Chapter 10

On a bright Sunday morning on the eleventh day of May in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred Twenty-Eight, the Marquess of Dain stood before the minister of St. George's, Hanover Square, with Jessica, only daughter of the late Sir Reginald Trent, baronet.

Contrary to popular expectation, the roof did not fall in when Lord Dain entered the holy edifice, and lightning did not strike once during the ceremony. Even at the end, when he hauled his bride into his arms and kissed her so soundly that she dropped her prayer book, no clap of thunder shook the walls of St. George's, although a few elderly ladies fainted.

As a consequence, on the evening of that day, Mr. Roland Vawtry gave Francis Beaumont his note of hand for three hundred pounds. Mr. Vawtry had previously written and delivered other notes of varying amounts to Lord Sellowby, Captain James Burton, Augustus Tolliver, and Lord Avory.

Mr. Vawtry did not know where or how he would get the money to cover the notes. Once, a decade earlier, he'd gone to the moneylenders. The way that worked, he learned—and learning it had cost him two years of wretchedness—was, in a nutshell, that if they lent you five hundred pounds, you were obliged to pay back one thousand. He had rather blow out his brains than repeat the experience.

He was painfully aware that he would have no trouble covering his present debts of honor if he hadn't had to settle so very many others before he left Paris. He wouldn't have had the present debts at all, he reflected miserably, if he had learned his lesson in Paris and left off wagering on any matter involving Dain.

He had won exactly once, and that had not been much of a victory. He had lost two hundred pounds to Isobel Callon when she insisted Dain had lured Miss Trent to Lady Wallingdon's garden to make love to her.

Vawtry had simply won it back when Dain, contrary to Isobel's confident prediction, had failed, when caught, to enact the role of chivalrous swain. He had behaved, for once, like himself.

Unfortunately for Vawtry's finances, that had happened only the once. Because not a week later, after vowing he wouldn't have Miss Trent if she were served on a platter of solid gold—after the incomprehensible female had shot him—Dain had strolled into Antoine's and coolly announced his betrothal. He had said that someone had to marry her because she was a public menace, and he supposed he was the only one big and mean enough to manage her.

Moodily wondering just who was managing whom, Vawtry settled into a corner table with Beaumont at Mr. Pearke's oyster house in Vinegar Yard, on the south side of Drury Lane Theater.

It was not an elegant dining establishment, but Beaumont was partial to it because it was a favorite haunt of artists. It was also very cheap, which made Vawtry partial to it at the moment.

"So Dain gave you all a show, I hear," said Beaumont, after the tavern maid had filled their glasses. "Terrified the minister. Laughed when the bride vowed to obey. And nearly broke her jaw kissing her."

Vawtry frowned. "I was sure Dain would drag it out to the last minute, then loudly announce, 'I don't.' And laugh and stroll out the way he came."

"You assumed he would treat her as he did other women," said Beaumont. "You forgot, apparently, that all the other women had been tarts, and that, in Dain's aristocratic dictionary, the tarts are mere peasant wenches, to be tumbled and forgotten. Miss Trent, however, is a gently bred maiden. Completely'different situation, Vawtry. I do wish you'd seen."

Vawtry saw now. And now it seemed so obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't worked it out for himself ages ago. A lady. A different species altogether.

"If I had seen, you would be out three hundred quid at present," he said, his voice light, his heart heavy.

Beaumont picked up his glass and studied it before taking a cautious sip. "Drinkable," he said, "but just barely."

Vawtry took a very long swallow from his own glass.

"Perhaps what I actually wish," Beaumont went on, after a moment, "is that I'd known the facts. Matters would be so different now."

He frowned down at the table. "If I'd known the truth then, I might at least have dropped a hint to you. But I didn't know, because my wife tells me nothing. I truly believed, you see, that Miss Trent was penniless. Right up until last night, when an artist friend who does sketches for Christie's corrected my misapprehension."

Mr. Vawtry eyed his friend uneasily. "What do you mean? Everyone knows Bertie Trent's sister hadn't a feather to fly with, thanks to him."

Beaumont glanced about. Then, leaning over the table, he spoke in lower tones. "You recall the moldering little picture Dain told us about? The one the wench got for ten sous from Champtois?" Vawtry nodded.

"Turned out to be a Russian icon, and one of the finest and most unusual works of the Stroganov school in existence." Vawtry looked at him blankly. "Late sixteenth century," Beaumont explained. "Icon workshop opened by the Stroganov family, Russian nobility. The artists made miniatures for domestic use. Very delicate, painstaking work. Costly materials. Highly prized these days. Hers is done with gold leaf. The frame is gold, set with precious gems."

"Obviously worth more than ten sous," Vawtry said, trying to keep his tone casual. "Dain did say she was shrewd." He emptied his glass in two swallows and refilled it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tavern maid approaching with their meal. He wished she'd hurry. He didn't want to hear any more.

"Value, of course, is in the eye of the beholder," Beaumont went on. "I'd put it at a minimum of fifteen hundred pounds. At auction, several times that, very likely. But I know of at least one Russian who'd sell his firstborn to have it. Ten, possibly twenty thousand."

Lady Granville, daughter of the Duke of Sutherland, one of the richest men in England, had brought her husband a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.

Such women, the daughters of peers, were far beyond Mr. Vawtry's reach, along with their immense dowries. Miss Trent, on the other hand, the daughter of an insignificant baronet, belonged to the same class of country gentry as Mr. Vawtry himself.

He saw now that he'd had a perfect opportunity to cultivate her, after Dain had publicly insulted and humiliated her. She had been vulnerable then. Instead of merely handing her his coat, Vawtry might have enacted the role of chivalrous knight. He might, in that case, have stood before the preacher with her this very day.

Then the icon would have been his, and clever Beaumont could have helped him turn it into ready money… ready to be invested. Roland Vawtry could have settled down with a pretty enough wife, and lived in tranquil comfort, no longer dependent on Dame Fortune—or, more to the point, the whims of the Marquess of Dain.

Instead, Roland Vawtry was five thousand pounds in debt. Though this was not very much by some people's standards, by his, it might have been millions. He was not concerned about the tradesmen he owed, but he was deeply anxious about the notes of hand he'd given his friends. If he did not make good on them very soon, he would not have any friends. A gentleman who failed to pay debts of honor ceased being deemed a gentleman. That prospect was even more harrowing to him than the threat of moneylenders, sponging houses, or debtors' prison. He viewed his situation as desperate. Certain people could have told him that Francis Beaumont could detect another's desperation at twenty paces, and took great personal pleasure in exacerbating it but those wise persons were not about, and Vawtry was not an overly intelligent fellow.

