I still don't have a way to separate out individual entries under Excerpts, but if you just keep scrolling below, you can now see both the opening of  A MOST IMPROPER GENTLEMAN and Chapter Three from The Devil May Care.  Sorry about the dreadful formatting! I have no control over that either.

 A MOST IMPROPER GENTLEMAN (opening):

CHAPTER ONE:

Endell Street, London

April 12, 1802

            Octavia Hathawood stood frozen, cold rain pummeling her shoulders.

            The coach with the hateful crest was rumbling closer, drawing for the curb. She’d have given a small fortune, if she had one, for a stand of shrubbery to duck behind, or even a ditch to dive into. But the passengers were already calling out her name.

            Well, she hadn’t been named for a Roman empress for nothing—she straightened her spine instead, and lifted her chin.

            Unfortunately, that movement proved too much for her poor straw bonnet: soaked to mush by the rain, it snapped from its ribbons and slopped down her back like a clump of old porridge. In the next instant, the Castleleigh coach skidded to a halt, and the lacquered wheels sprayed her hem-to-shoulders with thick slimy gobbets of street muck.

            Lovely. The perfect finishing touch to her ensemble.

            Still, she fixed her eyes fiercely on the coach window. If her pitiful attempt at a second Season was about to fail, dooming her and her sisters to starve in the streets, she’d at least meet her fate with dignity.

            “Why, dearest Octavia!” cooed a voice as the coach window-flap was drawn, revealing the brilliant smiles of Daphne Castleleigh and her younger sister Clarissa. Both ladies were garbed, as always, in the very height of fashion. Not to mention that they were perfectly dry. “Such a surprise to find you in Town!” said Daphne. “We’ve all been so terribly worried about you!”

            The urge to grab Daphne’s nose between her knuckles lasted only a moment, and Octavia smiled back with ferocious good cheer. “I assure you, Daphne, I’m quite well. Never better.”

            Just then, something slithered along her scalp—a clump of sodden hair escaped its pins and plopped like a dishrag on her cheek. Blast. Her waterlogged waist-petticoat was tugging ominously at its ties, and the worn side-seams of her bodice felt a bit dodgy. Retreat was in order before anything else collapsed.

            She gave a nod of farewell and turned to walk on.

            “Oh, but this storm!” cried Daphne urgently from the coach. “Are you not in some distress? Why, it appears your lady’s maid’s been entirely washed away!”

            Octavia stopped dead.

            Drat her! Daphne knew the Hathawoods hadn’t been able to afford servants for months. If Octavia walked off now, Daphne would claim this meeting as a triumph. So she pivoted back. “Alas, my poor maid!” she said, blinking against the rain, which—double blast!—was taking on the needle-sting of hail. “When this torrent broke, she was swept down the sewers, not half a mile back. My four footmen and our carriage and snow-white horses right along with her!”

            Daphne gasped, and her fingers touched her throat in an exquisite imitation of shock. “Do you mention sewers, my dear? I see your conversation remains the most...colorful of any lady’s I know.”

            Bile churned in Octavia’s belly. Oh, to be a gladiator, and do battle with an actual sword! “At least, unlike some ladies, I don’t melt at the first touch of a storm. I daresay it might do you some good to walk outdoors, getting rained on with your fellow man.”

            Daphne’s eyes popped wide in horror at the thought of doing anything with a streetful of men. “Why, that’s....” she sputtered, in genuine outrage this time, “You’re simply—You’re utterly...”

            “Brilliant!” boomed another voice inside the coach.

            Octavia jumped. Good Lord—the voice was two octaves lower than Daphne’s.

            The carriage rocked on its wheels, and an enormous gray dog scooted past the window.  Something large and dark and exceedingly broad-shouldered unfolded as the door swung open: a very tall gentleman. So tall that when he straightened completely, his head and shoulders jutted well out into the rain.

