Worth Any Price

CHAPTER 5

Nick had known that Lottie would not react passively to the news that he had hunted her down on behalf of Lord Radnor. But the passionate fury of her response when cornered had startled him. Now that she had regained her self-possession, she stared at him with a desperate calculation that he understood all too well. He thought her magnificent.

Although Lord Westcliff clearly did not agree with Lottie's request, he complied with a frown. "I will wait in the next room," he said, as if he expected Nick to fall on her like a ravening animal as soon as the door was closed. "Call out if you require assistance."

"Thank you, my lord," Lottie murmured, giving the earl a grateful smile that caused Nick to boil with jealousy. He would have required little provocation to drive his fist into Westcliff's aristocratic face, especially at the moment when he had taken Lottie's hand to comfort her. Nick had never been possessive of anyone in his life, but he could barely tolerate the sight of Lottie accepting another man's touch. Something was happening to him-he had lost control of the situation, and he was not certain how to regain it. All he knew for certain was that Lottie was necessary to him...that if he could not have her, this endless feeling of being hungry, unsatisfied, cold, would never leave him.

Nick remained by the fire, relaxed except for his clenched fist on the mantel. Silently he damned Westcliff for this turn of events. Nick had planned to impart the news to Lottie in a gentle way, and soothe her fears before she had a chance to fly into a panic. Now Westcliff had fouled things up considerably, and Lottie was understandably hostile.

She turned to him, her face pale, her eyes reddened from her tears. Her expression was composed, however, and she looked at him with unsettling intensity, as if she were trying to see inside his mind. Her searching gaze made him feel oddly threatened.

"Was it all an act?" she asked quietly.

Nick blinked. He, who had endured countless hours of scrutiny and interrogation and even torture, was completely thrown off by the question.

"I know that some of it was," Lottie said. "It was part of your job to gain my trust. But you went quite a bit farther than necessary." She approached him with hypnotic slowness. "Why did you say those things to me tonight?"

God help him, he couldn't answer. Worse, he couldn't look away from her, and she seemed to be staring through his eyes into his soul.

"The truth, Mr. Gentry," she insisted. "If I can bring myself to ask, surely you can bring yourself to answer. Did you mean any of it?"

Nick felt a light sweat break out on his face. He tried to close her away, to deny her, but it was impossible. "Yes," he said hoarsely and clamped his mouth shut. The devil take her if she wanted him to say anything more than that.

For some reason, the admission seemed to make Lottie relax. Nick couldn't begin to imagine why. Finally managing to rip his gaze away from hers, he stared blindly into the dancing firelight. "Now," he muttered, "perhaps you can explain what the third option is."

"I need protection from Lord Radnor," she said bluntly. "Few men would be able to hold their own against him. I believe that you could."

The statement was matter-of-fact...there was nothing complimentary in her tone. Nevertheless, Nick felt a flicker of masculine pride that she recognized his abilities.

"Yes, I could," he said evenly.

"Then in return for your protection and financial support, I would be willing to be your mistress. I would sign a legally binding contract to that effect. I think that would be enough to keep Lord Radnor at bay-and then I would no longer have to stay in hiding."

His mistress. Nick had never anticipated that she would be willing to lower herself that way. However, it seemed that Lottie was ultimately a pragmatist, recognizing when she could not afford to keep her principles.

"You'll let me bed you in return for my money and protection," he said, as if the wordmistress required definition. He threw a cautious glance at her. "You will live with me, and accompany me in public, regardless of the shame it causes you. Is that what you're saying?"

Her cheeks turned bright red, but she did not look away from him. "Yes."

Desire flooded every part of his body with primal heat. The realization that he was going to have her, that she would give herself to him willingly, made him light-headed. His mistress...but that wasn't enough. He needed more of her. All of her.

Deliberately he went to the settee, a somewhat utilitarian piece upholstered in stiff burgundy leather, and he sat with his legs spread. He let his gaze travel over her with pure sexual appraisal. "Before I agree to anything, I want a sample of what you're offering."