Consequently, by the time they'd finished their meal and emptied half a dozen bottles of the barely drinkable wine, Mr. Beaumont had dug his pit, and Mr. Vawtry had obligingly toppled headfirst into it.

At about the time Roland Vawtry was tumbling into a pit, the new Marchioness of Dain's hindquarters were showing symptoms of rigor mortis. She sat with her spouse in the elegant black traveling chariot in which they'd been riding since one o'clock in the afternoon, when they'd left their guests at the wedding breakfast.

For a man who viewed marriage and respectable company with unmitigated contempt and disgust, he had behaved with amazing good humor. In fact, he had seemed to find the proceedings infinitely amusing. Three times he'd asked the trembling minister to speak up, so that the audience didn't miss anything. Darn had also thought it a great joke to make a circus performance of kissing his bride. It was a wonder he hadn't thrown her over his shoulder and carried her out of the church like a sack of potatoes.

If he had, Jessica thought wryly, he would have still managed to look every inch the aristocrat. Or monarch was more like it. She had learned that Dain had an exceedingly high opinion of his consequence, in which the standard order of precedence played no role whatsoever.

He'd made his views very clear to her aunt, not long after he'd given Jessica the heart achingly beautiful betrothal ring. After taking Jessica home and spending an hour with her in the parlor, perusing her lists and menus and other wedding annoyances, he'd sent her away and had a private conversation with Aunt Louisa. He'd explained how the future Marchioness of Dain was to be treated. It was simple enough.

Jessica was not to be pestered and she was not to be contradicted. She answered to nobody but Dain, and he answered to nobody but the king, and then only if he was in the mood.

The next day, Dain's private secretary had arrived with a brace of servants and taken over. After that, all Jessica had had to do was given an occasional order and accustom herself to being treated like an exceedingly precious and delicate, all-wise and altogether perfect princess.

Not by her husband, though.

They had been traveling for more than eight hours, and though they stopped frequently to change horses, that was for not a second more than the one to two minutes it took to make the change. At Bagshot, at about four o'clock, she'd needed to use the privy. She'd returned to find Dain pacing impatiently by the carriage, pocket watch in hand. He had strongly objected to her taking five times longer to answer nature's call than the stablemen did to unhitch four horses and hitch up four fresh ones.

"All a male need do," she'd told him patiently, "is unfasten his trouser buttons and aim somewhere, and it's done. I am a female, however, and neither my plumbing nor my garments are so accommodating."

He had laughed and stuffed her into the carriage and told her she was an infernal bother, but she was born that way, wasn't she? —being born female. Nonetheless, the second time she'd needed to relieve herself, a few miles back at Andover, he'd grumblingly told her to take her time. She'd returned to find him patiently sipping a tankard of ale. He had laughingly offered her a sip, and laughed harder when she drained the quarter pint he'd left.

"That was a mistake," he'd said when they were once more upon the road. "Now you'll be wanting to stop at every necessary from here to Ames-bury."

That had led to a series of privy and chamber pot jokes. Jessica had never before understood why men found those sorts of anecdotes so gut busting hilarious. She had moments ago discovered that they could be funny enough if related by an evilly clever storyteller.

She was at present recovering from an altogether immature fit of whooping laughter.

Dain was lounging back in the seat, which, as usual, he took up most of. His half-closed eyes were crinkled up at the corners and his hard mouth had curved into an endearingly crooked smile.

She wanted to be vexed with him for making her laugh so intemperately at the crass, puerile story. She couldn't be. He looked so adorably pleased with himself.

She was in a sorry case, to find Beelzebub adorable, but she couldn't help it. She wanted to crawl into his lap and cover his wicked countenance with kisses.

He caught her studying him. She hoped she didn't look as besotted as she felt.

"Are you uncomfortable?" he asked.

"My backside and limbs have fallen asleep," she said, shifting her position a fraction away. Not that one could get away, even in this coach, which was roomier than his curricle. There was still only one seat, and there was a great deal of him. But the air had cooled considerably with evening, and he was very warm.

"You should have asked to step out to stretch your limbs when we stopped at Weyhill," he said. "We shan't stop again until Amesbury."

"I scarcely noticed Weyhill," she said. "You were telling one of the most moronic anecdotes I'd ever heard."

"Had it been less moronic, the joke would have gone over your head," he said. "You laughed hard enough."

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings," she said. "I thought you were trying to impress me by displaying the uppermost limits of your intellect."

He turned an evil grin upon her. "When I set out to impress you, my lady, believe me, intellect will have nothing to do with it."

She met his gaze stoically, while her insides went into a feverish flurry. "You are referring to the wedding night, no doubt," she said composedly. "The 'breeding rights' for which you've paid so extortionate a price. Well, it will be easy enough to impress me, since you're an expert and I have never done it, even once."

His grin faltered a bit. "Still, you know all about it. You weren't in the least puzzled by what the lady and gentleman in your grand mama's pocket watch were doing. And you seem to have an excellent notion of the services the tarts are employed to perform."

"There is a difference between intellectual knowledge and practical experience," she said. "I will admit I'm a trifle anxious in the latter regard. Yet you are not at all inhibited, and so I am sure you will not be shy about instructing me."

Jessica hoped he wouldn't be too impatient to do so. She was a quick learner, and she was sure she could discover how to please him in a relatively short time. If he gave her the chance. That was all she was truly worried about. He was used to professionals who were trained to satisfy. He might easily become bored and irritated with her ignorance, and abandon her for women who were less… bother.

She knew he was taking her to Devon with the intention of leaving her there when he'd had his fill of her.

She knew she was asking for heartache to hope and try for more.

Most of the world—all but a handful of the wedding guests, certainly— viewed him as a monster, and her marriage to the Bane and Blight of the Ballisters as a narrow notch above a death sentence. But he was not a monster when he held her in his arms. And so Jessica couldn't stop herself from hoping for more of that, at least. And hoping, she was determined to try.

His gaze had slid away. He was rubbing his thumb over his knee, and frowning at it as though a wrinkle had had the audacity to appear in his trousers.

"I think we'd better continue this discussion later," he said. "I had not… Gad, I should think it was simple enough. It's not as though you're competing at university for a first in Classics or Mathematics." Only for first in his black heart, she thought.

"When I do something, I want to do it well," she said. "Actually, I always want to be the best. I am terribly competitive, you see. Perhaps it comes of having to manage so many boys. I had to beat my brother and cousins at everything, including sports, or they wouldn't respect me."

He looked up—not at her, but at the coach window. "Amesbury," he said. "About bloody time, too. I'm starving."

What the Bane and Blight of the Ballisters was, at the moment, was terrified.

Of his wedding night.

Now, when it was too late, he saw his mistake.