            Octavia blinked hard. He had the same gleaming raven hair and striking gray eyes as Daphne and her sisters. Unmistakably a Castleleigh.

            When he took in her ridiculously muck-bespattered state, the stranger’s mouth quirked as if he fought down laughter. Naturally. Another proof of his relation: Castleleighs seemed born with an instinct to mock her.

            “Good day, Miss Hathawood,” he said, his eyes glimmering with most ungentlemanly amusement. He leaned against the carriage doorframe, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “For three months, I’ve sought a way to improve the character of these spoiled girls, but since my valet tells me keelhauling’s not approved of by the ton, I’ve been quite stumped. I’d not hit upon an idea half so clever as a stroll in the rain.”

            She stared, a knot tightening in her throat. Though he dressed like a gentleman, the man’s face was tanned, his hair too long and roughly cut for fashion. Something shrewd and steely glinted behind the laughter in his eyes—he was sizing her up, even as he mocked.

            Dangerous.

            Then she made the mistake of taking a more thorough look at his face, and...Lord! It sent a jolt through her. A purely physical jolt, deep in her belly.

            The Castleleigh girls were famed for their beauty, but...this man was an Adonis. A raven-haired Adonis. Every feature perfect, from his slashing black eyebrows to the sensuous full curve of his mouth. Fast-falling raindrops gleamed on his strong cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw, giving him the look of something carved in marble. A sculpture by Bernini.

            Only golden-tinged, and...and warm. 

            All at once, she realized her own jaw had gone slack. She closed it with an audible clack.

            “Forgive me, Miss Hathawood,” the stranger continued, his voice deep and dark as fine black velvet. “I thought you’d recall we met one Christmastide, when I accompanied my late father to fetch the girls from school.”

            His late father? Her stomach congealed into a cold ball, heavy as her wet clothes. This man must be the Castleleigh girls’ older brother. And none other than the Earl of Atherton himself.

            The head of the whole damnable family.

            “Alas!” the earl pressed his hand to his heart in mock sorrow. “You don’t remember.”

            She offered a deliberately tight smile. “No, my lord. I’m sorry to admit I haven’t the slightest memory of you.” She turned once more to leave.

            In a flash, though, Lord Atherton leapt into the street and into her path, looming head and shoulders above her, a tower of black superfine and crisp white linen. His posture, soldier-straight, spoke of authority, a habit of issuing commands.

            Her instincts bristled, and she stepped quickly back. Dangerous indeed.

            Before she could dart past him, the earl’s right hand shot out to clasp hers—palm to palm, sidelong, as if he were greeting another gentleman. As the heat of his fingers pressed her wet gloves, she realized with a shock that his hand was bare. Her eyes flicked to his in startlement, but he was smiling calmly at her, apparently oblivious to all his breaches of etiquette.

            “David Castleleigh, at your service,” he declared. “Or Atherton, nowadays. And seeing as we’re properly introduced at last, I can no longer leave you standing in this downpour.” He gestured sweepingly at the coach. “Pray let me help you aboard.”

            “What?!” came Daphne Castleleigh’s shriek from inside the carriage. “That is to say...” She cleared her throat lightly. “Miss Hathawood wouldn’t wish her walk spoilt by riding with us. She’s one of those robust country-born girls who adore the wind and rain.”

            The country-born girl couldn’t help but notice Daphne gathering up her peach silk skirts protectively against the velvet seat.

            “Patience, Daphne,” chided the earl. “Miss Hathawood won’t damage your fine ensemble.” With one hand, he reached into the coach, seized his sister’s wrist, and hauled her to her feet. “The rain may do the damage directly. Pray let me help you down.”

            “No!” Octavia and Daphne cried at once.

            Octavia leapt back, palms out to ward him off. “I’m in no need of transport, Lord Atherton! I’m already soaked through. And quite accustomed to walking.” She glanced at Daphne’s equally alarmed face. “While your sister is dry and warm and not used to making her way on foot.”

