FeverFantasy

His Grace the Duke of Bennington
Care of the Intercontinental Royal Exchange
British West Indies

Second, December, 1812

My dearest Justin (if I may presume to be so familiar!)

You have sought my counsel regarding your daughter’s progress here at Madame Roussard’s L’Ecole de Sacre Coeur. As assistant headmistress of this esteemed institution, I feel it only just to convey that there is cause for alarm concerning your daughter’s deportment.

Distraught as I am over her latest escapade, I shall not be tedious with details but rather shall cut to the quick. Lady Rafaella Bennington--your daughter, my dear Duke-- is a liar. A bodacious, flamboyant, and utterly convincing liar.

Each time she tells a particularly superb mistruth of epic proportion, she swears the next time she feels tempted she will resist with stoic restraint. But neither stoic nor restraint is a word incorporated to any degree in Rafaella’s vocabulary of life; a vocabulary that consists primarily of words like temerity, zest, joie de vivre. Tenacious? Surely. Intelligent? Too! Unique? Absolutely.

And a liar.

My other girls idolize her, revere her, believe every bit of outrageousness that cleaves her honeyed lips. Her lying is exceeded only by the dazzling finesse with which she does so; a dangerous combination indeed! Justin, I cannot stress this enough—she is fated for misconduct! In another age, she might have been destined for greatness but as you and I well know, this age beneath the Regent does not permit a woman to be great in many arenas, albeit perhaps the art of envied dalliances and polished seductions.

I am deeply concerned for her and would petition your attentions away from your vast holdings overseas. I beg of you--return to England! You must take a firm hand in this matter. Your daughter possesses every one of your raffish qualities, passion, daring, and contempt for rules. In a man this makes for an eligible and coveted rakehell. In a woman, it breeds disaster.

Of our intimate liaison years past, although you once offered me carte blanche in all I should ever desire, please recall I have never once petitioned your good graces, and heed my appeal now. Your daughter is a tempest in a teapot! And that teapot is soon to be discarded when she makes her inevitable and much too rapidly approaching debut into the Polite World.

I fear the Polite World shall never be the same.

With deepest affection (and great trepidation for your daughter’s future!)

Abbey Penroth, Asst. Headmistress, L’Ecole de Sacre Coeur, Summer, England

Lady Rafaella Bennington carefully refolded the letter addressed to her father that she’d intercepted en route to be posted at the nearby town of Summer. By blessed Fate—or more accurately divine (ly manipulative) intervention on Rafe’s part (the stable boy was infatuated to endless degree with her and had been bribed to immediately bring to her attention any and all correspondence between her father and the good Headmistress) the missive would never reach its intended destination.

Bloody good thing, too. A liar, indeed! So, she was, but it was perfectly harmless. She’d never actually caused significant harm with her…gaily colored mistruths. No more than she’d harmed anyone with her theft of curios and trinkets from those who lacked the proper appreciation for them. Not that she didn’t have the ready to buy them herself. As sole heiress to her father’s estate, buying half of England might not have been out of the question. But the trifles she pocketed; their absence hurt no one and pleased her immensely.

Intimate liaison, ha—finally! She’d suspected it for years; had not missed the clever banter and heated glances ricocheting between her father and proper, virtuous Abbey on the rare occasions of his visits. But she’d had only suspicions, and now, she had proof! Clutched in her dainty hand was the penultimate bargaining chip. It would bode exceedingly ill if the headmistress of England’s finest finishing school for the gently-bred daughters of the upper ten thousand were exposed as a woman of Convenient Morals. Not that Rafe had any intention of sullying Abbey’s reputation, but Abbey couldn’t be sure of that.

“Rafe, do tell! You’re looking awfully smug,” Anisette exclaimed. “What is it? A letter from one of your admirers?”

Rafe tossed her luxuriant black curls and smiled. This wouldn’t even have to be a lie. The stable boy was one of her many admirers, and it was he who’d delivered it to her so, essentially, it was truth. “Yes,” she said, happily pondering the many liberties she would wring from Abbey with the incriminating missive.

“Oooh! S’il vouz plait, you must tell us!” Ellen squealed.