Yes, he knew Jessica was a virgin. He could hardly forget it, when that had been one of the most mortifying aspects of the entire situation: one of Europe's greatest debauchees mindless with lust for a slip of an English spinster.

He had known she was a virgin just as he had known her eyes were the color of a Dartmoor mist, and as changeable as the atmosphere of those treacherous expanses. He knew it in the same way he knew her hair was silken jet and her skin was creamy velvet. He'd known it, and the knowing was sweet, when he'd looked down at his bride as they stood before the minister. She'd worn a silver-grey gown and a faint pink had glowed in her cheeks, and she was not only the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, but she was pure as well. He had known no other man had possessed her, that she was his and his alone.

He had also known he would bed her. He'd dreamt of it long and often enough. Moreover, having waited what seemed like six or seven eternities, he had made up his mind to do it properly, in a luxurious inn, in a big, comfortable bed with clean linens, after a well-prepared supper and a few glasses of good wine.

Somehow, he had neglected to take into account what being a virgin meant, beyond being un-touched. Somehow, through all those heated fantasies, he'd left out one critical factor: No series of men had gone before him to make the way easy. He had to break her in himself.

And that, he feared, was just what he'd do: break her.

The carriage halted. Suppressing a desperate urge to scream at the coachman to keep on driving—until Judgment Day, preferably—Dain helped his wife out.

She took his arm as they started toward the entrance. Her gloved hand had never seemed so woefully small as it did at this moment.

She had insisted she was taller than average, but that wasn't the least bit reassuring to a man as big as a house, and likely to have the same impact when he fell upon her.

He would crush her. He would break something, tear something. And if he somehow managed not to kill her and if the experience did not turn her into a babbling lunatic, she would run away screaming if he ever tried to touch her again.

She would run away, and she would never again kiss him and hold him and—

"Well, stand me up and knock me down again—either a coal barge just hove into view or it's Dain."

The raucous voice jolted Dain back to the moment and to his forgotten surroundings. He'd entered the inn without noticing and heard the landlord's greeting without attending, and was, in the same distracted way, following his host to the stairway that led to the chambers Dain had reserved.

Coming down the stairs was the voice's owner: his old Eton schoolfellow Mallory. Or, rather, the Duke of Ainswood now. The previous duke, all of nine years old, had fallen victim to diphtheria a year ago. Dain recalled signing the condolence note his secretary had written to the mother and the tactfully combined condolences and congratulations to Mallory, the cousin. Dain hadn't bothered to point out that tact was wasted on Vere Mallory.

Dain hadn't seen the man since Wardell's funeral. His former schoolfellow had been drunk then and he was drunk now. Ainswood's dark hair was a greasy rat's nest, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, and his jaw rough with at least two days' growth of beard.

Dain's nerves were already in a highly sensitive state. The realization that he must introduce this repellent figure to his dainty, elegant, pure wife stretched those frayed nerves another dangerous notch.

"Ainswood," he said with a curt nod. "What a charming surprise."

"Surprise is hardly the word." Ainswood stomped down to the foot of the stairs. "I'm knocked a cock. Last time I saw you, you said you wouldn't come back to England again on anybody's account, and if anyone else wanted you at his funeral, he'd better contrive to keel over in Paris." His bloodshot gaze fell upon Jessica then, and he grinned in what Dain considered an intolerably obscene manner. "Why, bless me if hell hasn't truly frozen over. Dain not only back in England, but traveling with a bit of muslin, to boot."

The threads of Dain's control began to unravel. "I won't ask what hermit's cave you've been living in, that you don't know I've been in London for nearly a month and wed this morning," he said, his voice cool, his insides roiling. "The lady happens to be my lady."

He turned to Jessica. "Madam, I have the dubious honor of presenting

—"

The duke's loud guffaw cut him off. "Wed?" he cried. "Quick, tell me another. Mayhap this bird of paradise is your sister. No, better yet, your great aunt Mathilda."

Since any female out of the schoolroom would know that "bird of paradise" was a synonym for "harlot," Dain had no doubt his wife was aware she'd just been insulted.

"Ainswood, you have just called me a liar," he said in ominously mild tones. "You have slandered my lady. Twice. I will give you precisely ten seconds to compose an apology."

Ainswood stared at him for a moment. Then he grinned. "You always were good with the daring and daunting, my lad, but that cock won't fight. I know a hoax when I see one. Where was your last performance, my dove?" he asked Jessica. "The King's Theatre, Haymarket? You see, I don't slander you a bit. I can tell you're above his usual Covent Garden wares."

"That's three times," said Dain. "Innkeeper."

Their host, who'd withdrawn to a dark corner of the hall, crept out.

"My lord?"

"Kindly show the lady to her chamber."

Jessica's fingers dug into his arm. "Dain, your friend's half-seas over," she whispered. "Can't you—" "Upstairs," he said.

She sighed and let go of his arm and did as she was told.

He watched until she'd passed the landing. Then he turned back to the duke, who was still gazing upward at her, his expression lewdly expressive of his thoughts.

"Prime piece," said His Grace, turning back to him with a wink. "Where'd you find her?"

Dain grabbed his neck cloth and shoved him against the wall. "You stupid, filthy piece of horse manure," he said. "I gave you a chance, On the way to Calais, Dain had ridden with Bertie outside the coach. At the inns, Dain had retired to the taproom with Bertie while Jessica dined with her grandmother. During the Channel crossing, His Lordship had kept to the opposite end of the French steamer. En route to London, he had again ridden outside the luxurious carriage he'd hired. Once in London, he had deposited her, Bertie, and Genevieve at the door of Uncle Arthur and Aunt Louisa's house. Jessica had not seen her betrothed since.

Now, a full fortnight after leaving Paris—fourteen days during which her affianced husband seemed determined to ignore her out of existence— he arrived at two o'clock in the afternoon and expected her to drop whatever she was doing to attend to him.

"He wants me to go for a drive?" Jessica said indignantly when her flustered aunt returned to the sitting room to relay Darn's message. "Just like that? He has suddenly recollected my existence and expects me to come running at the snap of his fingers? Why didn't you tell him to go to the devil?"

Aunt Louisa sank into a chair, pressing her fingers to her forehead. In the few minutes she'd spent with him, Dain had evidently managed to undermine even her autocratic composure.

"Jessica, pray look out the window," she said.

Jessica set down her pen upon the writing desk where she'd been battling with the wedding breakfast menu, rose, and went to the window. Upon the street below she saw a handsome black curricle. It was attached to two very large, very temperamental black geldings, which Bertie was struggling mightily to hold. They were snorting and dancing restlessly about. Jessica had no doubt that in a very few minutes they'd be dancing on her brother's head.

"His Almighty Lordship says he will not leave the house without you." Aunt Louisa's voice throbbed with outrage. "I advise you to hurry, before those murderous beasts of his kill your brother."