            “Which is precisely the problem,” Atherton countered. “As you so wisely pointed out a moment ago.” His silvery eyes fixed on her with a most unsettling brilliance.         

            An almost dizzying brilliance, actually.

            The color of his eyes shifted subtly as he watched her, like the storming sky above. She dropped her gaze to escape the effect, but that left her looking at the wondrous curve of his mouth.

            Oh, heavens—he was...he was glorious.

            How diabolically unfair.

            How utterly idiotic of her even to notice. 

            Lord Atherton yanked again on Daphne’s wrist, unbalancing her so she flew to the pavement in a wild flurry of skirts. Somehow, though, Daphne managed to land with her heel grinding into precisely the most painful possible section of Octavia’s toes. 

            Octavia was just in the act of doubling over to grab her injured foot when the earl’s strong hands seized her waist and hoisted her into the carriage. Tossed her, really. Unceremoniously, like a weather-worn portmanteau.

            “There you go!” he said pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just manhandled her. As if she hadn’t just been vehemently refusing his offer of a ride—or, anyhow, refusing it before she got distracted by his blasted glorious physiognomy. “Pray, make yourself comfortable, Miss Hathawood.” He leapt aboard, blocking her only possible means of escape.

            The jolt as the coach moved forward threw her back into Daphne’s empty seat.

Clarissa and the youngest sister, Amelia, glared at her like vipers disturbed in their lair. Her foot still throbbed. Her damp dress had twisted with all the sudden movement, and the wet seams and folds dug at her flesh, binding her like a fishing net.

            Great heavens—had the man really invited her to be comfortable? She wasn’t sure of the precise legal definition, but it dawned on her that she might just have been kidnapped. 

            With several stone of well-muscled, ill-mannered earl between her and freedom.

            That cold, heavy feeling inside her was instantly cleaved through by a good, hot, healthy burst of anger. “You will stop this carriage immediately, sir, and let me down!”

            “Down?” The earl looked quite nonplussed. “You do know it’s pouring rain out there?”

            Streaming droplets from her dress struck the coach’s elegant leather-and-velvet interior with a constant, loud plip-plop. “I had noticed that, yes.”

            “Then why not accept a ride home?”

            At that, a howl came from the sidewalk, where Daphne Castleleigh tromped beside the coach. “A ride home? Atherton, you vile, uncivilized, heartless pirate! You reptile! Let me back inside this instant! Do you know how expensive the silk for this frock was?”

            “Excessively, I’d guess,” answered the earl, leaning out the window—and blocking the exit as effectively as a slab of granite. “You know, Daphne, the whole point of clothing is to shield us from the elements. Next time you might buy some that actually serves the purpose.”

            “Atherton!” Daphne shrieked back. “Have some care for reputation! What if I am seen? Let me back in this instant, and deposit that hussy in the streets where she belongs!”

            “But, my dear,” replied the earl, grinning devilishly, “to which hussy do you refer: Clarissa or Amelia?”

            At that, the two youngest Castleleighs leapt up like spitting cats, spewing remarkably vicious oaths at their brother. 

            All in all, things had been calmer outside in the storm.

            The great shaggy dog, intrigued by the scent of street muck, snuffled up and began lapping at Octavia’s arm, its bulk boxing her even more tightly into the corner. The beast had a pungent smell that would drive any self-respecting lapdog to kill itself for shame. She tried to nudge its snout away with the back of her hand, but that only convinced it she wanted to play. It grabbed a mouthful of her skirts and tugged.

            At that, Lord Atherton’s attention flicked back to her again. He leaned closer, and without warning, slid one large hand between her skirt and the dog’s slobbery maw to pry loose its hold. His knuckles rasped the inside of her knee, pressing hard into her flesh.

            A sizzling jolt raced straight up her thigh, and a hot blush rushed clear to her ears. 