She stiffened. "I think you've sampled quite enough already."

"You're referring to our interlude in the woods this evening?" He made his voice very soft, while his heart pounded violently in his chest. "That was nothing, Lottie. I want more than a few innocent kisses from you. Keeping a mistress can be an expensive proposition-you'll have to prove that you're worth it."

She came to him slowly, her slim form silhouetted in the firelight. Clearly she knew that he was playing some kind of game with her, but she hadn't yet realized what the stakes were. "What do you want from me?" she asked softly.

What he'd had from Gemma. No, more than Gemma had ever given him. He wanted someone to belong to him. To care about him. To need him in some way. He didn't know if that was possible...but he was willing to gamble everything on Lottie. She was his only chance.

"I'll show you." Nick reached out and caught her wrist, pulling until she half-sat, half-toppled beside him. Sliding a hand behind the nape of her neck, he bent over her, finding her pulse with the tip of his tongue. At the same time, he brought her hand to his crotch, cupping her slender fingers around the straining shape of his erection. She stiffened and gasped, suddenly leaning against his chest as if her strength had deserted her. Gently he drew her hand up the length of his shaft, to the round head that pushed impatiently against the taut broadcloth.

A ragged sound escaped him, and he tugged at her blouse, filled with gratitude to whoever had designed a garment that made a woman's body so mercifully accessible. Her exposed breasts gleamed in the firelight, their tips soft and pale pink. Lottie turned her face to the side, her eyes tightly closed. Pulling her farther over his lap, Nick cradled her in one arm, while her bottom rested on the rigid mound of his erection. His calloused fingers slipped beneath one bare breast, lifting the silken weight to position her for the slow descent of his mouth. A quiver went through her as he opened his lips over the tender nipple, stroking until it strained against his tongue. Lottie's hands half-raised as if to push him away, but suddenly her fingers clutched around the lapels of his coat, and she let out a whimper of pleasure. The sound electrified him. He used his tongue to trace circles around the stiffening nipple, making her writhe like a cat in his arms.

While he continued to suckle and tease her breasts, he slid his hand beneath her skirts, finding the plain hem of her drawers and the thick cotton garter that fastened her stockings. Becoming aware of the hand that intruded beneath her skirts, Lottie clenched her legs together, a crimson blush spreading over her face and breasts. He caressed her over the crumpled linen, sliding his palm over her hip and stomach, then moving to the soft curls lower down.

"Don't," she said, her eyes still closed.

Nick kissed the pink curve of her throat and the fine edge of her jaw. Her skin was so thin and satiny that it was almost translucent. He wanted to kiss her from head to toe. "That's not how a mistress talks," he whispered. "Are you reneging on your offer, Lottie?"

She shook her head, unable to speak as his palm pressed on her mound.

"Then spread your legs."

She complied jerkily, her thighs parting, her head falling back against his supportive arm. He caressed her over the fragile fabric, gently rubbing the hot furrow until the linen became damp beneath his fingers. He was aroused by her efforts to stay quiet and still, her face turning scarlet, her legs stiffening as he teased her intimately. Finally she moaned and clutched at his wrist imploringly.

"That's enough," she gasped.

His cock pulsed violently beneath her. "Is it?" he whispered, sliding his fingers into the open slit of her drawers. "I think you want more."

Her body jerked in his lap as he found softly matted hair...plump silken flesh...the wet entrance to her body. Kissing the arch of her throat, Nick played with the velvety thicket. "Sweet little curls," he breathed near Lottie's ear. "What color are they, I wonder? Blond, like the hair on your head? Or darker?"

Shocked by the question, Lottie stared at him with an unfocused gaze.

"It's all right," he said, opening the soft cleft. "I'll find out for myself...later."

She arched as he found the tender peak that had been hidden by the protective folds. "Oh...oh, God-"

"Shhhh." He nipped the lobe of her ear. "You don't want Westcliff to hear, do you?"

"Stop that," she said shakily.