“Later,” Rafe evaded, trying to avoid another half-truth for the time being. “If I don’t finish this blasted bit of embroidery, Abbey will confine me to chambers for neglecting my maidenly duties.” She stabbed at the fabric to emphasize her point and succeed only in pricking her finger. A tiny bloodstain blossomed on the snowy fabric. “Bloody hell!” she snapped, oblivious to the gasps elicited by her daring use of the worldly curse. “Oh, Anisette, I’m so clumsy,” she complained, “unlike you who sews so beautifully they should dedicate a chamber here to your work.” Her compliment had the intended effect. Anisette blushed and smiled, and immediately offered to complete the piece for her.

Rafe gratefully relinquished the hated burden and turned her attention to the conversation that had been unfolding while she’d been reading Abbey’s letter.

“Sex, sex, sex. Is that all we ever talk about?” Bettina covered her ears in mock maidenly offense.

“Talk is for green chits,” Ellen said archly. “I have had An Experience.”

“No!” came the disbelieving, envious gasps from the group of girls gathered in plush armchairs before a crackling fire in the library. The parlor, where they commonly did their sewing, was being remodeled so they’d been relegated to the masculine retreat, which was vast and sported an impressive array of tomes.

“Yes, I have,” Ellen said quickly, determined to claim her place among the Elite—those who possessed personal experience of Carnal Matters—and had preciously included only Caroline and Rafe.

“Do tell!” came the hushed, fascinated cries.

As Ellen confided her Experience, complete with details over which Abbey would have wrung her hands to hear, a man moved behind the stately bookcases, with the power and grace of a panther: lean, dark, good looks, sleek muscle and quiet confidence.

Heretofore, he’d been largely uninterested in the conversation but sex—that was always interesting, even if discussed by budding schoolgirls. An opportunity to eavesdrop upon a group of young women’s most private thoughts on the matter was not to be missed. The shelves were tall, arranged in rows to each side of the fire, affording him a degree of privacy where he could see and hear, yet remain undetected.

He bit back a chuckle, a time or two, at the naiveté of the chit regaling her friends. It was obvious to him that she was a green girl, repeating talk overheard from servants or the like. But the other girls were enthralled by her risqué report and the man leaned back against a bookcase, arms folded over his broad chest, a faint smile curving his lips, enjoying the intimate tete a tete.

Until it turned slanderous.

“How romantic,” one of the girls exclaimed. “How thrilling it must have been for you, Ellen.”

“It makes me think of that delicious man, the Marquis de Galle,” another exclaimed. “He is too divine to even contemplate having an Experience with! I daresay I should expire if he so much as glanced my way!”

“The Marquis de Galle would never glance your way, Marybeth,” Anisette chided. “Every woman in London has set her bonnet for him and it’s well known that he has no intention of ever being anything but an irresolute rake of the first water. Why, he’s been linked with the most famed beauties on the continent. No woman can hold that man.”

At the last comment, something in Rafe reared its ugly head, tempting, tempting. Stoically, she bit her tongue.

“Really, Marybeth,” Bettina chimed in, “he wouldn’t even notice schoolgirls like us. The man is flawless, fabulously wealthy and companion to only the most magnificent women of the ton.”

Rafe bit her tongue again. It hurt this time.

“So?” Marybeth said defiantly. “A girl can dream. The Marquis de Galle—I’d wager he’s utterly dreamy between the sheets! With a physique like his, such experience, such worldliness….he would be the perfect lover. I saw him,” she confided breathlessly, “this New Years’ past. He came to Father’s ball with that woman from the stage, you know Mlle. Bellise? An absolute scandal. He causes them wherever he goes. Remember Lady Lafton?”

“Who was she?” Anisette said.

“Laughed at by the entire ton when she was found in such dire straits,” Ellen punned the name. “Eighteen and betrothed to the Earl of Rothsford, she was jilted at the altar for having penned a very detailed letter to the Marquis. She was ruined, you know, by its curious publication in La Belle Asemblee. The Earl broke the engagement and publicly decried her. She’s twenty-four now and an ape-leader for certain. Destined for spinsterhood. No man will have her.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. The Marquis had had intimate relations with hundreds of women and was admired and revered for his carnal excesses. Lady Lafton’s life had been destroyed by doing exactly the same thing with a single man. Him, in fact. The very same Marquis that had ruined her life sported her disgrace as a feather in his cap. If rules had to be obeyed, they should at least be fair.

