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And what, he wondered, was at Hursley? A lover?

He heard the bangs as the Post men returned to the house, and the sounds of them climbing the stairs and settling into their beds. Silence fell, with the only noises those of the old house creaking around them under the dying force of the storm.

Suddenly, she spoke. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "You are being kind to me and I'm making things difficult. The perfume was my husband's choice. I don't use it any longer but it lingers on some of my clothing. It always was particularly cloying."

This opened a number of new questions, but Francis resolved to ignore them. He couldn't resist saying, "I would give your clothes a good airing, ma'am, if I were you."

He thought, he hoped, they were done with talk for the night. Now if only he could forget that she was there at all, he might be able to get some sleep.

It was impossible. His body ached, and he stirred restlessly.

"I'm sorry if the perfume makes you want a woman," she said softly in the dark. "If you wish, you may mount me."

"What?"

"I'm causing your problem," she said rather shakily. "It is only fair that I ease it."

Desire caught Francis like a vise, but he fought it. He knew her now. She was a whore of the most blatant kind and he'd be mad to give in to her. God knows what price he'd end up paying.

"There is no need," he said coolly. "After all, you would not want to risk getting with child, would you?"

"I cannot conceive a child," she said very faintly. "I'm barren."

Francis found himself saying, "I'm sorry."

Another weighty silence fell, and then the bed shifted as she turned away from him. "Good night, then."

"Good night." Francis was surprisingly affronted that she had raised and dismissed the question of their joyful consummation so easily. Then he, too, turned onto his side, telling himself he'd had a most lucky escape.

His body would agree with that in time.

* * *

Serena huddled in the darkness.

He didn't want her. Dear Lord, what was to become of her if the right sort of men didn't want her? She had four guineas in her pocket and nothing else to offer.

Perhaps her rescuer had done her an ill turn. Perhaps it would have been better to have died in the storm. Dishonor might be preferable to death, but if death it must be, she'd rather a quick death than a lingering one of starvation.

What was she to do?

What was she to do?

Drowning in anxiety, Serena fell into sleep....

A bang in the house brought her sharply awake. She immediately realized where she was, that it was morning, and that the noise had merely been one of the Posts dropping something. A pale hint of first light came through a crack in the heavy curtains, but the room was still dark.

A peacefulness outside the window told her the storm was over. There was nothing to prevent them from leaving, nothing to prevent this man from dropping her at Hursley and driving on.

What was to become of her? Her first panic-driven courage had leaked away and she was terrified of the world. In a few hours she would be alone again, she who had never been alone in her life.

She
wouldn't
return to her brothers, to be sold again.

She doubted she could get to London without help.

Her bed partner was the only man she'd ever met who had been kind to her.

He might be married.

But married men kept mistresses, too.

How was it done?

If she offered herself plainly, would he accept? She'd tried that.

Perhaps she needed to give him a sample of her wares.

Serena swallowed. What she was contemplating horrified her, but surely afterward he would not be so eager to drive away....

She knew what to do. She knew, at least, what Matthew would have wanted her to do. Were all men the same in these matters?

Serena lay there in fearful indecision. She had never so much as kissed a man other than her husband, and now she was contemplating seducing one.

What choice did she have? She was alone in the world with only one currency to offer.

She eased over in the bed to lie against the heat of him and slid her hand around his torso. She caught her breath in surprise. Lord Middlethorpe was so firm. Matthew had been big and flabby. She ran her hand lightly over the ridged muscles of his abdomen, sensing with delight the life-force within him.

It was the first time she had ever enjoyed touching a man.

He moved slightly beneath her hand.

She froze, half hoping he would wake and discover what she was doing. Then he'd either take charge or put a stop to it.

He settled back into sleep.

Serena sighed and let her hand slide lower.

He'd wake eventually....

* * *

Francis was dreaming... dreams of forbidden passion such as he had never had even as a youth. He was swirling in a maddening perfume, and a lissome succubus writhed close against him in the dark. A hand touched him intimately, creating a sweet fire that engulfed his body.

He shifted, and his tormentor moved with him. She covered him with luscious delight, trailing silken hair against the skin of his neck, engulfing him in musky perfume, nipping at his hot skin....

He reached out to control her but wool, silk and lace both tangled and evaded him.

The slick hand was replaced by skillful lips and a hot, wet tongue doing incredible things. He muttered, "Dear Lord," and his own husky voice told him he was awake, but in the deep perfumed dark nothing seemed real.

Where the hell was he, and who was he with?

His heart deafened him with its pounding. His every sense was focused on that searing mouth. His body was eagerly accepting an ecstasy beyond anything he had known before.

But... But...

Before he could collect the fragments of his mind, the succubus twisted again and one moist heat was replaced by another. It was a slow, tight slide so astonishingly perfect that he gasped a profanity and seized the maddening creature above him before she could escape. She twisted under his hands, but only to swoop down to bite him sharply, painfully, on the neck even as her body slid tightly around him.

He was hurled into pure need.

He rolled, plunging into the pit of pleasure. Sleek legs entwined him in a nest of perfumed cloth. Teeth and nails tantalized his burning flesh with exquisite pain. Mobile hips and subtle secret muscles forced on him a perfect, shattering release.

