that, although Lord Fielding frequently acted as her escort, he did not behave in a proprietary, loverlike way. Moreover, Lady Victoria had acquired a great many staunch defenders, including Countess Collingwood and her influential husband, both of whom took extreme personal offense whenever anyone dared breathe a word of criticism about Countess Langston.

Victoria was not unaware of the curiosity her relationship with Jason was generating, nor was she blind to the fact that many among the ton seemed to mistrust him. As the strangeness of her elegant new acquaintances wore off, she became much more alert to the subtle nuances of expression that crossed people’s faces whenever Jason was nearby. They were suspicious of him, wary, alert. At first she thought she was only imagining the way people stiffened in his presence and became more formal, but it was not her imagination. Sometimes she heard things—snatches of whispered gossip, a word here and there—that had an undertone of malice or at least of disapproval.

Caroline had warned her that people were fearful and mistrustful of him. One night Dorothy tried to warn her too.

“Tory, Tory, it is you!” Dorothy said, bursting through a crowd of people surrounding Victoria outside Lord and Lady Potham’s house, where there was a ball under way.

Victoria, who hadn’t seen Dorothy since they left the ship, gazed at her with misty fondness as Dorothy enfolded her in a tight, protective hug. “Where have you been!” Victoria chided fondly. “You write so seldom, I thought you were still ‘rusticating’ in the country.”

“Grandmama and I returned to London three days past,” she explained quickly. “I would have come to see you straightaway, but Grandmama doesn’t want me to have more than the slightest contact with you. I’ve been watching for you everywhere I go. But never mind about that. I haven’t much time. My chaperone will be looking for me any moment. I told her I thought I saw a friend of Grandmama’s and wished to convey a message to her.” She threw an apprehensive look over her shoulder, too worried about her chaperone to notice the way Victoria’s young admirers were curiously studying her. “Oh, Tory, I’ve been beside myself with worry! I know Andrew did a wretched thing to you, but you mustn’t let yourself think of marrying Wakefield! You can’t marry that man. You can’t! No one likes him, you must know it. I heard Lady Faulklyn—Grandmama’s companion—talking to Grandmama about him, and do you know what Lady F said?”

Victoria turned her shoulder to their avidly interested audience. “Dorothy, Lord Fielding has been very kind to me. Don’t ask me to listen to unpleasant gossip, because I won’t. Instead, let me introduce you to—”

“Not now!” Dorothy said desperately, too distraught to care about anything else. She tried to whisper, but it was impossible to do so and still be heard above the din, so she was forced to speak more loudly. “Do you know the kinds of things people say about Wakefield? Lady Faulklyn said he wouldn’t even be received if it weren’t for his being a Fielding. His reputation is beneath reproach. He uses women for his own nefarious ends and then turns his back on them! People are afraid of him and you should be too! They say—” She broke off as an aging lady climbed down from a carriage that was waiting in the street and wended her way through the crowd, obviously in search of someone. “I have to leave. That’s Lady F.”

Dorothy rushed away to head off the old woman and Victoria watched them climb back into the carriage.

Beside her, Mr. Warren helped himself to a pinch of snuff. “The young lady is quite right, you know,” he drawled.

Torn from her lonely thoughts of Dorothy, Victoria glanced with distaste at the foppish young man, who looked as if he would jump in fright at his own shadow, then at the apprehensive faces of her other beaux, who had obviously overheard much of what Dorothy said.

Angry contempt burst in her breast for the lot of them. Not one of them ever did an honest day’s work as Jason did. They were silly, shallow, overdressed manikins who relished hearing Jason criticized for the obvious reason that he was far wealthier than they, and far more desired by the ladies, despite his reputation.

Her bright, flirtatious smile was belied by the dangerous sparkle in Victoria’s eyes as she said, “Why, Mr. Warren, are you afraid for my well-being?”

“Yes, my lady, and I am not the only one.”

“How utterly absurd!” Victoria scoffed. “If you’re interested in truth, rather than foolish gossip, I shall tell it to you. The truth is I came here, alone in the world, without close family or any fortune, a virtual dependent upon his grace and Lord Fielding. Now,” she continued with a fixed smile, “I want you to look at me very closely.”

