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“I don't care,” Tasia replied, downing more of the delicious beverage. “It's the best wine I've ever tasted.”

Luke laughed. “And it gets better with every glass. Sip it slowly, sweet. Being a gentleman, I won't be able to take advantage of you if you're drunk.”

“Why not? Drunk or sober, the results are the same, aren't they?” She tilted her head back, letting the sweet liquid slide down her throat. “Besides, you're not that much of a gentleman.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed glance and made a lunge for her across the table. Tasia sprang up with a giggle, barely managing to avoid him. The room tipped, and she concentrated on keeping her balance. When she found her feet, she picked up her glass and wandered away aimlessly. She knew she was drinking too much, but she had a glowing feeling of well-being, and she didn't want it to stop.

“Who's that?” She gestured toward a portrait of a fair-haired woman on the wall. A few drops of wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. Frowning in dismay, Tasia applied herself to drinking the rest before she spilled any more.

“My mother.” Luke joined her in front of the portrait and plucked the wine from her hand. “Don't gulp it, sweet, you'll make yourself dizzy.”

Tasia was already dizzy. He was so steady and solid…She leaned back against him, squinting at the painting. A handsome woman, the duchess, but there was an utter lack of softness in her face, and a compressed thinness to her lips. And her eyes, so keen and cold. “You don't favor her very much,” Tasia said. “Except for the nose.”

Luke laughed. “She has a strong will, my mother. She hasn't softened a bit with age. Very quick-minded, too. She's always sworn she would never outlive her wits. So far she's kept an iron grip on them.”

“What is your father like?”

“An old scoundrel, with an insatiable passion for women. God knows why he married someone like my mother. To her, any display of emotion—even laughter—is undignified. My father claims that she never let him into her bed except the few times it took to produce offspring. They had three children who died in infancy before my sister and I were born. As the years passed, my mother turned more and more to the church, leaving my father free to chase women to his heart's content.”

“Did they ever love each other?” Tasia asked absently.

His chest lifted with a thoughtful sigh. “I don't know. All I remember is a sort of polite tolerance they had for each other.”

“How sad.”

He shrugged. “They chose it for themselves. For their own reasons, neither of them approve of marrying for love—which is ironic, since both their children did.”

Tasia settled more comfortably against him, enjoying the feel of firm muscle at her back. “Your sister loves her husband?”

“Yes, Catherine married a stubborn Scot with a temper to match hers. They spend half the time shouting at each other and the rest in bed.”

The last few words seemed to hang in the air. Remembering the night before, the languorous hours in bed with him, Tasia felt her face burn. She took a shallow breath, and then another, and blindly sought her wineglass. “I'm thirsty—” She turned and half-collided with him, her balance precarious. He slid a steady arm behind her back. Suddenly Tasia gasped as she felt a splash of liquid on her shoulder. “You spilled it on me,” she exclaimed, fumbling at her peasant blouse.

“Did I?” he asked softly. “Here, let me see.” His head bent, and she felt his warm mouth on her skin, right where the wine had spilled.

Confused, Tasia thought that they must be sinking—the floor was coming closer—and then she realized that Luke was lowering her to the carpet. Before she could object, she felt another small splash, and tiny rivulets that chased down to her belly. “You did it again!”

With a contrite murmur, he set the glass aside and pulled gently at the drawstring of her blouse. The damp garment slipped from her shoulders. There was a tug at her waistband, and her skirt inched down her hips. Tasia stared at herself in confusion. “Oh, dear,” she said, perplexed by the way her clothes seemed to be falling off. But Stokehurst was smiling at her as if it were a perfectly natural thing. He leaned forward to her exposed chest and licked the side of her breast, and then the shallow curve beneath, picking up sweet drops of wine with his tongue. Tasia quivered in agitation, knowing she should make him stop. But his mouth felt so warm and tickling and nice. Her head wobbled on her neck, and she slid her arms around his shoulders to steady herself. “I must be drunk,” she said thickly. “I've never been drunk before, but I always thought it would feel like this. All that wine…Oh, I must be! Am I?”