In three minutes, a seething Jessica had a bonnet upon her head and her green pelisse snugly fastened over her day frock.

In another two, she was being helped onto the carriage seat. Or shoved was more like it, for Dain promptly flung his huge body onto the seat, and she had to wedge herself into a corner to avoid his brawny shoulder. Even so, in the narrow space it was impossible to escape physical contact. His useless left hand lay upon his thigh, and that muscled limb pressed brazenly against hers, as did the allegedly crippled left arm. Their warmth penetrated the thick fabric of her pelisse as well as the muslin frock beneath, to make her skin tingle.

"Comfortable?" he asked with mocking politeness.

"Dain, this curricle is not big enough for the two of us," she said crossly. "You're crushing me."

"Maybe you'd better sit on my lap, then," he said.

Suppressing the urge to slap the smirk off his face, she turned her attention to her brother, who was still fumbling about the horses' heads. "Confound you, Bertie, get away from there!" she snapped. "Do you want them to mash your skull upon the paving stones?"

Dain laughed and gave the beasts leave to start, and Bertie hastily stumbled back to the safety of the sidewalk.

A moment later, the curricle was hurtling at a breakneck pace through the crowded West End streets. Jammed, however, between the high, cushioned side of the carriage seat and the rock-hard body of her demonic betrothed, Jessica knew she was in small danger of tumbling out. She leaned back and contemplated Dain's Steeds from Hell.

They were the worst-tempered horses she'd ever encountered in her life. They fussed and snorted about and objected to everything and everybody that strayed into their path. They tried to trample pedestrians. They exchanged equine insults with every horse they met. They tried to knock over lampposts and curb posts, and strove to collide with every vehicle that had the effrontery to share the same street with them.

Even when they reached Hyde Park, the animals showed no signs of tiring. They tried to run down the workmen finishing the new archway at Hyde Park Corner. They threatened to stampede down Rotten Row— upon which no vehicle but the monarchs were permitted.

They succeeded in none of their fiendish enterprises, however. Though he waited until the last minute, Dain quelled all attempts at mayhem. To Jessica's mingled annoyance and admiration, he did so without seeming to make the slightest effort, despite having to drive with only one hand.

"I suppose there wouldn't be any challenge in it," she said, thinking aloud, "if your cattle behaved themselves."

He smoothly drew the right one back from imminent collision with the statue of Achilles and turned the satanic beasts westward into the Drive. "Perhaps your ill temper has communicated itself to them, and they're frightened. They don't know where to run, what to do. Is that it, Nick, Harry? Afraid she'll shoot you?"

The beasts tossed their heads and answered with evil horsey laughter.

Leave it to Dain, she thought, to give his horses Lucifer's nicknames. And leave it to him to own animals who fully merited the names.

"You'd be ill tempered, too," she said, "if you'd spent the last week wrestling with guest lists and wedding breakfast menus and fittings and a lot of pestering relatives. You'd be cross, too, if every tradesman in London were besieging your house, and if your drawing room had come to look like a warehouse, heaped with catalogs and samples. They have

been plaguing me since the morning our betrothal announcement appeared in the paper."

"I shouldn't be ill tempered in the least," he said, "because I should never be so cork-brained as to let myself be bothered."

"You're the one who insisted upon the grand wedding at St. George's, Hanover Square," she said. "Then you left it all to me. You haven't made the smallest pretense of helping."

"I? Help?" he asked incredulously. "What the devil are servants for, you little nitwit? Did I not tell you to send the bills to me? If no one else in the household is competent to do the work, then hire somebody. If you want to be a wealthy marchioness, why don't you act like one? The working classes work," he explained with exaggerated patience. "The upper classes tell them what to do. You should not upset the social order. Look at what happened in France. They overthrew the established order decades ago, and what have they to show for it? A king who dresses and behaves like a bourgeois, open sewers in their grandest neighborhoods, and not a decently lit street, except about the Palais Royal."

She stared at him. "I had no idea you were such a Tory snob. Certainly one couldn't tell, given your choice of companions."

He kept his gaze upon the horses. "If you're referring to the tarts, may I remind you that they're hired help."

The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of his bed partners. Jessica did not want to think about how he'd amused himself at night while she lay sleepless in her bed, fretting about the wedding night and her lack of experience—not to mention her lack of the Rubenesque figure he was so revoltingly partial to.

Gloomily certain that her marriage would be a debacle—no matter what Genevieve said—Jessica did not want to care whether she pleased him in bed or not. She could not get the better of her pride, though, and that feminine vanity couldn't bear the prospect of failing to captivate a husband. Any husband, even him. Neither of Genevieve's spouses had ever dreamt of straying, nor had any of the lovers she'd discreetly taken during her long widowhood.

But now was hardly the time to wrestle with that daunting problem, Jessica told herself. It made more sense to take the opportunity to get some practical matters sorted out. Like the guest list.

"I know where your female companions fit on your social scale," she said. "The men are another matter. Mr. Beaumont, for instance. Aunt Louisa says one may not invite him to the wedding breakfast because he isn't good ton. But he is your friend."

"You bloody well better not invite him," Dain said, his jaw hardening. "Buggering sod tried to spy on me when I was with a whore. Invite him to the wedding and the swine will think he's invited to attend the wedding night as well. What with the opium and drink, he probably can't get his own rod to stand to attention—so he watches someone else do it."

Jessica discovered that the image of Rubenesque trollops writhing in his lap wasn't nearly so agitating as what now appeared in her mind's eye: six and a half feet of dark, naked, aroused male.

She had a good idea of what arousal looked like. She'd seen some of Mr. Rowlandson's erotic engravings. She wished she hadn't. She didn't want so vivid an image of Dain doing with a voluptuous whore what the men in Rowlandson's pictures had been doing.

The picture hung in her mind, bold as the illuminations displayed during national celebrations, and it twisted her insides into knots and made her want to kill somebody.

She was not simply jealous, she was madly so—and he'd put her into this mortifying state with but a few careless words. Now she looked into the future, and saw him doing it again and again, until he made her completely insane. She should not let him do it to her, Jessica knew.

She should not be jealous of his tarts. She should thank her lucky stars for them, because he'd spend as little time as possible with her, while she would be a wealthy noblewoman, free to conduct her life as she wished. She'd told herself this a thousand times at least, since the day he'd so insolently proposed and she'd stupidly let her heart soften.

Lecturing herself didn't do any good. She knew he was perfectly awful and he'd used her abominably and he was incapable of affection and he was wedding her mainly for revenge… and she wanted him to want only her, all the same.

"Have I finally shocked you?" Dain asked. "Or are you merely sulking? The silence has become deafening."