Genuine mirth bubbled in her as the foolish young man put his quizzing glass to his eye, following her instructions to the letter. “Do I look misused?” Victoria demanded impatiently. “Have I been murdered in my bed? No, sir, I have not! Instead, Lord Fielding has given me the comfort of his beautiful home and offered me the protection of his name. In all honesty, Mr. Warren, I believe many women in London secretly long to be ‘misused’ in just such a way and, from what I have observed, by exactly that man. Furthermore, I believe it is jealousy of him that gives birth to all this ridiculous gossip.”

Mr. Warren flushed, and Victoria turned to the others and added flamboyantly, “If you knew Lord Fielding as I know him, you would discover that he is the very soul of kindness, consideration, refinement, and—and amiability!” she finished.

Behind her, Jason’s laughter-tinged voice said, “My lady, in your attempt to whitewash my black reputation, you are making me sound like a dead bore, instead.”

Victoria whirled around, her embarrassed gaze flying to his. “However,” he continued with a brief smile, “I will forgive you for it, if you will honor me with a dance?” Victoria placed her hand upon his proffered arm and walked into the crowded house beside him.

The sense of proud, triumphant elation she felt for having got up the courage to speak out on Jason’s behalf began to fade when he silently took her in his arms on the crowded dance floor. She still knew very little about him, but she had learned from her own experience whenever she vainly tried to coax him into talking about himself that Jason valued his privacy. Uneasily, she wondered if he was annoyed with her for discussing him with others. When he continued to dance with her in silence, she glanced uncertainly into his thoughtful, heavy-lidded eyes. “Are you angry with me?” she asked. “For discussing you in public, I mean?”

“Was it me you were discussing?” he countered with lifted brows. “I couldn’t tell from the description you were giving. Since when am I kind, considerate, refined, and amiable?”

“You’re angry,” Victoria concluded on a sigh.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest and his arms tightened, drawing her close to his lean, muscular body. “I’m not angry,” he said in a husky, gentle voice. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” she echoed in surprise, studying the melting warmth in his jade eyes. “Why?”

“For a man of my age, height, and wicked reputation, it’s a little embarrassing to have a tiny young woman trying to defend me against the world.”

Mesmerized by the tenderness in his eyes, Victoria fought the absurd impulse to lay her cheek against his claret velvet jacket.

Word spread of Victoria’s public defense of Lord Fielding, whom she apparently admired but did not quite wish to wed, and the ton concluded that a marriage date might be imminent after all—a possibility that so distressed Victoria’s other suitors that they redoubled their efforts to please her. They vied with each other for her attention, they argued amongst themselves over her, and, in the end, Lord Crowley and Lord Wiltshire dueled over her.

“She don’t want either of us,” young Lord Crowley angrily informed Lord Wiltshire late one afternoon as they rode away from the mansion on Upper Brook Street after a brief, unsatisfactory visit with Victoria.

“Yes, she does,” Lord Wiltshire argued heatedly. “She’s shown me a particular partiality!”

“You jackanapes! She thinks we’re dandified Englishmen, and she don’t like Englishmen,” he said sulkily. “She prefers colonial bumpkins! She ain’t as sweet as you think, she’s laughing at us behind her hand—”

“That’s a lie!” his hot-blooded friend retorted.

“Are you calling me a liar, Wiltshire?” Crowley demanded furiously.

“No,” Wiltshire replied between clenched teeth, “I am calling you out.”

“Fine,” Crowley returned. “Tomorrow at dawn at my place. In the grove.” Wheeling his horse around, he galloped off toward his club, whence news of his forthcoming duel spread until it finally reached the exclusive gentlemen’s gaming establishment where Marquis de Salle and Baron Arnoff were rolling dice for very high stakes. “Damned young fools,” de Salle remarked with an irritated sigh when informed of the planned duel. “Lady Victoria will be deeply distressed when she learns of this.”

Baron Arnoff chuckled. “Neither Crowley nor Wiltshire can shoot straight enough to do any damage. I witnessed their lack of skill myself when a group of us were hunting at Wiltshire’s seat in Devon.”

“Perhaps I ought to try to put a stop to it,” the Marquis said.

Baron Arnoff shook his head, looking amused. “I do not see why you should. The worst that can happen is that one of them will succeed in shooting the other’s horse.”

“I was considering Lady Victoria’s reputation. A duel fought over her will not do it any good.”