“Such a scandal, and just for having her name linked with his.” Caroline sighed. “In fashionable society, for a woman of good breeding even to be seen with him, is her surest downfall. The only way to safely sample the delights of the Marquis is to be a courtesan, or a married woman of unimpeachable discretion. Personally,” she said loftily, “I intend to wed and immediately seek the good Marquis’ bed, although any of the lords of Lussex would do.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Rafe said irritably. “All the Marquis has to offer is a reputation as a good roll. So he has wealth? So do we. So he has a title? So do we. So he might be well-educated. I bet I’m smarter.”

Caroline shrugged. “What does smart have to do with anything? The Marquis is rumored to be one of the most inventive, artful lovers of this age. He’s legend.”

Rafe practically choked. Touting the man’s studding abilities as if they were virtues. All a man had to do to become worthy of great notice was be a good lover to many woman, while a woman was condemned and destroyed for precisely the same “virtues.”

“Who are the lords of Lussex?” Anisette asked.

Ellen laughed. “Commonly known as the lords of loose-sex, they’re a wild foursome that grew up together in Lussex. There’s the Marquis, Lord Calvin, Lord Cambridge and the Viscount de Baal. They’re famous friends, devastating and eligible rakes. The crème de la crème. It’s every girl’s dream to snare one of the infamous lords. To actually wed one would seal a woman’s future. Not only would she be envied for having landed such a roué, all are fabulously wealthy and titled, with grand estates.”

“I hear the Marquis returned from the Orient recently,” Caroline interjected. “I do believe he’s traveled as extensively as you, Rafe.”

Rafe sighed. It was no lie that she had seen much of the world. Her father was an adventurer and, against the counsel of meddling friends, he’d taken his young daughter on his travels with him, until four years ago when he’d broken her heart by abandoning her at finishing school. She’d lost azure oceans and jungles, exchanged dressing like a boy and running free, for being imprisoned in clothing, brick walls and endless insufferable rules. She was choking here. Dying inside.

“Well, he just sounds like a paragon of godliness,” Rafe snapped irritably. “Worldly, a skilled lover, wealthy, eligible…”

“Sexy, handsome, animalistic…” Caroline joined in, a gleam in her dark eyes.

“Masterful,” Ellen said, with a dreamy sigh, “powerful, superb…”

“Boring,” Rafe said flatly. There. She’d done it. Lie and Begone, she thought. It was too late now. Once she got started, she could never stop. Not until she’d told it up big and blasphemous.

“Boring?” Ellen cried.

“You heard me. The man is a great bloody bore.” Rafe rotated one dainty hand, studying her cuticles, as if too bored to even be talking about it. Every girl present gasped, riveted.
Behind a bookcase, a man leaned forward, craning for a better view. He’d been quite enjoying the current topic. Until now. He wondered which of the young girls had spoken. Probably a dowdy young chit, bitter because she knew she had no chance at the Marquis.

“You know him?” Anisette exclaimed.

“I’ve met him several times,” Rafe said. “But it’s the occasion the holidays past I recall most clearly. I didn’t want to tell you then for I was afraid you, my dearest friends, might think ill of me. But I can see I was remiss in not speaking up, if only to warn my dear friends,” she dangled invitingly.

They took the bait. Someone always did. “Don’t keep up in suspense, Rafe,” Bettina cried.

“We can’t bear it!” Ellen agreed.

“Do you recall The Experience I spoke of last year?”

Mary Beth nodded. “Yes, but you said it was most unsatisfying!”

“Precisely,” Rafe replied. Stifling a small yawn, she leaned back in her chair, assured that she was the center of attention. “Recall that I never told you his name.”

“No!” the girls gasped. “It was the Marquis de Galle who caused you to have such an unfavorable Experience?”