            She jerked her knee away, expecting him to apologize.

            He didn’t. He just grinned at her again. “May I ask what business draws you out on such a day? With no carriage? No umbrella? It’s practically Noah’s Flood out there.” He spoke calmly, as though he hadn’t just taken a rather serious liberty with her person.  

            A liberty that deserved a hard slap across the face. Which he would certainly have received, had the thought of further physical contact not completely paralyzed her arms.

            She did gather her wits enough to shoot him a withering look. “Oh, are we to make polite conversation now? Pardon my ignorance, my lord—etiquette books so rarely address proper conduct during an abduction.”

            He actually laughed at that. “Have I abducted you, then?” His eyes lit roguishly. “How very dashing of me! As for etiquette—alas, I’ve been in the Americas these past two years, and more exotic parts before that. I’ve reverted to something of a barbarian in all that time, I fear.”

            “The Americas? I thought sensible aristocratic wastrels preferred the Continent. Far handier for draining some distant relative’s stores of madeira and cigars, is it not?”

            She’d meant to insult him, but he laughed again. A rich, deep laugh. One which seemed to vibrate clear through her own ribcage. Good gracious—what sort of English gentleman was he, anyway? Approving of walks in the drenching rain, willfully ruining ladies’ expensive dresses, laughing so freely, touching her so freely, and smiling at her, even as she gave him the sharpest edge of her tongue. 

            “Miss Hathawood?” that mouth was saying.

            She had to struggle to locate her voice. “My lord?” Thankfully, the words held a

convincing note of challenge.

            “May I offer my handkerchief? You’re dripping rather copiously all over my carriage.”

            Humiliation swept through her, hot and cold at once. “Thank you, no,” she snapped. “At this point I’m afraid I’d need several bed sheets to get myself dry.”

            “Oh, shameless!” howled Daphne Castleleigh from the sidewalk. “To refer to...bed sheets in a gentleman’s company!” A thump sounded on the side of the carriage—probably the remains of Daphne’s wet reticule. “And you’re shameless to entertain her, Atherton!”

            Her heart contracted sharply. Bed sheets, of all things. Why hadn’t she minded her choice of words? She had to remember her sisters, and her mother, and how fragile their chances already were.

            “What do you say, Miss Hathawood?” asked the earl, his voice oddly soft and perilously seductive. “Are you shameless?”

            A little tremor went through her. Great heavens—what was it about this man that put her half in a trance? His gaze was most disquieting, yet he didn’t seem to be passing judgment. For all the world, he seemed just...curious.

            Or mad, perhaps.

And apparently capable of scrambling her brains as well.

            Words slipped out without first consulting her good judgment. “I don’t know. Since my father died, I’m hardly sure of anything anymore.” Instantly, her cheeks blazed. For heaven’s sake! A foolish thing to say before this audience of vipers—she should have said no, and slapped his face for asking. She felt ready to slap him now. Quite ready.  

            Lord Atherton looked away abruptly, though, a shuttered expression on his face. His fist shot up to rap the ceiling, bringing the coach to a quick halt.

            What now? Having gained such a galling admission from her, was he about to reveal his true Castleleigh stripes, and cast her ignominiously back into the street? Which, of course, was what she’d wanted in the first place. Just without the ignominious part.

            She half-rose before he could demand she leave.

            “Where can we take you, Miss Hathawood?” the earl asked then. “You really must get dry clothes and a cup of hot tea, before your death from cold and damp is on my hands.”

            She blinked in surprise. He wasn’t sending her to the curb? He was concerned for her health? His voice sounded sincere enough, kind even, though his long legs and broad shoulders still barred the path to the door.

            Oh, for pity’s sake. There was no arguing with a madman. And she had no chance of winning a wrestling match against him. Besides, she really was uncomfortably cold, and they were already headed in the right direction. “Dean Street,” she told him firmly, as if daring him to contradict her. “Everly House.”