“Excellent,” Arnoff chuckled. “If she is less popular, I will have a better chance with her.”

Several hours later, at another table, Robert Collingwood heard the news of the duel, but he did not take it so lightly. Excusing himself from the company of his friends, he left the club and went to the Duke of Atherton’s London residence, where Jason had been staying. After waiting nearly an hour for Jason to return, Robert coerced the sleepy butler into awakening Jason’s valet. As a result of much urging and persuasion, the valet reluctantly imparted the intelligence that his master had returned earlier from escorting Lady Victoria to a rout, and had then gone to visit a certain female at #21 in Williams Street.

Robert bounded into his carriage and gave his driver the Williams Street address. “Make it quick,” he ordered.

His loud knocking finally awakened a sleepy French maid, who opened the door and discreetly denied any knowledge of Lord Fielding. “Fetch your mistress to me at once,” Robert ordered her impatiently. “I haven’t much time.” The maid cast a quick look beyond him, saw the crest upon his coach, hesitated, and then went upstairs.

After another long wait, a lovely brunette wrapped in a filmy dressing gown came down the stairs. “What on earth is amiss, Lord Collingwood?” Sybil asked.

“Is Jason here?” Robert demanded.

Sybil nodded immediately.

“Tell him Crowley and Wiltshire are dueling over Victoria at dawn in the grove at Crowley’s place,” Robert told her.

Jason stretched out his hand as Sybil sat down beside him on the bed. With his eyes closed, his hand sought and found the opening of her gown, stroking seductively up her bare thigh. “Come back to bed,” he invited huskily. “I have need of you again.”

A wistful smile touched her eyes as she stroked his bronzed shoulder. “You don’t ‘need’ anyone, Jason,” she whispered sadly. “You never have.”

A low, sensuous chuckle rumbled in Jason’s chest as he rolled onto his back and swiftly pulled her down on top of his naked, aroused body. “If that isn’t need, what do you call it?”

“That isn’t what I meant by ‘need,’ and you know it,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his warm lips. “Don’t,” she said hastily as his knowledgeable hands pulled her to him. “You haven’t time. Collingwood is here. He said to tell you Crowley and Wiltshire are going to duel at dawn at Crowley’s place.”

Jason’s green eyes opened, their expression alert but not overly concerned.

“They’re dueling over Victoria,” she added.

In an instant Jason was a flurry of efficient motion, thrusting her aside, lunging out of bed, and swiftly pulling on his pants and boots. Cursing savagely under his breath, he jerked on his shirt. “What time is it?” he said shortly, glancing toward the window.

“About an hour before dawn.”

He nodded, leaned down and pressed a brief, apologetic kiss on her brow, and then left, the sound of his boots echoing sharply against the polished wood floor.

The sky was already lightening when Jason finally located the grove on the Crowley estate and spotted the two duelists standing beneath the shadowy oaks. Fifty yards to the left of the pair, the physician’s black carriage was pulled up ominously beneath another tree, a horse tied at its rear. Jason dug his heels savagely into his mount, sending the black stallion flying down the grassy knoll, its hooves throwing huge clumps of wet sod high into the air.

He skidded to a halt near the combatants and hurtled out of the saddle, running. “What the hell is going on here!” he demanded of Crowley when he reached his side, then he whirled around in surprise as the Marquis de Salle stepped out of the shadows twenty yards away and positioned himself next to young Wiltshire. “What are you doing here, de Salle?” Jason said angrily. “You, at least, should have more sense than these two puppies.”

“I’m doing the same thing you are,” de Salle drawled with a faint grin, “but without much success, as you’ll soon discover.”

“Crowley fired at me,” Wiltshire burst out accusingly. His face was twisted with angry surprise, and his words were slurred from the liquor he had consumed to bolster his courage. “Crowley din—didn't delope like a gen—gentleman. Now, I’m going to shoot him.”

“I didn’t fire at you,” Crowley boomed furiously from beside Jason. “If I had, I’d have hityou.”

“You didn't aim in—in the air,” Wiltshire yelled back. “You aren—aren’t a gentleman. You deserve to die, and I’m gonna shoot you!” Wiltshire’s arm shook as he raised it and leveled the pistol at his opponent, and then everything happened at once. The gun exploded just as the Marquis de Salle sprang forward and tried to knock it out of Wiltshire’s hand and as Jason dived at Crowley, sending the rigid boy sprawling to the ground. The ball whined past Jason’s ear as he fell, ricocheted off the trunk of the tree, and ripped across his upper arm.