But nothing would stop him now. He caressed her skillfully, circling the point of delicate fire. Her buttocks lifted away from the hard length of his erection as her hips strained toward his hand. He brushed the swollen bud with the calloused tip of his thumb and slid his middle finger inside her, until it was completely submerged in the luscious channel.

Lottie's breath shortened, and her thighs clamped around his hand as he thrust and withdrew his finger in an easy rhythm. He felt her inner muscles tauten as she labored and twisted, fighting instinctively for release from the excruciating tension. Nick lowered his head to her breasts once more. The tips were taut and rosy now, and he blew against one of them softly before drawing it into his mouth. With his finger sunk inside her, and her nipple throbbing against his tongue, he experienced a triumph he had never known before.

Lottie struggled helplessly as climax remained elusive, a moan of frustration escaping her. Withdrawing his finger from the sweet depths of her body, Nick settled his damp hand on her taut stomach, rubbing in soothing circles. "I'll take care of you later," he murmured. "I promise."

Lottie moaned again, arching desperately against his hand. He knew what she wanted, and he longed to give it to her. His nostrils flared as he detected the heady perfume of female desire. Heat pumped through him, and he nearly lost all self-control as he thought of burying his face between her thighs, plunging his tongue inside her...

He shuddered as he forced himself to pull her skirts down, covering the sweet flesh he craved. Westcliff was waiting nearby, and now was not the time or place to indulge himself further. Later there would be time to make love to Lottie at his leisure. Patience, he counseled himself, taking a few steadying breaths.

Lottie crawled from his arms and huddled at the opposite end of the settee. She was gorgeously tousled, her cheeks dewy and deeply flushed in the flickering light. Fumbling with her bodice, she covered her breasts.

Their gazes met, hers bright with shame, his frankly calculating. And then Nick went in for the kill. "I do want you," he said. "In fact, I would probably stoop at nothing to get you. But I don't want you as a mistress. I want full, irrevocable ownership. Everything that you would have given to Radnor, or Westcliff."

Realizing what he meant, Lottie stared at him as if he were a lunatic. It took a full half-minute for her to recover enough to speak. "Do you mean marriage? What difference would there be between marrying you or Lord Radnor?"

"The difference is that I'm letting you choose."

"Why would you be willing to shackle yourself to me for a lifetime?"

The truth was something that Nick could never admit to her. "Because I want the convenience of a wife," he lied. "And you'll do as well as any other woman."

She sucked in a breath of outrage.

"Make your choice," Nick advised. "You can keep running, or you can become someone's wife. Mine or Radnor's."

She gave him another one of those long, searching stares that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Damn, he hated it when she did that. Once again he could not blink or look away, and she appeared to read his thoughts in spite of his will to conceal them.

"Yours," she said stiffly. "I'll be yours."

And he let out a slow, nearly imperceptible sigh of relief.

Lottie struggled from his lap and straightened her clothes. She went to pour herself some brandy from the crystal decanter at the mahogany sideboard. She was dizzy, and her knees felt like jelly, which were good indications that more spirits were the last thing she needed. Moreover, she was still technically Lord Westcliff's servant, and no one in such a position would ever think of helping herself to some of the master's liquor. On the other hand, such distinctions had become blurred after the stunning revelations of the evening. She was bemused by the realization that she had received two marriage proposals in one night from vastly different men.

And the things that Nick Gentry had just done to her-no, she would not think about that now, while her body still throbbed with the echoes of shameful pleasure. Filling the glass liberally, Lottie grimaced and gulped the fine vintage.

Gentry came to her, taking the glass after she had downed half its contents. "In a minute you're going to be as drunk as a wheelbarrow."

"Does it matter?" she asked hoarsely, watching as he finished the brandy for her.

"I suppose not." As she swayed before him, he set aside the empty snifter and caught her waist in his hands. A self-mocking smile touched his lips. "God knows any woman would need to fortify herself after agreeing to become my wife."

