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she’d given her word to another man.
    She’d already said more than enough. What was the use of berating Simon? He wasn’t for her. He’d never been for her. She’d be safe with Grenville, and if in the secret reaches of the night, she dreamed of another man’s touch, well, who was to know?
    “Please take me back to Rothermere House.” She paused to dislodge a lump in her throat that felt bigger than the Rock of Gibraltar. “If you have any pity, you won’t come near me again. You say you love me. I’m not sure about that.” She gestured to stem his automatic protest. “But we were friends once, good friends. For the sake of that old friendship, please find the compassion in your heart to leave me alone.”
    Silence crashed down between them with the force of an ax. She knew Simon struggled against arguing. Against, God help her, sweeping her into his arms and persuading with seduction where he couldn’t persuade with words.
    Don’t let him touch me.
    The deplorable reality was that she wasn’t sure that she could resist his touch. So weak she was.
    He remained unmoving at the far end of the bench. The young man she’d known so well had harbored strong principles beneath his light-heartedness. Moments ago, the man he’d become had released her upon her request, although she knew it countered his deepest instincts. She knew it countered his deepest instincts now when he raised the blind over his window and turned to give her a short nod. The light from the carriage lamps outside shone on his face and turned his stern features into fine-carved stone.
    “As you wish, Lady Lydia.”
    Chapter Five
     
     
    Across the crowded supper room at the Merriweather musicale, Simon watched the way the candlelight gleamed on Lydia’s hair, its color richer than the rubies circling her throat. Seeing her, he couldn’t help reliving their passionate encounter in the coach, as he’d relived it over and over since he’d left her to return home alone. He hadn’t trusted himself to remain in that confined vehicle without touching her, whatever promises he made.
    For five days since then, he’d struggled to conform to Lydia’s request for peace. Now he sipped his lukewarm champagne without tasting it and wondered yet again if he’d been a fool to agree.
    But she’d sounded so weary and lost, how could he refuse her? Even if it broke his heart to obey.
    He still clung to a shred of honor, damn it.
    Scruples had come near to disintegrating in the carriage when after so long, he’d held the woman he wanted. The discussion that night hadn’t gone as planned. How he cursed himself and his impatience. Simon had intended to speak calmly, sensibly, convince Lydia with reason alone that she shouldn’t marry Berwick but should instead give herself to the man who had always loved her. That hadn’t quite worked out, he remembered grimly. He swallowed more champagne, wishing it could wash away the sour taste of defeat.
    For a brief instant that night, he’d thought he’d won. Lydia had kissed him with a hunger that almost matched his own. Her beautiful slender body had softened in surrender. When he’d tasted her desire, triumph had thundered through him like a volley of gunfire.
    But then, bugger it, she’d remembered where she was. And God knew she was right to demur—he couldn’t tumble the Duke of Sedgemoor’s sister in a carriage, like some doxy he’d picked up in Covent Garden.
    Hell and damnation, how could he bear losing her? In two days, she’d walk into St. George’s on Cam’s arm and pledge herself to that odious fellow who treated her as a distant second best to his political cronies. Simon gritted his teeth against the crying shame of it all. Devil take it, if Lydia was his, she’d never suffer the least doubt that she was the center of his life.
    When Simon had received Cam’s letter asking him to return, he’d assumed that his battle was already won. Why else would his friend take the trouble to track