After a stunned moment, Jason slowly sat up, his expression incredulous. He put his hand to the fiery pain in his arm and then stared at the blood that covered his fingers with an expression of almost comical disbelief.

The physician, the Marquis de Salle, and young Wiltshire all ran forward. “Here, let me have a look at that arm,” Dr. Worthing said, waving the others aside and squatting down on his heels.

Dr. Worthing ripped Jason’s shirt open and young Wiltshire emitted a strangled groan when he saw the blood running from Jason’s wound. “Oh, God!” he wailed. “Lord Fielding, I never meant—”

“Shut up!” Dr. Worthing bit out. “Someone hand me that whiskey in my case.” To Jason he said, “It’s only a flesh wound, Jason, but it’s fairly deep. I’ll have to clean it and stitch it.” He took the bottle of whiskey that the Marquis de Salle handed him, and glanced apologetically at Jason. “This is going to burn like the fires of Hades.”

Jason nodded and clenched his teeth, and the physician swiftly upended the bottle, drenching the torn flesh with the fiery alcohol. Then he handed the bottle to Jason. “If I were you, Jason, I’d drink the rest of this. You’re going to need plenty of stitches.”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Wiltshire burst out in an attempt to avoid giving Lord Fielding, the legendary duelist, the satisfaction he had every right to demand at a later date. Four pairs of eyes looked at him in disgust. “I didn’t!” Wiltshire argued desperately. “It was the tree that made it happen. I shot at the tree, and the ball hit the tree, then it hit Lord Fielding.”

Jason raised his dark, glittering eyes to his terrified assailant and said in an ominous voice, “If you’re very lucky, Wiltshire, you’ll be able to stay out of my sight until I’m too old to horsewhip you.”

Wiltshire backed away, turned on his heel, and started running. Jason turned his head, impaling the other petrified duelist on his gaze. “Crowley,” he warned softly, “your presence offends me.”

Crowley turned and fled to his horse.

When they had galloped away, Jason raised the whiskey bottle and took a long swallow, gasping as Dr. Worthing’s threaded needle pierced his swollen flesh, pulling it tightly, joining flesh to flesh, then piercing again. Holding the bottle out to de Salle, he said dryly, “I regret the lack of a suitable glass; however, if you would care to join me, help yourself.”

De Salle unhesitatingly reached for the proffered bottle, explaining as he did so, “I went to your house when I learned of the duel earlier this evening, but your man said you were out for the evening and wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone.” He took a long swallow of the strong whiskey and handed the bottle back to Jason. “So I went after Dr. Worthing and we came here, hoping to stop them.”

“We should have let them shoot themselves,” Jason said disgustedly, then clenched his teeth and stiffened as the needle again pierced his jagged flesh.

“Probably so.”

Jason took two more long swallows of liquor and felt the stuff begin to numb his senses. Leaning his head back against the hard bark of the tree, he sighed with amused exasperation. “Exactly what did my little countess do to cause this duel?”

De Salle stiffened at Jason’s affectionate phrasing and his voice lost its polite friendliness. “As nearly as I could tell, Lady Victoria supposedly called Wiltshire a dandified English bumpkin.”

“Then Wiltshire should have called her out,” Jason said with a chuckle, taking another swig of whiskey. “She wouldn’t have missed her shot.”

De Salle didn’t smile at the joke. “What do you mean, ‘your little countess’?” he demanded tersely. “If she is yours, you’re taking your time making it official—you said yourself the matter wasn’t settled. What kind of game are you playing with her affections, Wakefield?”

Jason’s gaze shot to the other man’s hostile features; then he closed his eyes, an exasperated smile on his lips. “If you’re planning to call me out, I hope to hell you can shoot. It’s damned humiliating for a man of my reputation to be shot by a tree.”