He lay limp with his head on a silken, musky breast. He felt drained to his soul, yet full of ultimate satisfaction....

Gentle fingers played in his hair.

His brain twitched back into operation.

He had just been seduced.

He'd as good as been
raped.

With weakened arms, he pushed off her, struggling to collect his exploded wits, to assemble words to express his feelings.
"Why the devil?"

One silken hand gripped his arm. "I desired you, my lord...."

He shrugged her off and surged up to seek her features in the dark. "And if I'd desired you and taken what I wanted in the night, would you have been pleased?"

"You are not pleased?"

The hurt in it reached him, but he was bloody furious. "No, I am not pleased."
He wanted her again. Now.
"I repeat, why did you do that?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he heard tears. "I didn't think any man would not... I'm sorry."

"What were you doing? Trying to pay me back for a little kindness in whore's wages? Or is there more to it than that?"

She flung an arm over her eyes. "No. Please don't... I just... just wanted to please you."

He stared at her shadowy shape, confused and angry to be so, distraught to be awakened to a need he'd controlled thus far all his life. He sank his dizzy head in his hands. He had no reason, for God's sake, to feel
sorry
for her.

Her voice was thin when she said, "I wanted to stop you from abandoning me. I hoped you would make me your mistress."

Francis caught his breath. So it had been a kind of whoring. Not desire, just an attempt to put him in her debt.

"I never intended to abandon you, ma'am," he said coldly. "Despite your behavior, I will still keep my word. I will take you to Hursley."

"I have no reason to go to Hursley." It was a little-girl voice, tremulous with tears.

Francis knew he was being dragged down into quicksand, but he couldn't reject the unspoken plea.

He couldn't abandon her. The basest parts of his mind didn't want to.

She wanted to be his mistress. Why not?

She's a professional whore, doubtless used by any man with a guinea.

Despite all the evidence, he couldn't quite believe that.

He took control of the situation. "Then I will place you at an inn, ma'am, and you will await me there until I return to assist you."

She turned her head slightly.
"Will
you return?"

"You are going to have to trust me, ma'am, alien though that may be to your nature."

He stood, and in an attempt to destroy the heavy atmosphere in the room, he dragged back the curtains to let in the thin early light. He turned.

She lay absolutely still, but her skirt was disheveled and her bodice had shifted to reveal too much of one tempting breast. Her tumbling hair veiled her face but did not hide the wanton beauty of her features. The light did nothing to disperse her perfume and the smell of sex.

Dear Lord, but he wanted to fall on her and explore her, and do it fully conscious this time.

She turned her huge dark eyes upon him. "And the matter of my being your mistress?" she whispered.

He forced the words out. "I regret that I cannot accept your offer." The regret, at least, was honest.

Her lips quivered like a frightened child's. What the devil was he to do with her? He turned away and began to dress.

She sat up abruptly. "You're leaving?" Fear rang through her question.

Francis ignored it as he realized that his clothing was disarranged. Of course it was, but the thought of her undressing him in his sleep was both infuriating and incredibly erotic.

"We
are leaving," he said as he buttoned his breeches. "Unless you do not wish to. I have no intention of compelling
you."
He made it into a formidable reproach.

"I'm truly sorry..."

"Forget it," he said curtly. "There's nothing to be said."

With what sounded suspiciously like a sob, she climbed out of the bed. He turned, but her head was lowered as she fumbled at her skirts, straightening them and her bodice. She meticulously tidied the bed, then hunched into the black shawl.

As he turned the doorknob, Francis thought there should be more to say between two people who had shared such a shattering intimacy. He could think of nothing that wouldn't move them into areas he was not yet prepared for.

With difficulty, he called to mind Lady Anne, waiting patiently for his return and his proper proposal.

He politely ushered his unwelcome siren out onto the landing and down the plain stairs.

* * *

After a taciturn but ample breakfast, Francis and Serena climbed into the curricle and headed for Hursley. The silence stayed with them, for Francis could think of nothing to say, and Serena Allbright had once more become a mute statue.

An erotically perfumed statue.

A man would be mad to turn his back on a woman like Serena. Then he remembered Lady Anne. This was no time to be even thinking of taking a mistress.

"Why were you going to Hursley?" he asked at last.

Her head was lowered within her hood. "Because the road went there."

He would
not
be sorry for her. Doubtless whatever troubles weighed on her, she had brought them upon herself. "Do you have anywhere you want to go?"

"No."

What had he done to deserve this? "Very well. Then you will stay where I put you, and I will come back to see what I can do. But I repeat, I have no need of a mistress."

They drove on in deep silence.

Hursley proved to be a mere hamlet, offering little in the way of shelter, and so he drove on to Romsey and took rooms there at the Red Lion. In view of the excellence of their clothing and carriage , and an ample supply of guineas, the innkeeper was perfectly willing to overlook, their lack of luggage. He appeared to believe the story that they had been caught unawares by the storm and that Mrs. Haile needed to rest to recover from the experience.

Because he was unsure of how long his business in Weymouth would take, Francis paid for board and lodging for two days, and gave Serena a few extra guineas. When he drove away, he was aware of the haunted despair in her eyes. She didn't think he'd return.

She'd probably take up with the first alternative protector who passed by.