“Just a little.” He dragged the skirt away from her body. She relaxed on the floor and kicked her legs to help him, sighing in relief as the cumbersome fabric was removed. With her legs free, she felt so light, unburdened…and then he was pulling off her other garments, one by one.

“You're taking advantage,” she said sternly, and rolled to her side with a giggle. He lay down and faced her. She couldn't stop herself from touching his lips with her fingers, tracing the smiling curve. “Are you seducing me?”

He nodded, stroking back a skein of hair that had dropped over her chin.

“I'm sure I shouldn't want you to. Oh, my head is spinning.” Tasia closed her eyes, and she felt his mouth on hers, warm and intense, making the blood dance in her veins. He was right above her, so handsome and tempting that she reached up for him.

“Help me with my shirt,” he muttered.

What a splendid idea…She wanted to feel his hard chest, and the shirt was in the way. Willingly she struggled with the line of tiny carved buttons, but they didn't want to let go. Grasping handfuls of fine linen, she yanked until there was a satisfying ripping, popping sound, and the shirt was hanging open. Pleased with her accomplishment, she stared at his long, bare torso and his candlelit face. His eyes were the color of the sea, pure, with no hint of green or gray. “How can your eyes be so blue?” Carefully she touched his face. “Beautiful blue…so beautiful.”

His thick lashes lowered. “God help me, Tasia. If you leave, you'll take my heart with you.”

Tasia wanted to reply, but he kissed her until the words went skittering far out of reach. Hazily she focused on the sight of his hand closed around the wineglass once more, tilting it to let the contents spill over the brim. She couldn't think why he would be pouring wine on her, but he told her not to move, and she lay still in dreamy bewilderment as there were more cool trickles, splashes of golden liquid flowing over her body and between her thighs. She couldn't help squirming at the odd sensation, and then she felt his mouth skimming along the wet trail down her middle, scooping up tiny puddles with his tongue. She giggled and trembled as he found the wine-filled hollow of her navel. Gently he absorbed every drop, nuzzling across her skin with his parted lips, pausing to make hot swirls with his tongue.

Tasia fell silent, transfixed by the peculiar game he was playing, and by the prickling pleasure that seemed to cover every inch of her body. He pushed her thighs apart with his hand, and she opened compliantly, her will replaced by submissiveness. Everything centered on the movement of his mouth, the tantalizing pressure that traveled lower, brushing over crisp wine-soaked curls. Lightly his fingers combed through the soft thatch, making way for the sliding touch of his tongue. An acute throbbing began in the place he kissed, and she felt her body twitch in reaction. His tongue arrowed to the most sensitive place of all and lingered, until she gave a plaintive sigh and lifted upward into the tickling stimulation, whispering feverishly, “
Yes please yes right there
…” and the pleasure came in an ever-rising tide, a force barely contained in flesh. With a high-pitched cry she reached down to his dark head, pulling him closer. The exquisite convulsions drew out and lengthened, gradually fading to warm ripples.

Drugged with the aftermath of pleasure, Tasia stretched contentedly as his body moved over hers. She wrapped herself around his muscled body and reached down to touch him, her fingers curving around his hard length. He groaned and pushed upward, sliding gently into her swollen depths, and she closed around him in welcome. Tasia whimpered and locked her arms around his hard back, wanting to bear more of him, trying to bring his body heavy and smothering over her.

He resisted, keeping his weight poised above her. “I don't want to crush you,” he murmured. “You're so small and light…as if your bones were hollow like a bird's.” Tenderly his fingers traced the lines of her ribs, and he kissed her breasts and the ivory smoothness between them. “But when I feel the passion in you…the way you fight to pull me nearer…I come close to losing control, and it's all I can do to keep from hurting you.”

“Don't hold back,” she urged breathlessly, arching upward into each long thrust. “I won't break.”

But nothing would alter his restraint, not the demanding clasp of her hands on his back and buttocks, not even the clench of her teeth on his shoulder. The sweet rush of forgetfulness came over them both, driving away coherent thought, making them one for a moment of rapture.