Victoria tossed and turned in her bed, too exhausted to sleep and unable to still her churning thoughts. At daybreak she gave up trying and sat up in bed, watching the sky change from dark gray to pale gray, her thoughts as dismal and bleak as the morning promised to be. Propped up against the pillows, she plucked idly at the satin coverlet, while her life seemed to stretch before her like a dark, lonely, frightening tunnel. She thought about Andrew, who was married to another and lost to her now; she thought about the villagers she had loved from childhood and who had loved her in return. Now there was no one. Except Uncle Charles, of course, but even his affection couldn’t still her restlessness or fill the aching void inside her.

She had always felt needed and useful; now her life was an endless round of frenzied frivolity with Jason paying all the expenses. She felt so—so unnecessary, so useless and burdensome.

She’d tried to take Jason’s callous advice and choose another man to marry. She’d tried, but she simply couldn’t imagine herself married to any of the shallow London blades who were trying so hard to win her. They didn’t need her as a wife; she would merely be an ornament, a decoration in their lives. With the exception of the Collingwoods and a few others, ton marriages were superficial conveniences, nothing more. Couples rarely appeared together at the same function and, if they did, it was unfashionable for them to remain in each other’s company once there. The children born of these marriages were promptly dumped into the hands of nannies and tutors. How different the meaning of “marriage” was here, Victoria thought.

Wistfully she recalled the husbands and wives she’d known in Portage. She remembered old Mr. Prowther sitting on the porch in the summers, determinedly reading to his palsied wife, who scarcely knew where she was. She remembered the look on Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace’s faces when Victoria’s father informed them that, after twenty years of childless marriage, Mrs. Makepeace had conceived. She remembered the way the middle-aged couple had clung to each other and wept with unashamed joy. Those were marriages as marriage was surely meant to be—two people working together and helping each other through good times and bad; two people laughing together, raising children together, and even crying together.

Victoria thought of her own mother and father. Although Katherine Seaton hadn’t loved her husband, she had still made a cozy home for him and been his helpmate. They did things together too, like playing chess before the fire in the winter and taking walks in the summer twilight.

In London, Victoria was desired for the simple, silly reason that she was “in fashion” at the moment. As a wife she would have no use, no purpose, except as a decoration at the foot of the dining table when guests were expected for supper. Victoria knew she could never be content if that was her life. She wanted to share herself with someone who needed her, to make him happy and be important to him. She wanted to be useful, to have a purpose other than an ornamental one.

The Marquis de Salle truly cared for her, she could sense that—but he didn’t love her, regardless of what he said.

Victoria bit her lip against the pain as she recalled Andrew’s tender avowals of love. He hadn’t really loved her.

The Marquis de Salle didn’t love her either. Perhaps wealthy men, including Andrew, were incapable of feeling real love. Perhaps—

Victoria sat bolt upright as heavy, dragging footsteps sounded in the hall. It was too early for the servants to be about, and besides, they practically ran through the house in their haste to satisfy their employer. Something thudded against a wall and a man moaned. Uncle Charles must be ill, she thought, and flung back the covers, hurtling out of bed. Racing to the door, she jerked it open. “Jason!” she said, her heart leaping into her throat as he sagged against the wall, his left arm in a makeshift sling. “What happened?” she whispered, then quickly amended, “Never mind. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get a servant to help you.” She whirled around, but he caught her arm in an amazingly strong grip and hauled her back, a crooked grin on his face.

“I want you to help me,” he said, and threw his right arm over her shoulders, nearly sending her to her knees beneath his weight. “Take me to my room, Victoria,” he ordered in a thick, cajoling voice.

“Where is it?” Victoria whispered as they started awkwardly down the hall.

“Don’t you know?” he chided thickly in a hurt tone. “I know where your room is.”

“What difference does that make?” Victoria demanded a little frantically as she tried to shift his weight.

“None,” he said agreeably, and stopped before the next door on the right. Victoria opened it and helped him inside.

Across the hall, another bedroom door opened and Charles Fielding stood in the doorway, his face anxious and worried as he pulled on a satin dressing robe. He stopped with only one arm in its sleeve as Jason said expansively to Victoria, “Now, li’l countess, escort me to my bed.”

Victoria caught the odd way Jason was slurring his words; she even thought there was a flirtatious tone in his voice, but she blamed his queer speech on either pain or possibly loss of blood.

When they reached his big four-poster bed, he pulled his arm away and waited docilely while Victoria swept the covers back; then he sat down and looked at her with a foolish grin. Victoria looked back at him, hiding her anxiety. Using her father’s gentle, matter-of-fact tone, she said, “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“Certainly!” he said, looking affronted. “I’m not an imbecile, you know.”