"I am shocked," she said tartly. "It would never occur to me that you would mind being watched. You seem to delight in public scenes."

"Beaumont was watching through a peephole," Dain said. "In the first place, I can't abide sneaks. In the second, I paid for a whore—not to perform, gratis, for an audience. Third, there are certain activities I prefer to conduct in private."

The carriage drive at this point began to veer northward, away from the banks of the Serpentine. The horses struggled to continue along the riverbank, aiming at a stand of trees. Dain smoothly corrected their direction without appearing to take any notice of what he was doing.

"At any rate, I felt obliged to clarify my rules with the aid of my fists," he went on. "It's more than possible Beaumont holds a grudge. I shouldn't put it past him to take out his ill feeling on you. He's a coward and a sneak and he has a nasty habit of…" He trailed off, frowning. "At any rate," he went on, his expression grim, "you're to have nothing to do with him."

It took her a moment to grasp the implications of the command, and in that moment the world seemed to grow marginally brighter and her heart a cautious degree lighter. She shifted sideways to scrutinize his glowering profile. "That sounds shockingly… protective."

"I paid for you," he said coldly. "You're mine. I look after what's mine. I shouldn't let Nick or Harry near him either."

"By gad—do you mean to say I am as important a possession as your cattle?" She pressed her hand to her heart. "Oh, Dain, you are too devastatingly romantic. I am altogether overcome."

He brought his full attention upon her for a moment, and his sullen gaze dropped to where her hand was. She hastily returned it to her lap.

Frowning, he turned back to the horses. "That over garment thing, the what-you-call-it," he said testily.

"My pelisse? What's wrong with it?"

"You filled it better the last time I saw it," he said. "In Paris. When you burst into my party and bothered me." He steered the beasts right, into a tree-lined avenue a few yards south of the guardhouse. "When you assaulted my virtue. Surely you remember. Or did it merely seem to fit better because you were wet?"

She remembered. More important, he did—in sufficient detail to notice a few pounds' shrinkage. Her mood lightened another several degrees.

"You could throw me into the Serpentine and find out," she said.

The short avenue led to a small, thickly shaded circular drive. The trees ringing it shut out the rest of the park. In a short while, the five o'clock promenade would begin, and this secluded area, like the rest of Hyde Park, would be crammed with

London's fashionables. At present, however, it was deserted.

Dain drew the curricle to a halt and set the brake. "You two settle down," he warned the horses. "Make the least bother, and you'll find yourselves hauling barges in Yorkshire."

His tone, though low, carried the clear signal of Obedience or Death. The animals responded to it just as though they were human. Instantly they became the most subdued, docile pair of geldings Jessica had ever seen.

Dain turned his moody black gaze upon her. "Now, as to you, Miss Termagant Trent—"

"I love these pet names," she said, gazing soul-fully up into his eyes. "Nitwit. Sapskull. Termagant. How they make my heart flutter!"

"Then you'll be in raptures with a few other names I have in mind," he said. "How can you be such an idiot? Or have you done it on purpose? Look at you!" He addressed this last to her bodice. "At this rate, there won't be anything left of you by the wedding day. When was the last time you ate a proper meal?" he demanded.

Jessica supposed that, in Dain's Dictionary, this qualified as an expression of concern.

"I did not do it on purpose," she said. "You have no idea what it's like under Aunt Louisa's roof. She conducts wedding preparations as a general conduct warfare. The household has been in pitched battle since the day we arrived. I could leave them to fight it out among themselves, but I should not care for the result—and you would detest it. My aunt's taste is appalling. Which means I have no choice but to be involved, night and day. Then, because it takes all my will and energy to maintain control, I'm too tired and vexed to eat a proper meal—even if the servants were capable of making one, which they aren't, because she's worn them to a frazzle, too."

There was a short silence. Then, "Well," he said, shifting a bit in his place, as though he were not altogether comfortable.

"You told me I should hire help," she said. "What good will that do, when she'll interfere with them as well? I shall still be involved—and driven—"

"Yes, yes, I understand," he said. "She's bothering you. I'll make her stop. You should have told me before."

She smoothed her gloves. "Until now, I was unaware you had any inclinations to slay dragons for me."

"I don't," he said. "But one must be practical. You'll want all your strength for the wedding night."

"I cannot think why I should need strength," she said, ignoring a host of spine-tingling images rising in her mind's eye. "All I have to do is lie there."

"Naked," he said grimly.

"Truly?" She shot him a glance from under her lashes. "Well, if I must, I must, for you have the advantage of experience in these matters. Still, I do wish you'd told me sooner. I should not have put the modest to so much trouble about the negligee."

"The what?"

"It was ghastly expensive," she said, "but the silk is as fine as gossamer, and the eyelet work about the neckline is exquisite. Aunt Louisa was horrified. She said only Cyprians wear such things, and it leaves nothing to the imagination."

Jessica heard him suck in his breath, felt the muscular thigh tense against hers.

"But if it were left to Aunt Louisa," she went on, "I should be covered from my chin to my toes in thick cotton ruffled white monstrosities with little pink bows and rosebuds. Which is absurd, when an evening gown reveals far more, not to mention—"

"What color?" he asked. His low voice had roughened.

"Wine red," she said. "With narrow black ribbons threaded through the neckline. Here." She traced a plunging U over her bosom. "And there's the loveliest openwork over my… well, here." She drew her finger over the curve of her breast a bare inch above the nipple. "And openwork on the right side of the skirt. From here"—she pointed to her hip— "down to the hem. And I bought—"

"Jess." Her name was a strangled whisper.

"—slippers to match," she continued. "Black mules with—"

"Jess." In one furious flurry of motion, he threw down the reins and hauled her into his lap.

The movement startled the horses, who tossed their heads and snorted and commenced an agitated dance. "Stop it!" Dain said sharply. They stilled.

His powerful right arm tightened round Jessica's waist and he pulled her close.

It was like sitting in the throbbing heat of a furnace: Brick-hard and hot, his body pulsed with tension. He slid his hand down over her hip and clasped her thigh.

She looked up. He was scowling malevolently at his big, gloved hand.

"You," he growled. "Plague take you."

She tilted her head back. 'til return it, if you wish. The nightgown." His furious black gaze moved up, to her mouth.

His breathing was harsh. "No, you won't," he said.

Then his mouth, hard and hungry, fell upon hers, dragging over her lips as though to punish her.

But what Jessica tasted was victory. She felt it in the heat he couldn't disguise, and in the pulsing tension of his frame, and she heard it clear as any declaration when his tongue pushed impatiently for entry.

He wanted her. Still.

Maybe he didn't want to, but he couldn't help it, any more than she could help wanting him.