They spent the next few hours in a huge oak bed with massive carved bedposts and acres of blue curtains. Their exertions made Tasia hungry, and Luke obligingly joined her in a raid on the pantry. After they indulged in fruit, cheese, and cake, they crawled back into bed once more, Tasia hooked her toes at the edge of the mattress and stretched as long as possible, still coming a few feet short of reaching the other side. “It's too big,” she complained, rolling over on the white linen sheets to smile at Luke. “I keep getting lost.”

He laughed and scooped her into his arms. “I'll keep finding you.”

Curving her arms around his neck, Tasia sat up in his lap, bringing their faces close together. “I like being decadent,” she said artlessly. “No wonder so many women choose to be mistresses.”

“Is that what you are now?” he asked, kissing the side of her throat.

Disconcerted, she looked at his dark face and blushed. “I-I wasn't presuming to take Lady Harcourt's place.”

“Iris and I aren't involved any longer. That's why I went to London yesterday, to break things off between us.”

Tasia's brows quirked in wary surprise. “Why?”

“Iris wanted more than I could give her, and I was selfish enough to keep her much longer than I should have. Now she's free to marry any one of several suitors who have been after her for years. I don't think it will take her long.”

“And what about you?” Tasia began to crawl from his lap. “Will you want a new mistress to replace her?”

Luke locked his arm around her waist, keeping her still. “I don't like to sleep alone,” he admitted frankly. “I suppose I could find another Iris and fall back into my usual fornicating ways.”

The thought caused a stab of jealousy. Tasia frowned and kept silent, knowing she had no right to make objections.

Luke grinned, reading her thoughts. “But then,” he said softly, “there's the question of what to do about you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. But would you be willing to take care of someone else as well? And let them care for you in turn?”

Tasia shook her head, while her heart began to hammer. “I don't know what you mean.”

“It's time for us to talk.” His dark blue eyes were riveted on hers. He took a deep breath. “Tasia…I want you to be a part of my life, and Emma's. I want you to stay with me. But if you do, it can't be any other way than as my wife.”

Tasia struggled away from him and snatched up a sheet to cover herself. She kept her head bent, unable to look at him as he went on.

“I never thought I could be a good husband to anyone but Mary. I never wanted to try with anyone else, until you came along.” Luke touched the naked curve of her back, stroking her rigid spine with his knuckles. “I know you aren't certain of your feelings for me. If there were time, if things were different, I'd court you with all the patience I could wring from my soul. Instead I'm asking you to take a blind leap and trust in me.”

For one moment Tasia could imagine what it would be like, sharing his home, his life, waking beside him every morning…but the vision slipped away, leaving her with a hollow ache. “If I were a different person I would say yes,” she said miserably.

“If you were a different person, I wouldn't want you.”

“We don't even know each other.”

“I'd say the last twenty-four hours have been a fairly good start.”

“I can only explain the same things over and over again,” she said in a raw voice, “and you won't listen. I've done something even God can't forgive. Somehow, someday, I'll have to pay for it. Retribution is coming. Since I'm too much of a coward to face it, I'll keep running until it catches up with me.”

“So Nikolas Angelovsky is serving as some instrument of divine justice? I don't think so. I think God has better means of punishing sinners than sending half-crazed Russian princes to do His will. And until you remember something, or come up with some kind of proof, I won't accept that you killed anyone. I'd feel that way even if I weren't in love with you. What in hell has made you so eager to take the blame for a crime you may not have committed?”

“You love me?” Tasia repeated, pushing aside her tangled hair to stare at him in amazement.

Luke scowled, hardly presenting the image of a besotted lover. “What do you think I've been trying to say?”

She gave a dazed laugh. “You have quite a way of working up to it.”

His voice was gruff, as if he were embarrassed by his declaration. “Believe me, you weren't the most likely candidate. I've had women throwing themselves at me for years—some of them with damned fine prospects.”

“I had excellent prospects in Russia,” she informed him. “Land, a fortune, palaces—”

“So Madame Miracle wasn't far off the mark.”

“No, indeed.”

His mouth twisted. “I wouldn't care if you were a woodcutter's daughter. I'd prefer it, actually.”

“So would I,” she said after a moment.

They didn't look at each other. There was a bleak silence, a period of assessment during which they each considered the next step. Somewhere in the middle of their bickering, he had proposed, and she had refused. But it wasn't over yet.