“Well, what happened?” Victoria repeated when he made no attempt to tell her.

“Help me take off my boots.”

Victoria hesitated. “I think I ought to get Northrup.”

“Never mind about the boots then,” he said magnanimously, and with that, he lay down and carelessly crossed his booted feet upon the maroon coverlet. “Sit down beside me and hold my hand.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He gave her a hurt look. “You ought to be nicer to me, Victoria. After all, I have been wounded in a duel over your honor.” He reached out and captured her hand.

Horrified at the mention of a duel, Victoria obeyed the increasing pressure of his hand and sat down beside his prone body. “Oh, my God—a duel! Jason, why?” She searched his pale features, saw his brave, lopsided smile, and her heart melted with contrition and guilt. For some reason, he had actually fought for her. “Please tell me why you dueled,” she implored.

He grinned. “Because Wiltshire called you an English bumpkin.”

“A what? Jason,” she asked anxiously, “how much blood have you lost?”

“All of it,” he averred outrageously. “How sorry do you feel for me?”

“Very,” she answered automatically. “Now, will you please try to make sense? Wiltshire shot you because—”

He rolled his eyes in disgust. “Wiltshire didn't shoot me— he couldn’t hit a stone wall at two paces. A tree shot me.” Reaching up, he cradled her shocked face between his two hands, drawing her closer to him, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he said hoarsely, and this time pungent whiskey fumes blasted her in the face.

“You’re foxed!” Victoria accused, lurching back.

“Yer right,” he agreed genially. “Got drunk with yer friend de Salle.”

“Dear God!” Victoria gasped. “Was he there too?”

Jason nodded but said nothing as his fascinated gaze moved over her. Her shining hair tumbled over her shoulders in a gloriously untidy mass of molten gold, framing a face of heartbreaking beauty. Her skin was as smooth as alabaster, her brows delicately arched, her lashes thick and curly. Her eyes were like large luminous sapphires as they worriedly searched his face, trying to assess his condition. Pride and courage showed in every feature of her face, from her high cheekbones and stubborn little nose to her small chin with its tiny, enchanting cleft at the center. And yet her mouth was vulnerable and soft—as soft as the breasts that swelled at his eye level above the bodice of her lace-edged cream satin nightdress, practically begging for his touch. But it was her mouth Jason wanted to taste first.... He tightened his hand on her upper arm, drawing her closer.

“Lord Fielding!” she warned darkly, trying to pull back.

“A moment ago, you called me Jason. I heard you, don’t deny it.”

“That was a mistake,” Victoria said desperately.

His lips quirked in a faint smile. “Then let’s make another one.” As he spoke his hand went to the nape of her neck, curving around it and inexorably pulling her face down to his.

“Please don’t,” Victoria begged, her face only inches from his. “Don’t make me fight you—it will hurt your wound.” The pressure on her nape eased very slightly, not enough to let her up, but not forcing her closer either as Jason studied her in thoughtful silence.

Victoria waited patiently for him to let her go, knowing his senses were confused by loss of blood, pain, and a goodly quantity of liquor. Not for a moment did she believe he felt the slightest genuine desire for her, and she gazed down at him with something akin to amusement.

“Have you ever been kissed, really kissed, by anyone besides old Arnold?” he asked hazily.

“Andrew,” Victoria corrected, her lips twitching with laughter.

“Not an men kiss alike, did you know that?”

A giggle escaped before Victoria could stop it. “Really? How many men have you kissed?”

An answering smile tugged at his sensuous lips, but he ignored her quip. “Lean down to me,” he ordered huskily, subtly increasing the pressure of his hand on her nape again, “and put your lips on mine. We’ll do it my way.”

Victoria’s complaisance vanished and she began to panic. “Jason, stop this,” she pleaded. “You don’t want to kiss me. You don’t even like me more than a little when you aren’t foxed.”

A harsh laugh escaped him. “I like you too damned much!” he whispered bitterly, then pulled her head down and captured her lips in a demanding, scalding kiss that took everything and gave nothing in return. Victoria struggled in appalled, frightened earnest, bracing her hands on either side of him and shoving hard, trying to free her mouth from his. Jason swiftly plunged his fingers into the thick hair at her nape and twisted hard. “Don’t struggle!” he said through clenched teeth, “you’re hurting me.”

