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Soon afterward Luke gained his own release. There was a tremor in his arms as he held her tightly, astonished and replete in every part of his being. He watched over her as she slept. The candle stub burned out, leaving nothing but a trace of smoke in the air and a congealing pool of wax in the dish. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, enough to make out the edge of her profile and the dainty tip of one breast. She was soft and light against him, sleeping in the crook of his arm with utter trust. The ebony trails of her hair streamed over everything: their bodies, the pillow, the mattress. Carefully he gathered the silken locks into a dark river over her shoulder.

The touch of his hand disturbed her dreams, and she yawned and straightened her limbs in a trembling stretch, reminding him of a kitten with flattened ears. A few sleepy blinks, and she was awake, staring at him in wonder.

Luke smiled, holding her still as she made a sudden move to roll away. “You're safe,” he murmured.

Her body tensed, and he heard the sound of her hard swallow. Finally she broke the silence. “Shouldn't you worry about your own safety? I might hurt you.”

He kissed her forehead. “The only way you could do that is to leave.”

Tasia turned her face away. “My life has been filled with such ugliness…I don't want it to touch you, or Emma. And it would, if I remained here. There would be danger, and unhappiness…” She quivered with a frustrated laugh. “My God, you found out tonight that I murdered someone—you can't ignore something like that! It won't go away!”

“Do you think you did it?” he asked quietly.

Tasia sat up and held the sheet to her breasts, staring at him in the darkness. “I've tried a thousand times to remember what happened that night, but I can't. My heart starts to pound, and I feel sick, and…I'm afraid to know.”

Luke sat up also, a shadowy presence close beside her. “I don't believe you killed him. I don't think it's in you. And wanting to kill someone is
not
the same as doing it, or else most of the population would be guilty of murder.”

“What if I did? What if I'm guilty of stabbing a man in the throat because I hated him? I see it in my dreams, over and over again. Some nights I'm afraid to go to sleep.”

Luke reached out and slid his fingers over the smooth curve of her shoulder. “Then I'll watch over your sleep,” he whispered. “And I'll give you better things to dream about.” His touch moved downward until he found the crisp edge of linen clasped over her chest. Nudging the sheet lower, he ran his thumb in a gentle circle over her breast, awakening the velvety tip to a throbbing point. He heard her breath catch, felt the shiver that went through her. “I'm not sorry he's dead,” he said hoarsely. “I'm not sorry you're here with me now. And I won't let you leave me.”

“How can you act as though my past doesn't matter?”

“Because it doesn't. Not to me. I'd gladly take your sins upon my own soul, and burn for them, if that was the price for being with you.” She sensed rather than saw the mocking curl of his mouth. “What does that say about my character?”

“That you're a rutting fool,” Tasia said miserably.

Luke had the audacity to laugh. “And worse.” He slid his arm around her back and pulled her close, ignoring her protest as the sheet slipped away. He leaned his forehead on hers. Suddenly his amusement changed to soft-voiced ferocity. “I wish I could be perfect for you. But I'm not. I've sinned a thousand different ways. I'm badtempered and self-centered, and I've been assured by friends and enemies alike that I'm an arrogant know-all. I'm too old for you, and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm missing a hand.” His jaw flexed with a faint smile. “Considering all that, I can accept you and your blighted past with no reservations.”

“It's not about you, or your faults,” she said heatedly, trying to twist away. His grip tightened, and they fell sideways on the bed in a heap. “A-and your reasoning doesn't work. Just because we're both flawed doesn't mean we belong together!”

“It means we'll understand each other. It means we'll enjoy ourselves a hell of a lot.”

“I don't…call this…enjoyment,” she grunted, trying to throw off his weight, gasping at the tangle of sheets and naked skin she had found herself in.

“It takes some getting used to,” Luke said in her ear, jerking the white linen away from their bodies. “The first time is always the worst for a woman. You'll like it more later on.”

Tasia had liked it far too much already, but she was hardly going to flatter him by telling him so. “I couldn't stay here even if I wanted to,” she said breathlessly. “Prince Nikolas will find me. It's only a matter of time—”

“I'll be at your side when he does. We'll deal with him together.”