            Clarissa Castleleigh snorted. Dean Street was not a fashionable address.

            “Well, Daphne,” called Lord Atherton into the street as he unlatched the coach door. “You’d best climb back aboard. We must quicken our pace to get Miss Hathawood home before she perishes of an ague.”

            Octavia risked another glance at the earl’s face, trying to make out his motives. Surely he wasn’t driven by actual compassion, or even common courtesy. She knew his sisters too well to believe that. Just then, however, a scowling, dripping Daphne Castleleigh swooped back inside the coach, cutting off her view. Daphne’s chest heaved from exertion, and the hatred in her eyes could have burned a hole through Octavia’s heart.

            Her motives, at least, were not in question.

            Mercifully, it was but two minutes more to Everly House.

            The moment the carriage stopped, Lord Atherton leapt down again, faster than his footman, and offered her his hand. She meant to ignore him, but the enormous dog scrambled out too, thumping her hard behind the knees. She grabbed the earl’s arm to steady herself, and his other hand caught her at the waist; her free hand clutched his shoulder, barely managing to keep a respectable distance—well, a nearly-respectable distance—between her front and his broad torso. As he brought her to the pavement, the remarkable heat of him passed straight through her wet clothes. 

            All the blood in her body seemed to throb through her chest in one thick, smothering wave. Blushing furiously, she moved to hurry past him, but he grasped her hand.

            “Wait!” he said. “Unless you drop an enchanted golden slipper as you flee, I’ll need some means of contacting you again.”

            She yanked her fingers free. “This is no fairy tale, sir. And I’m no Cinderella. There can be no question of further contact between us.”

            “Why on earth not?”  

            “As you know full well, Lord Atherton, I truly am as far beneath your notice as the girl who sweeps the cinders from your hearth.”

            “Nonsense!” His handsome brow furrowed. “You were a schoolfellow of my sisters! You’re a gentlewoman! Of excellent lineage. My family’s known the Hathawoods for generations.”

            Her heart seemed to expand now, crowding against her lungs. Good Lord, was it possible he really didn’t know? It had been so long since she’d met anyone—anyone—who didn’t know every last sensational detail. His own sisters had made sure of that.

            But of course he did know. Of course he did.

            In a flash, she understood: they hadn’t come upon her by accident today. They’d had some scheme brewing beforehand, some new plan to humiliate her. And she’d let herself be distracted by their feigned squabbling.  

            And...by a set of silver-bright gray eyes, and a sensuous mouth.

            “Please, Miss Hathawood,” the earl was saying. “My sisters chatter day and night of Lady Rockingham’s rout next Saturday, and swear absolutely everyone will attend. I really had no intention of going, but I shall if you’ll be there.”

            So that was to be their trap? The Rockingham Ball? 

            She nearly laughed out loud. She looked down at her dress, the awful sopping wreck of it, splattered with muck and pocked with holes from the dog’s teeth. Her worn, scuffed half-boots fairly screamed her poverty.

            She’d never once been glad of her financial ruin, until this day. With an odd sort of pride, she looked the handsome nobleman straight in the eye. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, “but I no longer count among ‘everyone.’ Not when the word’s used by members of your set.”

            “Miss Hathawood...”

            “Please, Lord Atherton. You and your sisters know the truth—seeing as their poisoned tongues played such a large part in spreading the story that ruined me.”

            His eyebrows rose. Something seemed to spark in his eyes. “Indeed?”

            “Indeed.” She tipped her chin up at him defiantly. She meant to fix him with an accusing glare, but suddenly, shamefully, for no clear reason at all, hot tears rose, and she dropped her head to hide them.

            And then, even worse, he stretched out one hand, cupped her chin in his broad palm, and raised her face back up. Against her chilled skin, his touch scalded—he might have been formed of solid flame. She averted her eyes, trying to focus instead on his neckcloth, but the soaking rain had rendered it nearly transparent in places, and the warm golden color of his throat showed through.