A demanding thump rattled the door, and Lord Westcliff entered the room. His sharp gaze settled on the two of them standing so close together, and one thick brow arched quizzically.

Gentry's hands tightened on Lottie's waist as she tried to step away from him. "You may be the first to congratulate us," he told the earl, in a nasty parody of a gentlemanly announcement. "Miss Howard has done me the honor of bestowing her hand on me."

Lord Westcliff's eyes narrowed as he glanced at Lottie. "That is the third option?"

"As it turns out," she said unsteadily, "yes."

Lottie knew that the earl did not understand why she would be willing to make a bargain with the devil. Returning his gaze, she begged him silently not to request an explanation, as she would be unable to account for her reasons. She was tired of hiding, worrying, and being afraid. Nick Gentry had offered her sanctuary. He was unprincipled, callous, and worldly-exactly the kind of man who could protect her from Radnor. But all of that would not have been sufficient to compel her to marry him. One other factor had made the difference-her awareness that Gentry felt something for her. He was not able to hide it despite his efforts to the contrary. And against all better judgment, she wanted him. Or at least, she wanted the man he had pretended to be...the one who had stared at her with such desperate intensity as they'd stood by the wishing well...the one who had kissed her in the forest and whispered that he needed her.

Frowning, the earl came forward and reached for her. "I want a word with you, Lottie."

She nodded obediently, out of long-standing habit. "Yes, sir." When Gentry did not release her, she shot him a challenging gaze. "I haven't married you yet," she said beneath her breath. "Let me go."

His hands slid from her waist. Lottie went to the earl, who took her elbow in a light grasp and drew her with him to the corner. His respectful touch was strikingly different from Gentry's rampant possessiveness.

Lord Westcliff looked down at her, a lock of dark hair tumbling over his broad forehead. "Lottie," he said quietly, "you can't make such a decision without understanding more about the man you're giving yourself to. Do not be deceived by the fact that Gentry is a Bow Street runner. No doubt you think his profession imparts a certain sense of honor, even heroism. In Nick Gentry's case, the opposite is true. He is, and always has been, a figure of public controversy."

"In what way?" Lottie asked, glancing at the dark figure on the other side of the room. Gentry was drinking another brandy, pretending to inspect a row of books. The sullen curve of his mouth made it clear that he knew perfectly well what Westcliff was telling her.

"Gentry has only been a runner for the past two or three years. Before that, he was a crime lord masquerading as a private thief-taker. He ran an infamous corporation of thieves and was arrested numerous times for fraud, thievery, receivership, and manufacturing evidence. I can guarantee that he is acquainted with every criminal of note in England. Despite his apparent reformation, there are many who believe that he still has illicit dealings with many of his former cohorts in the underworld. He is not to be trusted, Lottie."

She tried to show no reaction to the information, but she was inwardly stunned. Glancing around Westcliff's broad shoulder, she viewed the Bow Street runner's menacing form as he lounged in the darkest corner of the study. He seemed more comfortable in the shadows, his eyes gleaming like a cat's. How could a man only in his late twenties have had such a varied career? Crime lord, thief-taker...what in God's name was he?

"Miss Howard...Lottie..." The earl recaptured her attention with a quiet murmur. "You must consider my proposal once more. I believe the arrangement would benefit us both. I give you my word that I would be a kind husband, and that you would want for nothing-"

"My lord," she interrupted earnestly, "I hope you will not regard my refusal as an indication of anything other than my great respect for you. You are the most honorable man I have ever known-and that is why I would never consign you to a loveless marriage. You cannot deny, my lord, that I would not be your first choice, were you seeking a wife. And if I did you the injustice of accepting your offer, we would both regret it someday. Mr. Gentry and I are far more suited to each other, as neither of us will regard it as a true marriage, but rather as a business transaction in which..." Her cheeks burned as she forced herself to finish. "In which one service is exchanged for another."

Westcliff's face was grim. "You're not cynical or hardened enough to tolerate such an arrangement."

"Unfortunately, my lord, I am indeed that hardened. Because of Lord Radnor, I've never had the hopes and dreams that many other women do. I've never expected to be happy in marriage."