“Nikolas doesn't negotiate or compromise. He'll accept nothing but your full cooperation in sending me back to Russia.”

“I'll send him to hell first.”

“You
are
an arrogant know-all!” she whispered sharply, squirming beneath him. “I won't stay. I
can't
.”

“Hold still, we'll end up on the floor. This bed is too small.” He crouched on top of her and wedged his knees between hers. Tasia flailed helplessly in an effort to throw him off, until she felt the hard silken pressure of him against her belly, and the seeking tug of his mouth at her breast. She went still with a gasp, while her skin turned hot and her nerves shot urgent messages through her body. His large hand clasped her throat as if he held a flower stem, then moved to the fragile curves of her ribs. “Did I hurt you before?” he whispered, tracing the shape of her bones, the soft dip of her stomach.

“A little,” she said breathlessly. It was wrong to allow this…immoral…but somehow she couldn't seem to make herself care. These were her last hours with him, and all she wanted was to lose herself in his arms once more.

His mouth was at her ear, his teeth gently seizing the tiny lobe. His voice was nothing but a puff of warmth. “It won't hurt this time. I'll be careful.”

And he was ruthless in his restraint, every movement slow and easy. She groaned at the languid path of his mouth sweeping across her skin, the combination of wet tongue and scraping bristle that made her weak with craving. He whispered against her stomach, words she couldn't hear, only feel. His dark face lowered, and his mouth pressed to the moist patch of curls in brief sojourn that made her body jerk fearfully. She writhed at the tender stroke of his tongue.

“No,
no
—”

He stopped immediately and levered himself upward, pulling her against his chest with a comforting murmur. Trembling, she linked her arms around him, her fists digging into the sleek hardness of his back.

“I'm sorry,” Luke whispered, breathing roughly in her hair. “You're so sweet…so beautiful…I didn't mean to frighten you.” His hand slid between her thighs, his fingers circling the place where all feeling gathered. Tasia closed her eyes and choked back a whimper, giving herself entirely into his care. He touched her as if he owned her, playing on her senses with devastating skill.

But the mastery wasn't one-sided. Soon she discovered that her novice touch had the power to excite him just as deeply. She smoothed both palms over his long muscled back, down to the springy fur on his legs. The textures of his body, hard, rough, large-boned, were exquisitely different from her own. He pushed against the touch of her hands and settled over her with a growl.

Her thighs spread in eager welcome, a wanton invitation he accepted at once. But as he entered her, it was slow, gradual, causing only a flash of pain. Tasia lifted herself upward in greedy demand, and Luke laughed softly, as if she were a child trying to gorge on sweets. Moving in deep nudges, he pressed inside her, barely thrusting at all. She made an impatient sound in her throat, struggling closer to him, wanting more, more—

“Not yet, Tasia,” he murmured. “Not for a long time.” And in spite of her demands and outright pleading, he made her wait, until the world had spun away and there was only the slow, regular plunge of him within her. Every nerve, impulse, cell, focused on attaining the satisfaction he held just out of her reach. She had no energy left to cry out when he finally allowed her release. With a soft moan, she shuddered violently, her face buried in his sweat-slick shoulder. He was similarly quiet in his climax, his breath hissing through his teeth, every muscle clenched. Relaxing, he fell asleep at once, curling his hand into the sheaf of her hair. Tasia crawled halfway over him and closed her eyes, too tired for worries or nightmares or memories, grateful for the temporary peace he had afforded her.

Tasia woke later than she had intended. The sun was halfway up the sky, the sounds of breakfast rising from the servants' hall. To her relief, Stokehurst had left in the night while she slept. She could not bear to face him now. He and Emma were out on their morning ride. By the time they returned, she would be gone. After dressing and completing her morning ablutions in a hurry, she sat down to write a letter.