Wearing her most glum expression, Rafe sighed gustily. “Tedious,” she assured her rapt audience. “Boring. Clumsy. And if he is considered worldly, I am afraid ‘worldly’ needs to be redefined as something akin to bumbling or inept.” Rafe sighed again, as though deeply saddened. A good liar knew that criticism was a thing others were always eager to hear. By the age of five, Rafe had developed an acute sense for just what type of lies people not only wanted to hear, but readily believed. The largest and most stunning lies carried great conviction, if simply for their shock value. People delighted in being shocked, delighted in having a particularly nasty on-dit to relate again and again. By criticizing their dreamy hero, the Marquis de Galle, she had secured her friend’s belief that she spoke truly. Who but an expert would dare to criticize such a rakehell?

“You and the Marquis?” Caroline was stunned. And Rafe had never told her! Her gaze swept over her friend, from her luxurious raven curls, to the tips of her toes. Rafe was more than lovely, she was breathtaking, possessing the kind of beauty that one could sit and stare at, simply enjoying the view. Her every movement was fascinating, from the way she arched a delicate brow and pursed her full mouth, to the way she moved, ate and danced. All the girls at school were a bit in awe of her. Caroline decided she didn’t doubt for a moment that the worldly and wild Rafe had actually done as she said. “But you said he…well…you, oh, the two of you actually completed the act. Why complete it with such an inept sort?”

“Truth be told, it was over before I’d scarce realized it had begun. Only my second Experience and terribly disappointing. Really,” Rafe said, “the man is lousy between the sheets.”

This time, the gasps of the other girls was met by a soft gasp from behind the bookshelves. The audacity! The unmitigated gall! Lousy between the sheets, indeed! Yet crane his neck though he might, the man could catch no more than a glimpse of the back of the vixen’s head. The bearer of such ill tidings concerning the Marquis de Galle had a glossy mane of curly raven hair, but nothing more could he see.

“Oh Rafe, I’m sorry it wasn’t good for you. My Experience was terribly fulfilling,” Ellen empathized. “I do hope you have another chance soon. With your beauty, I’m sure you will,” she added reassuringly.

Rafe accepted her sympathies with grace. “I can only assure you that the Marquis de Galle is vastly overrated! And certainly nothing to aspire to. So forget the Lords of Loose-sex and fall in love with someone decent!” See, she thought, my lying isn’t bad after all. If it keeps even one of my dear friends from the bed of some rakehell who will surely break her heart, than I’ve done something good. It wouldn’t have occurred to her for a moment that she might be a woman of Convenient Logic. “You do know that he is Trina’s guardian?” she added.

“No! Really?” Ellen said. “Why has she never said such?”

Caroline raised an eyebrow at Rafe. As Rafe’s good friend, she had been privy to such and a bit more. “Most likely she was a bit embarrassed by it,” Caroline offered in way of explanation. “He is a scandalous rake. Further, Trina is no relation to him, but Trina’s father was a friend of the Marquis. When her father died two years ago, the Marquis shipped her here to school without so much as an adieu. She has no title, and is not from landed gentry, but was accepted by Madame Roussard only through the Marquis’ good graces. Her father was a merchantman,” Caroline added, without malice. Trina was a favorite, dear to them all, and above reproach.

“But,” Rafe interjected,” she is heiress to a great fortune through the Marquis. He has settled an enormous dowry upon her. And if he should die before she weds, it passes to her on her eighteenth birthday.”

“But the Marquis has younger brothers. Being the eldest, wouldn’t his estate revert automatically to the next brother, should he die?” Bettina asked

“The de Galle fortune is extensive, and defiant of common law, the Duke de Galle settled well upon his sons. Half the Marquis estate would go to the next son, while the other half would go to Trina. He must have been very close to her father to bestow such wealth on a mere woman,” Rafe added sardonically. “Lets see, he is twenty eight now, Trina is sixteen, no, I suppose it’s to outrageous, even for the Marquis, to have fathered her at twelve,” she remarked mischievously.

“Oooh, Rafe! What would Trina say?” Ellen grinned

“She would know I was teasing,” Rafe replied. “But where is Trina today? She’s never absent from the Triple S.” Sewing, sex and secrets; each afternoon at three. Trina loved the intimate chatter, and Rafe could think of nothing that would keep her away.