“You’re hurting me,” Victoria choked, her lips less than an inch from his. “Let me go.”

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely, but his grip on her hair loosened and his long fingers slid downward, curving around her nape while his mesmerizing green eyes gazed deeply into hers. As if the confession were being tortured out of him, he said raggedly, “I’ve tried a hundred times to let you go, Victoria, but I can’t.” And while Victoria was still reeling from that incredible statement, Jason pulled her head down and took her mouth in an endless, drugging kiss that stole her breath and stunned her into immobility. His lips moved against hers with tender, hungry yearning, tasting and shaping them, fitting them to his own, then sliding back and forth as if he wanted more of her. Something deep within her sensed his lonely desperation and, helplessly, Victoria responded to it. Her lips softened and melted against his. Instantly, the demanding heat of Jason’s kiss increased. His tongue slid over her lips, urging them to part, and the moment they yielded to the sensual pressure, his tongue plunged gently between them.

Jolt after jolt of wild sensation rocketed through Victoria as his tongue explored her mouth, until, in a fever of dazed yearning, she touched her own tongue timidly to his lips. Jason’s response was immediate; he groaned and wrapped his uninjured arm around her, crushing her breasts against his chest, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth, then retreating to plunge again and again in a wildly exciting, forbidden rhythm.

An eternity later, he pulled his mouth from hers and slid his lips along her hot cheek, kissing her jaw and temple. And then, without warning, he stopped.

Sanity slowly came back to Victoria, bringing with it an awful realization of her shameless behavior. Her cheek was pressed to his hard chest and she was half-lying atop him like a—a shameless wanton! Shaking inside, she forced herself to raise her head, fully expecting to see Jason regarding her with either triumph or contempt—which was nothing more than she deserved. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his gaze.

“My God,” he whispered hoarsely, his green eyes smoldering. Victoria flinched instinctively as he lifted his hand, but instead of shoving her away, he laid his palm against her flushed cheek, his fingertips softly tracing the delicate bones of her face. Confused by his inexplicable mood, she stared searchingly into his sultry eyes.

“Your name doesn’t suit you,” he whispered thoughtfully. “ ‘Victoria’ is too long and icy for such a small, fiery creature.”

Completely captivated by the intimate look in his eyes and the compelling gentleness in his voice, Victoria swallowed and said, “My parents called me Tory.”

“Tory,” he repeated, smiling. “I like that—it suits you perfectly.” His hypnotic gaze held hers as his hand continued its seductive stroking, sliding over her shoulder and up and down her arm. “I also like the way the sun shines on your hair when you drive off in the carriage with Caroline Collingwood,” he continued. “And I like the sound of your laughter. I like the way your eyes flash when you’re angry.... Do you know what else I like?” he asked as his eyes drifted closed.

Victoria shook her head, mesmerized by his voice and the sweetness of his words.

With his eyes closed and a smile on his lips, he murmured, “Most of all... I like the way you fill out that nightdress you’re wearing....”

Victoria lurched back in offended modesty and his hand fell away, landing limply beside his head on the pillow. He was fast asleep.

With wide, disbelieving eyes, she stared at him, not knowing what to think or how to feel. He really was the most arrogant, bold— The outrage she was trying to summon absolutely refused to come forth, and a reluctant smile touched her lips as she gazed at him. The hard planes of his face were softer in sleep and, without a cynical twist to his mouth, he looked vulnerable and incredibly boyish.

Her smile deepened as she noticed how outrageously thick his eyelashes were—long, spiky lashes that any girl would yearn to have. Watching him, she began to wonder what he had been like as a little boy. Surely he hadn’t been cynical and detached and unapproachable as a child. “Andrew ruined all my childhood dreams,” she thought aloud. “I wonder who ruined yours.” He turned his head on the pillow and a stray lock of crisp, dark hair fell across his forehead. Feeling strangely maternal and slightly wicked, Victoria reached out and smoothed it away with her fingertips. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she confessed, knowing he wouldn’t hear her. “I like you, too, Jason.”

Across the hall a door clicked shut and Victoria jumped up guiltily, straightening her nightdress and smoothing her hair. But when she peeked into the hall, no one was there.