And for this moment, she needn't pretend otherwise. She squirmed up to wrap her arms round his neck, and held tightly while he ravaged her mouth. And while she ravaged his.

They might have been two furious armies, and the kiss a life-or-death battle. They both wanted the same: conquest, possession. He gave no quarter. She wanted none. She couldn't get enough of the hot sin of his mouth, the scorching pressure of his hand, dragging over her hip, brazenly claiming her breast.

She claimed, too, her hands raking over his massive shoulders and down, digging her fingers into the powerful sinews of his arms. Mine, she thought, as the muscles bunched and flexed under her touch.

And mine, she vowed, as she splayed her hands over his broad, hard chest. She would have him and keep him if it killed her. A monster he may be, but he was her monster. She would not share his stormy kisses with anyone else. She would not share his big, splendid body with anyone else.

She squirmed closer. He tensed and, groaning deep in his throat, moved his hand down and clasped her bottom, pulling her closer still. Even through the leather driving gloves and several layers of fabric, his bold grasp sent sizzling ripples of sensation over her skin.

She wanted his touch upon her naked flesh: big, bare, dark hands moving over her, everywhere. Rough or gentle, she didn't care. As long as he wanted her. As long as he kissed her and touched her like this… as though he were starving, as she was, as though he couldn't get enough of her, as she couldn't of him.

He dragged his mouth from hers and, muttering what sounded like Italian curses, took his warm hand off her buttock. "Let go of me," he said thickly. Swallowing a cry of frustration, she brought her hands down, folded them upon her lap, and stared at a tree opposite.

Dain gazed at her in furious despair.

He should have known better than to come within a mile of her. They'd be wed in thirteen days, and he would have the wedding night and as many nights thereafter as he needed to slake his lust and be done with it. He had told himself it didn't matter how much she haunted and plagued him meanwhile. He had endured worse, for smaller reward, and he could surely endure a few weeks of frustration.

He had to endure it, because he had a far too vivid image of the alternative: The Marquess of Dain hovering about and panting over his bride-to-be like a starving mongrel at a butcher's cart. He would be fretting and yapping at her doorstep by day and howling at her window by night. He would be trotting after her to dressmakers and milliners and cobblers and haberdashers, and snarling and growling about her at parties.

He was used to getting what he wanted the instant he wanted it, and to wisely ignoring or rejecting what he couldn't get that instant. He had found he could no more disregard her than a famished hound could disregard a slab of meat.

He should have realized that the day he met her, when he'd lingered in Champtois' shop, unable to take his eyes off her. He should at least have discerned the problem the day he'd gone to pieces just taking off her damned glove.

In any case, there was no escaping the truth now, when he'd given himself—and her—so mortifyingly eloquent a display. All she had to do was describe a bit of lingerie, and he lost his mind and tried to devour her.

"Do you want me to get off your lap?" she asked politely, still gazing straight ahead.

"Do you want to?" he asked irritably.

"No, I am perfectly comfortable," she said.

He wished he could say the same. Thanks to the small, round bottom perched so confounded comfortably upon his lap, his loins were experiencing the fiery torments of the damned. He was throbbingly aware that release was mere inches away. He had only to turn her toward him and lift her skirts and…

And she might as well have been in China, for all the chance there was of that happening, he thought bitterly. That was the trouble with ladies— one of the legion of troubles. You couldn't just do the business when you wanted to. You had to court and persuade, and then you had to do it in a proper bed. In the dark.

"You may stay, then," he said. "But don't kiss me again. It's… provoking. And don't tell me about your sleeping apparel."

"Very well," she said, glancing idly about her, just as though she were sitting at a tea table. "Did you know that Shelley's first wife drowned herself in the Serpentine?"

"Is my first wife considering the same?" he asked, eyeing her uneasily.

"Certainly not. Genevieve says that killing oneself on account of a man is inexcusably gauche. I was merely making conversation."

He thought that, despite the torments, it was rather pleasant to have a soft, dean-smelling lady perched upon his knee, making idle conversation. He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He quickly twisted it into a scowl. "Does that mean you've left off being cross for the moment?"

"Yes." She glanced down at his useless left hand, which had slid onto the seat during their stormy embrace. "You really ought to wear a sling, Dain. So that it doesn't bang into things. You could do it a serious injury, and never notice."

"I've only banged it once or twice," he said, frowning at it. "And I noticed, I assure you. I feel everything, just as though it worked. But it doesn't. Won't. Just lies there. Hangs there. Whatever." He laughed. "Conscience bothering you?"

"Not in the least," she said. "I thought of taking a horsewhip to you, but you wouldn't have felt a thing, I daresay."

He studied her slim arm. "That would want a good deal more muscle than you could hope for," he said. "And you'd never be quick enough. I'd skip out of your way and laugh."

She looked up. "You'd laugh even if I managed to strike. You'd laugh if your back were torn to shreds. Did you laugh after I shot you?"

"Had to," he answered lightly. "Because I swooned. Ridiculous."

It had been ridiculous, he realized now, as he searched the cool grey depths of her eyes. It had been absurd to be outraged with her. The scene in the WaUingdons' garden hadn't been her doing. He was beginning to suspect whose it had been. If the suspicion was correct, he had not only behaved abominably, but had been unforgivably stupid.

He'd deserved to be shot. And she'd done it well. Dramatically. He smiled, recollecting. "It was neatly done, Jess. I'll give you that."

'It was splendidly done," she said. "Admit it: brilliantly planned and executed."

He looked away, toward Nick and Harry, who were pretending to be sleepily at peace with the world. "It was very well done," he said. "Now I think of it. The red and black garments. The Lady Macbeth voice." He chuckled. "The way my courageous comrades bolted up in terror at the sight of you. Like a lot of ladies at a tea party invaded by a mouse."

His amused gaze came back to her. "Maybe it was worth being shot, just to see that. Sellowby—Goodridge—in a panic over a little female in a temper fit."

"I am not little," she said sharply. "Just because you are a great gawk of a lummox, you needn't make me out to be negligible. For your information, my lord Goliath, I happen to be taller than average."

He patted her arm. "You needn't worry, Jess. I'm still going to marry you, and I'll manage to make do somehow. You are not to be anxious on that score. In fact, I've brought proof."

He slid his hand into the deep carriage pocket.

It took him a moment to find the package he'd hidden there, and the moment was enough to set his heart pounding with anxiety.

He'd spent three agitated hours selecting the gift. He'd rather be stretched upon a rack than return to Number Thirty-two, Ludgate Hill, and endure that hellish experience again. At last his fingers closed upon the tiny box.

Still, his heart didn't stop pounding, even when he drew it out and clumsily pressed it into her hand. "You'd better open it yourself," he said tightly. "It's a deuced awkward business with one hand."

Her grey glance darting from him to the package, she opened it.