None of the girls seemed to know, and the conversation slowly died off, with most of the girls retiring to their chambers to nap and prepare for the evening meal. Rafe alone chose to stay in the library. The other girls didn’t understand her passion for books, so she tended to be somewhat discreet about it. No bluestocking was she!

Rafe strolled to the fireplace, warming her hands before the flames, unaware that a pair of eyes rested speculatively upon her. As the last girl slipped from the library, the man forsook his discreet position behind the shelves, and strode boldly forward to stand behind the bodacious little chit. Liar, he thought. A most outrageous and innovative liar. Innovative certainly, to say the Marquis de Galle was unsatisfactory in bed!

But who was she? Had he ever seen her before? He didn’t think so. But there was only one way to find out. He cleared his throat of an imaginary impediment to gain her attention.

Rafe ignored the sound. She’d thought she was alone, and was quite immersed in her thoughts. Thoughts of escaping this stuffy, provincial school, of cajoling her father into coming for her, and taking her about the world again. Two more years would be an eternity, but she had been told her debut was not to take place until she was eighteen. Eighteen! The unfairness of it! Who would believe it? Many of the girls made their debut at sixteen, particularly the one’s whose families desperately needed their polished daughters to marry money. But of the group, she, Caroline, Ellen, and Anisette had each been enrolled until their eighteenth year. Damn you, father! she fumed

The sound came again, from behind, the clearing of a throat. Why didn’t the bloody fop leave? she wondered irritably, and turned sharply on her heal, ready to dress the unfortunate down in no uncertain terms.

But her mouth failed to open and form words: a most novel thing, indeed, for Lady Rafaella Bennington. Her eyes widened, wandering over every inch of the man towering over her, regarding her with an expression of amusement. But as he continued looking, his silver eyes turned hooded, deliberate. She was unaware her own eyes had changed; the pupils dilating instinctively, making them larger, darker. Zounds, but this man was fantasy come to life!

Tall, lean and muscular, with thick black hair worn au coup de vent. Although this man, she decided quickly, didn’t have to strive for the deliberately tousled look, but came naturally by his careless and dangerous appeal. Clad in snug black breeches which were met at the knee by black Hessians, he was taller than she by almost a foot. His shoulders were broad, and he was in his shirtsleeves. A fine white linen, not even buttoned properly! His bronzed skin was shockingly revealed, and her eyes drifted over the silky dark hair that dusted the skin bared at his throat. When she finally drew breath to speak, she lost it again as he took her hand in his, turned it palm up, bent his dark head and kissed the tender pale flesh with seductive languor—and was that the tip of his tongue he’d just dragged up her wrist? A rake’s kiss! Her skin burned where he’d touched her, and for the first time in her life, Rafaella Bennington, urchin of the high seas and weaver of grand mistruths, blushed. Finding her voice, she asked huskily, “May I help you, good sir?”

His silver eyes assessed her. “If you would be so good as to remind me when you and I last met.”

What a tawdry opening gambit! Rafe thought. The oldest one in the book; to claim she looked familiar. Well, she wasn’t falling for it, she decided, as she fell right for it. “I assure you, good sir, I have never laid eyes upon you before.” She made no move to reclaim her hand. His strong, elegant fingers were dark and masculine against the pale delicacy of her hand. She puzzled over the contrast, wondering why it made her feel somehow weak in the pit of her stomach.

“Are you quite certain?” he asked, a look of puzzlement on his face. “But surely we have met somewhere, Lady…” He arched a brow in prompt. Oh, but he was going to wring every last bit of enjoyment from this! What infinite good grace had allowed him to overhear his own reputation being so sorely abused? His ego was none too pleased. It pleased him even less that the lying personage who had slandered his virility and finesse was a far-too young woman of considerable appeal. Not old enough to be prey, in good conscience. Not young enough to ignore. His eyes beheld young girl, but his body scented woman.

“No, we haven’t,” Rafe repeated. She avoided his attempt to learn her name. He might be a rake, and devastating at that, but she wasn’t going to let this rake get the upper hand. “And let go of my hand,” she added, breathlessly. Dear God, this man’s nearness was disconcerting her to an extreme! Words like maidenhead, virtue and honor couldn’t coexist in a world where a man like this existed. And a maidenhead Rafe had, although it was not a thing any at Sacred Heart would have guessed.