"You still deserve better than this," he insisted.

She smiled without humor. "Do you think so? I'm not so certain." Breaking away from him, Lottie strode to the center of the study and stared at Gentry expectantly. She made her manner brisk. "When shall we leave?"

Gentry emerged from the corner. She saw from the flicker in his eyes that he had half-expected her to change her mind after speaking with Westcliff. Now that her choice had been reaffirmed, there was no turning back.

"Now," he said softly.

Her lips parted in the beginnings of an objection. Gentry intended to sweep her away without allowing any opportunity to say good-bye to anyone in the household, not even Lady Westcliff. On the other hand, it would be easier for her to simply disappear without having to explain anything to anyone. "Isn't it rather dangerous to travel at night?" she asked, then quickly answered her own question. "Never mind. If we met with a highwayman, I would probably be safer with him than you."

Gentry grinned suddenly. "You may be right."

His momentary amusement was wiped away by Lord Westcliff's crisp announcement. "If I cannot change Miss Howard's mind, I will at least require proof that the ceremony is legal. I will also demand evidence that she will be satisfactorily provided for."

Lottie realized that in all her considerations, she had actually not given a thought as to what kind of life she would have with Gentry. Good Lord. What kind of a living did a Bow Street runner earn? No doubt his salary was minimal, but surely with private commissions, he would make enough to live in a decent style. She did not require much-a room or two in a safe area of London would be sufficient.

"I'll be damned if I have to account for my ability to provide for my own wife," Gentry said. "All you need to know is that she won't starve, and she'll have a roof over her head."

The journey to London would last approximately twelve hours, which meant they would travel through the night and arrive in early afternoon. Lottie rested against the rich brown velvet upholstery of Gentry's well-appointed vehicle. Once they were on their way, Gentry moved to extinguish the small carriage lamp that illuminated the interior. "Do you want to sleep?" he asked. "It's a long time until morning."

Lottie shook her head. Despite her weariness, she was too agitated to relax.

Shrugging, Gentry left the lamp burning. He rested one of his legs on the upholstery, grimacing slightly. Clearly it was uncomfortable for a man of his size to be confined in a relatively small area.

"Is this yours?" Lottie asked. "Or did you hire it as part of your deception?"

Realizing that she referred to the carriage, he gave her a mocking smile. "It's mine."

"I wouldn't have thought a professional man could afford such a vehicle."

The runner played idly with the fringed edge of the little window curtain nearby. "My work requires frequent travel. I prefer to do it in comfort."

"Do you often use an assumed name when you go about your investigations?"

He shook his head. "Most of the time there is no need."

"I wonder that you didn't choose a better disguise," she said. "One that could not be disproved so easily. It did not take long for Lord Westcliff to discover that there is no Viscount Sydney."

A strange expression crossed his face, amusement interlaced with discomfort, and he seemed to engage in a silent debate about whether or not to tell her something. Finally his mouth twisted, and he let out a brief sigh. "Westcliff was wrong. Thereis a Viscount Sydney. At least, there is a legitimate successor to the title."

Lottie regarded him skeptically. "Who is he? And if what you say is true, why has he not come forward to claim his title and property?"

"Not everyone wants to be a peer."

"Of course they do! Besides, a peer isn't given the choice. One either is, or isn't. He can't deny his birthright any more than he can change his eye color."

"Damned if he can't," came his scowling reply.

"There is no need to be cross," Lottie said. "And you haven't yet told me who and where this mysterious viscount is, which leads me to believe that you're making it up."

Gentry changed position, shifting uncomfortably, his gaze carefully averted from hers. "It's me."

"What?Are you trying to fool me into thinking that you are some long-lost peer?You , a crime lord and thief-taker, are a secret viscount?" Lottie shook her head decisively. "I don't think so."

"I don't give a damn if you believe it or not," Gentry said evenly. "Especially when it has no bearing on the future, as I will never claim the title."