            Her eyes darted, looking for a harmless place to rest. His broad shoulders? No. Nor his gleaming black hair.

            She settled for a lamppost slightly to his left.  

            What was it about him? Since her father’s death, she had, by sheer force of will, built up a wall of control no one breached. But here David Castleleigh, Earl of Atherton, was doing it. And not with aggression, not with insults, but with a soft look, a touch, a smile.

            All of it fraudulent. All of it poisoned. He was a Castleleigh.

            “I’ll take my own counsel on this matter, madam,” he told her. “And I swear I shall see you again.”

            “Great heaven,” she cried out, wrenching herself loose. “You are...a horrid man!” She ran from him then, up the steps to where, thankfully, Frye the butler already held the door open for her.

            The earl called after her, laughter in his voice. “Horrid I may be, but as you’ll learn, I’m also a most persistent man!”

            Without looking back, she flew into the foyer, pulling at her wet gloves, which clung to her fingers as if deliberately defying her. Her arms shuddered violently. She was thankful when Frye took her elbow and led her towards the parlor fire.

            Even safe indoors, she could hear Lord Atherton calling from the street: “You shall see me again!”

            Moments later, hooves clattered and splashed as the coach pulled away, no doubt towards a far more fashionable part of town—where the earl and his elegant sisters could laugh as long and loudly as they liked at her...and her wretched family.

            The shuddering in her arms spread downward into her legs.

            Once the Castleleigh sisters got to work, which they would the moment their evening clothes were on, London would be abuzz with the tale of Octavia Hathawood’s latest state of degradation. Her family’s feeble efforts to regain the good graces of the haut ton would be doomed once and for all.

            Once and for all.

            She tried not to let the weight of that thought drive her to her knees.

**********************************************************************************

THE DEVIL MAY CARE, CHAPTER THREE:

January 6, 1809

Hawkesbridge House, London

            He’d survived three days with that maddening little governess in his house, and Sebastian had begun to think he was making some progress. He might, at least eventually, be able to look at Rachel Covington without his lungs tightening so sharply he couldn’t breathe.

            He made himself enter the chamber assigned to her, as usual not bothering to knock. The habit irritated her, which suited him fine. Petty, but it soothed him a bit every time he nettled her, got her to straighten her spine in that nun-like way, jabbing out her chin to pierce him with her icy governess glare.

            It neutralized the memory of that damned unsettling kiss she’d given him.

            And, better still, it reminded him she wasn’t Sal.

            Not a bit like Sal.

            Well—he really should have knocked this time.

            She had her back to him, lifting the heavy weight of her loosened hair from her neck as her lady’s maid—Sal’s maid, Jenny—fastened her into a gown. A gown he recognized as one of Sal’s favorites. Not Miss Covington’s usual serviceable woolen gray, but a plum silk which skimmed lustrously over her body and left her long arms bare and glowing in the lamplight.

            He froze.

            The air went thick and cold and hard to breathe as wet sand.

            Sal. He was looking at Sal.

            Her hair gleamed fire-bronze as it always had. He recognized the exact shape of her slender back, and the familiar white length of her fingers as they lifted her curls. The precise angle of her neck, the crook of her elbow, the lush curve of her hip that had driven many otherwise-intelligent men to fatal indiscretion. 

            His universe lurched.

            Emotions he could hardly name rushed in at him, against all rational control: grief, longing, confusion, and a mad desire to run to her , lift her from the ground and spin her about and scream with joy, clutch her to him and weep, and beg her forgiveness again and again.

            It took every scrap of will he possessed to hold himself where he stood. To squeeze shut his eyes. To let the seconds pass until sanity returned.

            And, thank heaven, Miss Covington didn’t turn towards him until after he’d opened his eyes again, and had pulled himself back under control. And when she did turn and find him standing there, she blushed. Blushed clear down to her collarbone, a charming rosy shade, and raised a modest hand to hide the plunging neckline of her gown.