“But cher amie,” he murmured, drawing her closer. She was exquisite, he noted and he would have happily had “An Experience” with her were she but a few years older. Too young, he told him self. Teach her a lesson then leave her alone. “I feel so very intimate with you, so very desirous of reacquainting myself with your charms.”

“I assure you, we have never been acquainted, and certainly not intimately, thus there is no call for reacquainting yourself with me.” She was perplexed by the smug look he assumed then, which regrettably for Rafe didn’t detract her attention one whit from what she decided had to be the most enticing male mouth she’d ever seen. Firm and well shaped with a full lower lip. A hint of a cleft in his chin. A shadow beard on his strong jaw, and some kind of knowledge she couldn’t even begin to give name to in his eyes; an awareness for which she hungered. A dream lover.

“I’m certain your little friends would be interested to hear that,” the Marquis purred softly. “Perhaps then they’d come to see what a deceitful little liar you are, my dear girl.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Suddenly wary, Rafe tugged her hand away, and stepped back a pace.

“Ah, but cher amie, you have just claimed most intimate knowledge of me. Not only claimed it, but blatantly disparaged what we shared so personally. And I find that, although I cannot recall you, you seem to possess a rather vividly unsatisfying memory of me. I intend to rectify that.”

Rafe’s eyes flared with alarm and her lips parted in shock. It couldn’t be! Surely God wasn’t that unfair. She’d told a harmless lie. He couldn’t possibly be here. He was somewhere in London, busy debauching light skirts, not lingering in libraries at private schools eavesdropping on sewing circles. Mortified by the possibility, she stepped back even further, only to lunge forward again as she brushed too close to the fire. Backside scorching, she ended up in his arms, and he took immediate advantage of it. Before she could catch a breath, he’d lowered his head and covered her mouth in a toe-curling kiss.

The Marquis de Galle commenced the kiss with tender amusement, intending to give the lying bit of muslin a kiss to remember, to heat her dreams for years to come. He moved his mouth over hers with practiced seduction, coaxing her lips to part, allowing his tongue free access to her soft, honeyed, lying mouth. He plundered her innocence with studied expertise, until an alarming wave of desire coursed through his veins, urging him to take more of her. To drink deep, to give her all that she’d ever fantasized about and more. To show her what he was really like in bed, shock her into womanhood, and leave her forever changed, marked by him.

He severed the kiss the moment he felt himself stiffening against her. The feeling of his mastery eroding astounded him. He’d bedded many of England’s most seductive women but never ceded control, hence his reputation as a lover of extraordinary skill. His control had never been serious threatened, not even by the most practiced courtesan, yet kissing this little hoyden gnawed relentlessly at the vestiges of his will. It’s only because she’s so young and forbidden, he told himself. An erotic experience I’ve not had. While she was still soft and yielding in his arms, the Marquis de Galle introduced himself formally.

She stepped back. “You are not the Marquis de Galle!” she insisted. But her brows puckered and he could see her thinking it over and realizing that it was not entirely out of the question that Trina’s guardian might have come to visit.

He watched her with cool mockery and Rafe could tell he was amused. And oh-so pleased with himself, thoroughly enjoying her comeuppance. Embarrassment and humiliation flooded her but she forced herself to remain composed. Somehow she had to turn this back on him. No one shook Rafe Bennington. Ever. As he watched her, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, as if the taste of him on her lips revolted her, imitating his cool mockery.

Though it shouldn’t have, the simple gesture infuriated the Marquis. He yanked her back into his arms.

“Let me go!” she cried.

“Oh, no, my pretty little liar. Tell me, do you pretend to have such intimate knowledge of all men, or is it only me you so sorely malign?”

“Let. Me. Go.” She pushed at his hard, broad chest. She was so close that the scent of him surrounded her; warm, male, spicy…enticing.