Lottie stared at his hard profile in astonishment. He certainly seemed to believe what he was saying. But how could it be possible? If there was any truth to his claim, how had a son of the aristocracy come to this turn? One did not begin life as a member of the nobility and end up as a...whatever he was. She couldn't keep from pelting him with questions. "You are John, Lord Sydney? The son of the Viscount Sydney who died twenty years ago, supposedly without an heir? Do you have any proof of this? Is there anyone who would corroborate it?"

"My sister, Sophia. And her husband, Sir Ross Cannon."

"The magistrate? The former head of Bow Street is yourbrother-in-law ?"

Gentry responded with a single nod. Lottie was utterly confounded. She supposed she had no choice but to believe him, since the story could easily be discredited if it were untrue. But it was so fantastical, so absurd, that she couldn't begin to make sense of it.

"I was seven years old, perhaps eight, when my parents died," Gentry explained gruffly. "Other than me, there were no male relatives who could lay legitimate claim to the title or lands. Not that there was much to inherit, as my father was in debt, and the estate was in disrepair. My older sister Sophia and I knocked about the village for a while, until she was finally taken in by a distant cousin. But I had become a hellion, and the cousin was understandably reluctant to take me under her roof. So I ran off to London, and became a footpad, until I was imprisoned for my crimes. When another boy died in prison, I took his name so that I could gain early release."

"He must have been the real Nick Gentry, then," Lottie said.

"Yes."

"And you took his identity and let everyone believe that you had died?"

A defiant gleam entered his eyes. "He had no more use for the name."

"But certainly later you must have thought about reclaiming your true name...your rightful position in society..."

"I have exactly the position in society that I want. And Nick Gentry has become my name more than it ever was his. I intend to let Sydney rest in peace." He smiled sardonically. "Sorry for the loss of prestige, but you're going to be known as Mrs. Nick Gentry, and no one save my sister and her husband will be aware of the truth. Do you understand?"

Lottie nodded with a puzzled frown. "I don't care about a loss of prestige. If I did, I would have married Lord Radnor."

"You don't mind being the wife of a commoner, then," Gentry said, watching her intently. "One with limited means."

"I am used to living in humble circumstances. My family is of good blood, but as I mentioned once before, we are poor."

Gentry studied the polished tips of his boots. "Lord Radnor was a damned stingy benefactor, if the condition of Howard House is anything to judge by."

Lottie inhaled swiftly. "You've been to my family's home?"

He glanced into her wide eyes. "Yes, I visited your parents to question them. They knew that I was searching for you."

"Oh," Lottie said in dismay. Of course her parents would have cooperated with the investigation. They had been aware that Lord Radnor wanted to find her, and as always, they had acceded to his wishes. The news should not have come as a surprise. And yet she could not help feeling betrayed. Had they taken even one moment to consider her interests, rather than Radnor's? Her throat tightened, and she could not seem to swallow properly.

"They answered every question in detail," Gentry continued. "I've seen the dolls you once played with, the storybook you drew in...I even know the size of your shoes."

Filled with terrible vulnerability, Lottie wrapped her arms around herself. "It seems odd that you have seen my family, when I have been away from them for two years. H-how are my sisters and my brothers? How is Ellie?"

"The sixteen-year-old? Quiet. Pretty. In good health, it seems."

"Sixteen," Lottie murmured, unsettled by the realization that her siblings had grown older, just as she had. They had all changed during the time they had been apart. Her head ached suddenly, and she rubbed her forehead. "When my parents spoke of me, did they seem to..."

"What?"

"Do they hate me?" she asked distractedly. "I've so often wondered..."

"No, they don't hate you." His voice became oddly gentle. "They're concerned for their own hides, of course, and they seem to entertain a sincere belief that you would benefit from a marriage to Radnor."

"They've never understood what he is really like."

"They don't want to. They've profited far more by deceiving themselves."

Lottie was tempted to rebuke him even though she had thought the same thing a thousand times before. "They needed Lord Radnor's money," she said dully. "They have expensive tastes."

