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compelling force that drew her toward this man. Perhaps, if she was totally honest with herself, she was simply confused, the strain of her recent experiences tingeing her actions with a hint of madness. The troubling, outrageous dreams, so flagrantly erotic, were somehow responsible for this uncommon, unaccountable response. It was time for reason to resurrect itself. Lord Rushford was but a means to an end, she told herself, looking directly into the dark gray eyes across the table.
    He took a last draught of his drink. “If you dare not return home, do you require funds, Miss Woolcott, to settle elsewhere ?” He had clearly made his decision.
    Her chin jerked up. “How did you know that I cannot return home? Do you believe me now?”
    He shrugged at the accusation in her tone. “You mentioned something about a difficult guardian.”
    â€œYour words, your assumption, not mine,” she said tersely. “And I do not require funds. I require your assistance .”
    â€œI believe we have a stalemate, Miss Woolcott. Particularly if you persist in shadowing my every move. What will it be next—Crockford’s and the West London Boxing Club?”
    In response, she gulped the last of her brandy, the heat searing her throat. She bit back a cough, placed the glass on the table, and adjusted the collar of her cloak. “I shan’t give in,” she said, amazed at the conviction in her voice, “until you help me. You, Lord Rushford, are the only one who can.”
    For the first time, she detected a hint of weakness in his armor when he said, softly, “Why me?”
    â€œI just know,” she said, although she really didn’t. “And I have a plan.”
    â€œWhy does that not surprise me?”
    â€œYou yourself suggested it.”
    He appeared to stifle a smile. “I can hardly contain my impatience. I’m certain you’re eager to regale me with the details.”
    The sound of deep-throated laughter cut off her rejoinder. Three men entered the ale house, their boisterous shouts attracting the publican’s attention. She and Rushford were no longer alone, and she welcomed the diversion, a dilution of the tension, an illusion of safety. Leaning forward, she placed her hands on the table, summoning the courage to make her declaration. “You suggested,” she said softly so only he could hear, “that I become your mistress, that we become lovers.” The words, outrageous and desperate, pulsed between them.
    Rushford did the unexpected. He, too, leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intimate growl, to grab her hand, his grip warm and inescapable. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Miss Woolcott,” he said just above a whisper. His voice was deeper than usual, sending a shiver down her spine. “You’re asking for the impossible.”
    Rowena nearly jumped from her place as his hand warmed the inside curve of her wrist. Layers of fabric did little to lessen the imprint of the heat of his fingers on her skin. Worst of all, she couldn’t bring herself to take her hand back. She struggled to maintain her train of thought. “I don’t mean in reality, of course, Lord Rushford,” she hastily amended, “merely as a ruse so we may spend time together without arousing suspicion. It would be dangerous for me, Miss Rowena Woolcott, to appear to employ your services, you understand.”
    â€œMy services?” he prompted.
    Rowena jerked her hand out of his after what seemed an eternity. “You deliberately misunderstand me, sir. Together we could move at will amongst the demimondaine, the world of the poor creature lying dead at Mrs. Banks’s,” she said, gathering the collar of her cloak more closely around her. She could not repeat the shocking words and suddenly wasn’t sure of what to say at all. She was drowning again, but this time in an entirely different way.
    Rushford’s