The Marquis caught both her hands in his and pulled her against him, making certain she could feel the prominent, rock hard maleness of him between her thighs. Holding her securely, he moved his body against hers, slowly, sensually. She whimpered as he kissed her neck, nipping gently at the silken skin, trailing his tongue along the edge of her modest neckline. As he took his time kissing his way back up to her neck, he noted with pleasure that her eyes had darkened and her breathing was now ragged. Her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. “Is this what you meant by lousy? Tell me, are those roses blooming in your cheeks maidenly blushes? Anticipation? Desire? Do you even know, little girl, what comes next? I think not,” he mocked. “But I think you wish to know. Yes, I think you desperately desire to experience for yourself what comes next.”

Control, Rafe raged silently, take control of this! “Would you quit rubbing that miniscule thing against me, good sir, or must I call the Headmistress? Really, to accost a lady in the library. Take your slatternly manners to the gutters where they belong.” She schooled her face into a mask of impassivity. She was on the brink of being willingly seduced by a notorious rakehell, and she knew it. And she wanted it. And she was terrified of it. And she’d be double-damned before she’d let him know any of that.

His hands slipped to her breasts, caressing, teasing. She bit her tongue, hard. “Slatternly?” The Marquis laughed, a husky growl that sent shivers up her spine. Miniscule he didn’t even bother to address, for the simple fact that it was such a blatant lie. And well she knew it from the intimacy with which that part of his body was pressed against her. He decided he would take the lesson a bit further, see her lose her rediscovered control. For a moment, he’d been certain she was on the brink of succumbing, but she’d quickly regained her composure. Too quickly for his liking. What kind of rake was he if he couldn’t even shatter a sixteen-year old’s sense of self-control?

“Has anyone ever taken you to task, Lady…” he paused long and painfully, until she finally gritted, “Bennington. Lady Rafaella Bennington.”

“Has anyone ever put you in your lying, deceitful, hoydenish place, Lady Bennington?”

“No,” Rafe said flatly, decided now was as good a time as any for the truth.

“Until now.” He bent to inhale the delicate, lingering fragrance of her hair, moved his hands over her full breasts. Her nipples peaked, hard and ripe, and she shuddered. “Why, you’re wet clay in my hands, begging to be molded.”

“Not by you,” she said defiantly, thinking on God, on the Regent, on the nails she was digging into her palms. “Better men than you have tried, so don’t even bother,” she lied recklessly, waving the red blanket at the stampeding bull. “Just because I behave as any good rakehell would, bragging of imaginary conquests like any of you braying jackasses would, you call me hoyden, vixen, whore. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!” she spat. Seduce me, her young body was crying. Teach me everything I don’t know.

The Marquis smiled. She was amazing, beautiful, fierce, though she knew herself out of her league. He would crush that last remnant of her self control. “I assure you, dear girl, when I make a conquest, there is nothing imaginary about it. I spoke the truth. A hoyden you are. A vixen even more and a liar most certainly. But a whore? Ah, that would be infinitely interesting to explore. Tell me, sweet Ella, would you whore for me?” he purred. “I think you would.”

Rafe was shocked. She was outraged. She was…aroused. What is this duality? she wondered. This desire to defeat him, yet be defeated by him at the same time? What was she supposed to do? She concentrated on being outraged. “You’re wrong, my lord. I see you for what you are. Just an arrogant, unethical rake whose only claim to fame is the number of women he’s bedded. What a thing to base your self-esteem on. You’re no better than a rutting animal!”

The Marquis gaze turned icy, and Rafe stared up at him, her heart hammering. On one level she was fully aware that she’d just provoked him, even goaded him into seducing her, and some part of her desperately hoped he would. Yet on another level, she was a frightened sixteen year old woman-child who was already regretting ever having gotten out of bed that morning.

When the Marquis lowered his head to hers, Rafe knew she was lost. Damned. Ruined. All for one little lie.

When the Marquis lowered his head to hers, he knew he was out of his mind. Ruining a well-bred, much-too young schoolgirl. All for one little lie.

But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Her lips were too inviting, her body too perfect in his arms. Her hair was ebony silk, her eyes emerald fires. Bloody hell, he wanted her! He wanted her now and a thousand times to come. He wanted to rip her from this little girl world and make her a woman. His woman. He wanted to possess her in a way that permitted no other man in her life. Ever.