"Is that how your father lost the family fortune? By living outside his means?"

"I don't believe there was much of a fortune to begin with. But my parents certainly spent whatever was available. I remember that when I was a child, we had the best of everything. And then when the money was gone, we nearly starved. Until Lord Radnor intervened." She continued to rub her forehead, letting her fingers drift to her aching temples. "The argument could easily be made that I've benefitted from his interest. Because of Radnor, I was sent to the most exclusive girls' school in London, and he paid for my food, my clothes, and even hired a maid to attend me. I thought he wanted to make a lady of me. At first I was even grateful that he took such care to prepare me for being his wife."

"But it became more complicated than that," Gentry murmured.

She nodded. "I was treated like a pet on a leash. Radnor decided what I could read, what I was allowed to eat...he instructed the teachers that my baths were to be ice cold, as he believed it was more conducive to good health than hot water. My diet was limited to broth and fruit wheneverhe decided that I needed slimming. I had to write a letter to him every day, to describe my progress on the subjects he wished me to study. There were rules for everything...I was never to speak unless my thoughts were well formed and gracefully expressed. I was never to offer an opinion about anything. If I fidgeted, my hands were tied to the seat of my chair. If I became sun-browned, I was kept indoors." She let out a strained sigh. "Lord Radnor wanted to make me into another person entirely. I could not fathom what it would be like to live with him as his wife, or what would happen when he finally realized that I could never attain the standards of perfection he set." Lost in the dark memories, Lottie twisted her fingers together and spoke without being fully aware of what she revealed. "How I dreaded coming home on holidays. He was always there, waiting for me. He barely allowed me time to see my brothers and sisters before I had to go with him and..."

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she had been about to confide the secret that had caused her parents to erupt in fury when she had tried to tell them. It had seethed at the bottom of her soul for years. They had somehow made it clear without words that the family's survival, and hers, depended entirely on her silence. Choking back the forbidden words, Lottie closed her eyes.

"You had to go with him and..." Gentry prompted.

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now."

"Tell me." His voice was soft. "I assure you, nothing you say could shock me."

Lottie regarded him cautiously, realizing it was true. With all that Gentry had seen and heard and done, nothing would disgust him.

"Go on," he murmured.

And Lottie found herself telling him what no one had ever wanted to hear.

"Every time I came home, I had to go into a private room with Radnor, and account to him for my behavior at school, and answer his questions about my studies and my friends, and..." She stared into Gentry's inscrutable face, finding that his lack of reaction made it easy for her to continue. "He made me sit on his lap while we talked. He touched me, on my chest and beneath my skirts. It was repulsive, allowing him to...but I couldn't stop him, and my parents..." She shrugged helplessly. "They wouldn't listen when I tried to tell them. It went on for years. My mother slapped me once, and told me that I belonged to Lord Radnor, and that he was going to marry me anyway. She said I must let him do as he liked. The family's safety depended on his pleasure and goodwill." Shame infused her voice as she added, "And then I ran from him anyway, and by doing so I threw them all to the wolves."

Gentry spoke carefully, as if she were still an innocent child rather than a woman of twenty. "Did it go farther than touching, Lottie?"

She stared at him without comprehension.

His dark head tilted slightly, his voice remaining soft as he persisted. "Did he bring you or himself to climax, while you sat on his lap?"

Her face turned hot as she understood what he was referring to...the mysterious ecstatic culmination that some of the girls had described with naughty laughs. A physical pleasure that she certainly could never have felt with Radnor. "I don't think so."

"Believe me, you would know if either of you had," he said sardonically.

Lottie thought of the way that Gentry had touched her in the firelight, the coiling sensation she had felt in her breasts and loins and stomach, the sweet aching frustration that had tormented her so. Had that been climax, or was there more she had yet to experience? She was sorely tempted to ask her companion, but she kept silent out of fear that he might mock her for her ignorance.

The sway of the well-sprung carriage lulled her, and she yawned tightly behind her hand.