There was a short silence. His insides knotted and his skin grew clammy with sweat.

Then, "Oh," she said. "Oh, Dain." His helpless panic eased a fraction.

"We're betrothed," he said stiffly. "It's a betrothal ring."

The clerk at Rundell and Bridge had made appalling suggestions. A birthstone—when Dain had no idea when her birthday was. A stone to match her eyes—when there was no such stone, no such object in existence.

The obsequious worm had even dared to suggest a row of gems whose initials formed a message: Diamond-Emerald-Amethyst-Ruby-Epidote Sapphire-Turquoise… for dearest. Dain had very nearly lost his breakfast.

Then, finally, when he'd been driven to the last stage of desperation, poring over emeralds and amethysts and pearls and opals and aquamarines and every other curst mineral a craftsman could clamp onto a ring… then, in the last of what seemed like a thousand velvet-padded trays, Dain had found it.

A single cabochon ruby, so smoothly polished that it seemed liquid, surrounded by heartbreakingly perfect diamonds.

He had told himself he didn't care whether she liked it or not. She'd have to wear it anyway.

He'd found it a great deal easier to pretend when she wasn't near. Easier to make believe he'd chosen that particular ring simply because it was the finest. Easier to hide in his dark wasteland of a heart the real reason: that it was a tribute, its symbolism as mawkish as any the jeweler's clerk had proposed.

A bloodied stone for the brave girl who'd shed his blood. And diamonds flashing fiery sparks, because lightning had flashed the first time she'd kissed him.

Her gazed lifted to his. Silver mist shimmered in her eyes. "It's beautiful," she said softly. "Thank you." She pulled off her glove and took the ring from the box. "You must put it on my finger."

"Must I?" He tried to sound disgusted. "Some sentimental twaddle, I suppose."

"There's no one to see," she said.

He took the ring from her and slipped it over her finger, then quickly drew his hand away, afraid she'd discern the trembling.

She turned her hand this way and that, and the diamonds took fire.

She smiled.

"At least it fits," he said.

"Perfectly." Turning her head, she darted one quick kiss at his cheek, then hastily returned to her seat. "Thank you, Beelzebub," she said very softly.

His heart constricted painfully. He snatched up the reins. "We'd better get out of here, before the fashionable stampede begins," he said, his voice very gruff. "Nick! Harry! You can stop playing dead now."

They could play anything. They'd been trained by a circus equestrian, and they loved to perform, responding instantly to the subtle cues Dain had spent three full days learning from their former master. Though he knew how it was done, even he sometimes had trouble remembering that it was a certain flick of the reins or a change in tone they reacted to, and not his words.

At any rate, they were fondest of the role they'd played en route to Hyde Park, and he let them play it again, all the way back. That took his betrothed's attention away from him, and fixed it on praying she'd arrive alive at her aunt's doorstep. With Jessica preoccupied, Dain had leisure to collect his shattered composure, and address his intelligence to putting two and two together, as he should have done weeks ago.

There had been six onlookers, Herriard had said.

Now Dain tried to remember the faces. Vawtry, yes, looking utterly thunderstruck. Rouvier, the man Dain had publicly embarrassed. Two Frenchmen he recalled having seen many times at Vingt-Huit. And two

Frenchwomen, one unfamiliar. The other had been Isobel Callon, one of Paris' most vicious gossips… and one of Francis Beaumont's favorite female companions.

What had Jessica said that night? Something about how the gossip would have died down if she hadn't burst into his house.

But maybe it wouldn't have died down, Dain reflected. Maybe public interest in his relations with Miss Trent had swelled to insane proportions because someone had fed the rumor mill. Maybe someone had kept the gossip stirred and encouraged the wagers, knowing the rumors would drive Beelzebub wild.

All Beaumont would have needed to do was drop a word to the right party. Isobel Callon, for instance. She'd seize the delicious tidbit and make a campaign of it. She wouldn't need much encouragement to do so, because she hated Dain. Then, having sown the seeds, Beaumont could retire to England and enjoy his revenge at a safe distance… and laugh himself sick when letters arrived from his friends, detailing the latest events in the Dain-versus-Trent drama.

When the suspicion had first arisen, Dain had thought it far-fetched, the product of an agitated mind.

Now it made a good deal more sense than any other explanation. It did explain at least why jaded Paris had become so obsessed with one ugly Englishman's handful of encounters with one pretty English female.

He glanced at Jessica.

She was trying to ignore Nick and Harry's Steeds of Death performance by concentrating on her betrothal ring. She hadn't put her glove back on. She turned her hand this way and that, making the diamonds spark rainbow fire.

She liked the ring.

She had bought a red silk nightgown, trimmed with black. For her wedding night.

She had kissed him back and touched him. And she hadn't seemed to mind being kissed and touched.

Beauty and the Beast. That's what Beaumont would call it, the poison tongued sod.

But in thirteen days, this Beauty would be the

Marchioness of Dain. And she would lie in the Beast's bed. Naked.

Then Dain would do everything he'd been dying to do for what seemed an eternity. Then she would be his, and no other man could touch her, because she belonged to him exclusively.

True, he could have bought Portugal for what "exclusive ownership" was costing him.

On the other hand, she was prime quality. A lady. His lady.

And it was very possible Dain owed it all to the sneaking, corrupt, cowardly, spiteful Francis Beaumont.

In which case, Dain decided, it would be pointless—as well as a waste of energy better saved for the wedding night—to take Beaumont apart and break him into very small pieces.

By rights, Dain ought to thank him instead.

But then, the Marquess of Dain was not very polite.

He decided the swine wasn't worth the bother.

. Now I have to break your neck."

"I'm quaking in my boots," Ainswood said, his bleary eyes lighting at the prospect of battle. "Do I get the chit if I win?"

A short while later, oblivious to her maid's protests, Jessica stood on the balcony overlooking the inn's courtyard.

"My lady, I beg you to come away," Bridget pleaded. "It isn't a fit sight for Your Ladyship. You'll be ill, I know you will, and on your wedding night, too."

"I've seen fights before," said Jessica. "But never one on my account. Not that I expect they'll do much damage. I calculate they're evenly matched. Dain is bigger, of course, but he must fight one-armed. And Ainswood is not only well built, but drunk enough not to feel much."

The cobblestoned yard below was rapidly filling with men, some in dressing gowns and nightcaps. Word had quickly spread, and even at this late hour, few males could resist the lure of a mill. Not just any mill, either, for the combatants were peers of the realm. This was a rare treat for boxing aficionados.

Each man had drawn a circle of supporters. Half a dozen well-dressed gentlemen were gathered about Dain. They were offering the usual loud and contradictory advice while Dain's valet, Andrews, helped his master out of his upper garments.