The rake in him reared its mocking head and laughed at his ridiculous thoughts. The gentlemen in him uncoiled in response. Together, they provided the icy splash of water he so sorely needed. He couldn’t ruin this exquisite creature. He was a man who exacted an eye for an eye, not a life for an eye. He gazed down at her. She was raised on tiptoe to accept his kiss, hell, to accept anything he chose to give her, her eyes closed in what he recognized as final, complete acquiescence. She was his for the damning. And God’s bones, he wanted to damn her!

His mouth a breath away from hers, he said softly, “Ella, I must apologize.”

Her eyes flared open, drugged by desire. “Wh-what?” she stammered.

He released her, shoved her coldly away. “I must apologize.”

“For what?” She looked like she was being wakened from a dream, sparkling emerald eyes narrowed in confusion.

The Marquis drew a deep breath. “For pretending to find anything at all desirable in such an underdeveloped child as yourself. It was cruel of me to build your hopes when I was merely punishing you for lying, to teach you a badly needed lesson.” Now it was the Marquis who dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Your kisses border on infantile. I am quite certain the rest of your naïve attempts at sensual pleasure would prove every bit as inadequate. You are childish, too tall, and all in all, a less than desirable bit of muslin.” He cupped her breast roughly and she gasped, blanching. “And if these are breasts, well, it’s a good thing waxed bust pads have become the rage. There isn’t enough of you to spark a man’s appetite, much less feed it,” he lied mercilessly. At the look of sudden, sharp pain in her eyes, he almost relented. But not quite. He had begun it and he would see it finished. If he didn’t, he would have a virgin on the floor of the library, all else be damned, and he was not that man. “Go away, little girl. Grow up. Who knows? In a few years maybe you’ll be worthy of my attention. That should give you something to dream about.”

Rafe went utterly still as her world crashed down around her. It didn’t occur to her for a moment that he might be lying. No, she took every word he said seriously. What did she know, anyway? She’d been sheltered in a girl’s school since twelve, and had last been to London at six. In spite of herself, her eyes drifted down to her bosom then darted quickly back up to his face. Seeking, searching, begging for reassurances that didn’t come.

The Marquis briefly considered killing himself. But at this point, even if he were to apologize for saying such cutting things he knew she wouldn’t believe him now. He had wounded her in a purely female fashion, on an intensely personal level. He’d trespassed too far into untried territory to take it back now.

He started to try to, anyway. But just as his hand began an involuntary reach for hers, she whirled on her heel and fled the room, stopping briefly at the door, her back to him, stiff with dignity. “I’m sorry I lied about you,” she said softly. “I won’t do it again.” The door closed behind her.

The Marquis de Galle stood for a long time, staring at the door. He was ashamed of himself. He had hurt a budding young woman, a beautiful creature, really, in the most sensitive area he could have hurt her. Bloody hell, it probably would have been kinder to seduce her! For, if he knew women, and he did, she was even now studying herself in a mirror, hating her body, wondering what was wrong with it. Bloody hell, again! He wasn’t a man who made women feel bad about themselves, he made them feel exquisite, cherished, adored! What was wrong with him?

He’d pushed himself through a punishing ten hour ride to Sacred Heart in order to take care of the pressing business of the matter of his young ward, Trina Sullivan. He certainly hadn’t come here to pick on school girls. He cursed again, confronted by a sudden thought. What would he have done if a notorious rake from London had treated his ward in such a manner? He would have killed the bastard.

Disgusted with himself at his uncharacteristic behavior, the Marquis checked his timepiece and realized gratefully that it was time to get back to business. Madame Roussard would be out of her conference now and he could begin arrangements to take Trina out of school. He had more serious problems on his hands right now than his unseemly treatment of an innocent! Despite his reputation, innocence was a thing the Marquis always avoided. Courtesans, married, experience women, he gave them precisely what they came to him for. He gave them the fantasies they wanted, the tenderness…and often the roughness…they craved. But today he’d practically ruined a young girl of good standing. And, angered at himself for wanting to, he’d settled instead for demolishing her self-esteem. He consoled himself with the thought that once he withdrew his ward from the school, he would never have to be confronted with her accusing, crushed eyes again.

What the Marquis didn’t know, but would soon find out, is that paybacks are hell.