"You should rest," Gentry said quietly.

Lottie shook her head, reluctant to abandon herself in slumber while he watched. How silly to fear that small intimacy after all that had happened between them. She sought for a new topic of conversation.

"Why did you become a Bow Street runner? I can't believe you chose such a profession willingly."

A laugh rustled in his throat. "Oh, I was willing enough, considering the alternative. I made a deal with my brother-in-law, Sir Ross, three years ago. At the time he was chief magistrate of Bow Street, and he had evidence in his possession that would have had me dancing in the wind, had it ever been presented at a trial."

"Dancing in the wind," Lottie repeated, puzzled by the unfamiliar expression.

"Hanging. Dangling at the end of a rope. Believe me, I should have been drawn and quartered for some of the things I did in my underworld career." Pausing to observe the effect of his words, Gentry smiled slightly at her obvious unease. "In an effort to avoid the uncomfortable position of having to execute his wife's brother," he continued, "Sir Ross offered to conceal the damning evidence against me, if I would double-cross my underworld associates and become a runner."

"For how long?"

"Indefinitely. Naturally I agreed, as I had no loyalty to my former companions, and I didn't fancy having my neck stretched."

Lottie frowned. "Why did Sir Ross want you to become a runner?"

"I believe he had the mistaken impression that a few years of public service would reform me." Gentry grinned suddenly. "It hasn't yet."

"Isn't it rather hazardous for you to hunt criminals in such places, after you have betrayed them?"

"More than a few people would like my head on a silver platter," he admitted with reckless confidence. "In fact, you may not have to endure me for long. Everyone who knows me will vouch for the fact that I'm going to die young."

"I probably won't be that fortunate," she said sardonically. "But one can hope."

Immediately after Lottie said the words, she was inundated with shame. It wasn't like her to stoop to such nastiness. "I'm sorry," she said at once. "I shouldn't have said that."

"That's all right," he said easily. "I've inspired people to say much worse, with less cause."

"That I can believe," she replied, and he laughed.

"I'm going to snuff the light," he said. "I have to take my rest when and where I can find it. And tomorrow promises to be busy."

The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable. Lottie settled into the corner, exhausted and dazed by the unforeseen direction her life had taken. She had expected that sleep would be elusive, with all the thoughts buzzing through her mind. However, a deep slumber soon overtook her, and she sagged against the seat cushions. Shifting, twisting restlessly, she sought a more comfortable position. She felt herself being gathered up and held like a child, and the dream was so soothing that she couldn't help but surrender to the insidious pleasure. Something soft brushed her forehead, and the last few pins that anchored her coiffure were gently drawn from her hair. She inhaled a wonderful scent, the crispness of wool and shaving soap overlaying the essence of clean male skin.

Realizing that she was lying in Gentry's arms, snuggled in his lap, she stirred groggily. "What...what..."

"Sleep," he whispered. "I won't harm you." His long fingers moved through the loose locks of her hair.

The part of Lottie's mind that protested such a circumstance grappled with the rest of her brain, which pointed out that she was exhausted, and at this point it hardly mattered what liberties she allowed him. However, she stubbornly tugged free of him and pushed away from the inviting warmth of his body. He released her easily, his eyes a dark glitter in the shadows.

"I'm not your enemy, Lottie."

"Are you my friend?" she parried. "You haven't behaved like one so far."

"I haven't forced you to do anything you didn't want to do."

"If you hadn't found me, I would still be residing happily at Stony Cross Park-"

"You weren't happy there. I'll wager you haven't been happy a day in your life since you met Lord Radnor."

Oh, how she longed to contradict him! But it was pointless to lie, when the truth was obvious.

"You'll find life a hell of a lot more enjoyable as my wife," Gentry continued. "You won't be anyone's servant. You can do as you please, within reasonable limits. And you won't have to fear Lord Radnor any longer."

"All for the price of sleeping with you," she muttered.

He smiled, all velvety arrogance as he replied. "You may come to enjoy that part of it most of all."