Carefully Tasia folded the square of parchment and sealed it with a few drops of wax. She blew out the flame, set down the stick of wax, and left the note in her room with Emma's name on it. It was the best way for all of them. She was relieved that her departure would be free of confrontations and awkward goodbyes. But there was a strange uneasiness lodged in her heart. Why had Stokehurst chosen to disappear without a word? Why was he letting her go like this? She had thought he might make one last effort to convince her to stay. He wouldn't give up something he wanted without a battle, and if he had spoken the truth about wanting her…

But perhaps he didn't want her anymore. Maybe one night had been enough for him. Maybe now his curiosity was satisfied.

The thought depressed Tasia. Her chest ached. Of course he had no further use for her. She had been adequate amusement for a few hours in the darkness. Now he would go back to Lady Harcourt, a woman with enough sensuality and experience to match his own.

Tasia wanted to weep, but instead she lifted her chin resolutely and carried her bags downstairs. There was a pleasantly acrid tea smell in the air. The carpets in the corridors were being cleaned. First the pile was scattered with dry tea leaves, and then it was painstakingly brushed by a battalion of housemaids. Mrs. Knaggs was busy supervising the activity, walking back and forth in a rustle of starched white apron. Tasia found her in one of the second-floor hallways, carrying a can of melted beeswax.

“Ma'am—”

“Ah, Miss Billings!” The housekeeper was flushed with exertion. She paused as Tasia came to her. “There aren't enough hours in the day to keep such a big place clean,” she commented, gesturing with the small can. “Carpets are trouble enough, but the wood floors are even worse.”

“Ma'am, I've come to tell you—”

“I already know. The master informed me this morning that you would be leaving us.”

Tasia was taken aback by the matter-of-fact statement. “‘He did?”

“Yes, and he ordered one of the carriages to be readied, to take you wherever you want to go.”

Rather than protest her departure, it seemed that Stokehurst was trying to make it as convenient as possible. “How kind of him,” Tasia said dully.

“I hope you have a pleasant journey,” Mrs. Knaggs said, her tone brisk, as if Tasia was merely going to the market for the day.

“You haven't asked why I'm leaving so suddenly.”

“I daresay your reasons are your own business, Miss Billings.”

Tasia cleared her throat uncomfortably. “About my month's wages, I was hoping—”

“Oh, yes.” All at once Mrs. Knaggs looked mildly embarrassed. “The master seemed to feel that since you haven't stayed the entire month, you aren't entitled to the wages he promised.”

Tasia turned red with surprise and rage. “It's only a few days short of a month! Do you mean to tell me he won't hand over a shilling of what he owes me?”

The housekeeper looked away. “I'm afraid. so.”

The bastard! The stingy, contemptible, smug, unscrupulous bastard. He was trying to punish her for not doing what he wanted. Tasia struggled for composure and finally spoke in a strained voice. “All right. I can get along without it. Goodbye, Mrs. Knaggs, and please tell Mrs. Plunkett and Biddle and the others that I wish them well—”

“Of course.” The housekeeper reached out and patted her shoulder in a friendly gesture. “We've all become quite fond of you, my dear. Goodbye. I must hurry with this wax—miles of floors to be polished…”

Tasia watched the housekeeper stride away. She was disconcerted by Mrs. Knaggs's breezy farewell, having expected something a little more heartfelt. Maybe the rumor had already gotten out that Stokehurst had spent the night in her room. There were no secrets at Southgate Hall. That must be the reason for the housekeeper's offhand manner—she wanted Tasia to leave quickly, and good riddance.

Humiliated, Tasia slunk to the entrance hall, wanting nothing more than to be far away from Southgate. Seymour, the butler, treated her with the same friendly politeness as always, but she couldn't meet his eyes as she asked for the carriage to be brought around. She wondered if he too suspected what she had done with Lord Stokehurst the night before. Perhaps it was written on her face. Surely anyone could look at her and see the loss of innocence. She was a fallen woman, with yet another sin to add to her list.

“What destination shall I tell the driver, miss?” Seymour asked diffidently.

“Amersham, please.” It was a village on the coach road with many old inns. Her plan was to stay there for the night, sell her grandmother's little gold cross for as much as she could get, and then hire a local man to convey her to the west of England. She knew there were numerous rural towns and ancient villages there, where she would be able to hide and assume the anonymous life of a dairymaid or houseservant.