Bridget let out a shriek, and scuttled back against the balcony door. "Heaven preserve us—they're naked!"

Jessica didn't care about "they." Her eyes were upon one man only, and he, stripped to the waist, took her breath away.

The torchlight gleamed upon sleek olive skin, over broad shoulders and brawny biceps, and spilled lovingly over the hard angles and flexing curves of his chest. He turned, displaying to her dazzled eyes a smooth expanse of back, gleaming like dark marble and sculpted in clean lines of bone and rippling muscle. He might have been a marble Roman athlete come to life.

Her insides tightened, and the familiar heat coiling through her was a thrumming mixture of yearning and pride.

Mine, she thought, and the thought was an ache, bittersweet, of hope and despair at once He was hers in name, by law both sacred and secular. But no law could make him truly, fully hers. That would want a long and dogged battle. The drunken Ainswood, she thought ruefully, stood a better chance of winning than she did. On the other hand, he did not seem overly intelligent, and her struggle wanted brains, not brawn.

Jessica did not lack brains, and the mouthwatering sight below constituted more than sufficient motivation.

She watched one of the men secure Dain's left arm in a makeshift sling. Then the two combatants stood up to each other, nearly toe to toe. The signal was given.

Ainswood instantly made a fierce rush at his opponent, head down and fists flailing. Dain, smiling, retreated, carelessly dodging the shower of blows, simply letting the duke come on as hard as he could.

But hard as the man came, he got nowhere. Dain was light on his feet, his reflexes lightning-fast—as they must be, for Ainswood was surprisingly quick, despite his insobriety. Nonetheless; Dain led him a merry chase. Blow after blow that seemed certain to connect struck only air, infuriating the duke.

He came on harder yet, throwing more power into the assault, trying every angle. One blow glanced off Dain's arm. Then there was a blur ol movement and a loud thwack! And Ainswood staggered backward, blood streaming from his nose.

"A conker, by gad," Jessica muttered. "And 1 never saw it coming. Nor did His Grace, to be sure."

Bloody but undaunted, Ainswood laughed and bounded back for yet another dogged attack.

By this time, Bridget had returned to her new mistress's side. "Mercy on us," she said, her round face wrinkled with distaste. "Isn't once enough to be hit?"

"They don't feel it." Jessica turned back to the fight. "Until if's over, that is. Oh, weD done, Dain," she cried as her lord's powerful right slammed into the duke's side. "Thaf's what he wants. To the body, my dear. The oaf's head is thick as an anvil."

Fortunately, her cries could not be heard over the shouts of the assembled onlookers, or Dain might have been distracted—with unfortunate results—by his dainty wife's bloodthirsty advice.

In any case, he'd evidently worked out the matter on his own, and one —two—three—-brutal body blows at last brought Ainswood to his knees.

Two men rushed forward to haul His Grace up. Dain backed away.

"Give it up, Ainswood," someone in Dain's circle shouted.

"Aye, before he really hurts you."

From her vantage point, Jessica could not be certain how much damage Dain had done. There was a good deal of blood spattered about, but the human nose did tend to bleed profusely.

Ainswood stood, swaying. "Come along, Big Beak," he taunted, gasping. "I'm not done with you." Clumsily he waved his fists.

Dain shrugged, strode forward and, in a few swift motions, knocked the flailing hands away and planted his fist in his opponent's gut.

The duke folded up like a rag doll and toppled backward. Fortunately, his Mends reacted quickly, catching him an instant before his head could hit the cobblestones. When they'd pulled him up into a sitting position, he grinned stupidly up at Dain. Sweat mingled with blood trickled down the duke's face.

"Apologize," said Dain.

Ainswood took several heaving breaths. "Beg pardon, Beelz," he croaked.

"You will also take the first opportunity to apologize to my lady."

Ainswood sat, nodding and breathing hard for a long moment. Then, to Jessica's chagrin, he looked up toward the balcony. "Beg pardon, my lady Dain!" he called out hoarsely.

Then Dain looked up, too. Damp black curls dung to his forehead, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his neck and shoulders.

His eyes widened briefly in astonishment when they lit upon her, and an odd, pained look crossed his features. But in the next instant, the familiar, mocking expression was in place. "My lady," he said, and swept her a theatrical bow.

The crowd cheered.

She nodded. "My lord." She wanted to leap down from the balcony and into his arms.

One-armed, he had fought his own friend, because of her. He had fought cleverly, splendidly. He was magnificent. She wanted to cry. She mustered a tremulous smile, then turned and hurried through the door Bridget held open for her.

Not certain at first what to make of his bride's troubled smile, Dain took stock of the situation and his appearance, and ended by making the worst of it.

The smile and the cool composure, he decided, were for the audience's benefit. It was a cover-up smile, as so many of his own were, and he could easily imagine what she was covering up.

Her new husband was an animal.

He'd been brawling in an inn yard like a common ruffian.

He was dirty and spattered with Ainswood's blood and sweating and stinking.

He was also half-naked, and the torchlights had given her a lurid view of what he'd intended to conceal in darkness: his gross blackamoor's body.

By now, she was probably clutching a chamber pot, casting up her accounts—if she wasn't bolting the door and helping Bridget push heavy furniture against it.

Dain decided against washing up in the room. Instead, he marched to the pump, deaf to his va-let's warnings about the night air and fatal chills.

Not to be outdone, Ainswood joined him there. They silently doused themselves while their friends gathered round them to exclaim and argue about the fight.

When the two had completed their cold ablutions, they stood eyeing each other and shrugging their shoulders to conceal their shivering.

Ainswood spoke first. "Wed, by gad," he said, shaking his head. "Who'd have thought it?"

"She shot me," said Dain. "She had to be punished. 'Pardon one offense,' says Publilius, 'and you encourage the commission of many.' Can't have every female who feels vexed with me running after me with pistol cocked. Had to make an example of her, didn't I?"

He glanced round at the others. "If one female gets away with shooting Beelzebub, others might start thinking they can get away with shooting any male, on any trifling pretext."

The men about him fell silent. As they pondered this outrageous prospect, their expressions grew very grave.

"I wed her as a public service," he said. "There are times when a man must rise above his own petty concerns and act on behalf of his friends."

"So he must," said Ainswood. He broke into a grin. "But it doesn't seem so great a sacrifice to me. That is a prime—I mean to say, your lady is exceedingly handsome." Dain affected indifference. "I should say beautiful," said Carruthers. "Quality," said another. "Her bearing is elegant," another volunteered. "Graceful as a swan."

While his chest expanded and his shoulders straightened, Dain managed to appear disgusted. "I give you leave to cudgel your brains, composing lyrical odes to her perfection," he said. "I, however, mean to have a drink."