            Not a gesture Sal would have made. Not in a thousand years.

            Instantly, his universe righted itself.

            He sucked in a rich gulp of air.

            And grinned at her, a deliberately mocking grin. “How very charming you look, my dear,” he drawled, letting his eyes drift casually, assessingly over her form, as any other man who’d walked in on her might have done.

            As his eyes swept upwards again, they met her gaze for a moment, and he was surprised to find her eyes looking vulnerable. Nervous. Not remotely like her usual calm, Quakerish demeanor.

            And, at that, a new relief swept through him, relief to the very core of his bones. He almost laughed. No one would be fooled by her after all. No one who’d known Sal would ever take this shy, uncertain, blushing creature for one of the most brazen courtesans in Western Europe—not to mention one of its most able and fearless spies.

            The game was up. It was all over. He could wash his hands of her.

            His smile became utterly genuine.

            But then her maid turned from smoothing out the fabric of the skirts, and fixed him with a beaming look. “Oh, Lord Hawkesbridge!” Jenny exclaimed. “Isn’t it amazing?” She stretched out her arms, gesturing at Miss Covington like a prize sculpture to be shown off. “If I hadn’t peeled that awful gray frock off her and unwound that knot of hair with my own fingers, I’d swear it was Sal herself standing here!” 

            His lungs constricted again.

            Jenny had been Sal’s lady’s maid for years.

            And her confidante, the closest thing Sal had allowed herself to a female friend. Jenny had known Sal clothed, naked, asleep, awake, drunk, exhausted, injured, exultant, at her best and at her worst, in her very most private moments.

            “Truly, Jen?” He managed to choke out. “You’d take her for Sal?”

            “Oh, yes, sir! Of course! Every inch identical!” Jenny—plain, honest, country Jenny—never lied. She was staring at Miss Covington, shaking her head in apparent wonderment, her brown eyes glazing with tears. “Oh, forgive me, Miss,” she said, her voice breaking as she pressed both hands to her mouth. “You just...you look just like my lady!” The tears spilled out over Jenny’s cheeks. “It’s like having her here again! A miracle!” The maid’s whole face crumpled then, and with a great choking sob she ran from the room.

            Sebastian watched her go, largely because the alternative would have been to continue gazing at Miss Covington, and he was still too discomposed by that first sight of her in Sal’s gown to be comfortable with that. 

            In fact, he was acutely conscious of being alone in the room with her.

            And painfully aware of her bed, just a few feet away.

            What the deuce? He’d never felt the least awkwardness with Sal. And they’d been alone thousands upon thousands of times. Slept in the same room, even—or in the same hayloft or wine cellar or military bunker, or in the dirt under some scraggly bush—whenever a mission demanded it.

            So why did his skin on the side nearest Miss Covington seem to chafe and glow as if he were standing before a fire? 

            At last, Miss Covington broke the lengthening silence. “Well, what do you think?” she asked softly, a slight tremor in her voice. “Do you find me at all convincing?”

            He turned slowly to regard her, trying to conceal the conflicting emotions washing through him. Lord, she looked so unsure of herself. As if her gray dresses had been armor, and that armor had been stripped away.

             Soft. That was the word that came to him. Soft, with her hair loose and waving over her shoulders. Soft, with all that vulnerable white skin exposed.

            Soft, with her eyes gleaming, almost pleading at him.

             Oh, she was not Sal. Sal was....Sal was hard.

            No, Sal was hardened. That was the word. He’d never entirely realized it before. But now he saw it crystal clear, in the contrast: Sal had carried her armor within her very skin, everywhere, always. There’d been a constant barrier about her, a forbidding challenge in the set of her jaw, a look in her eye that said her claws were bared. Whereas this young girl....

            The differences between Miss Covington and Sal fairly screamed at him.

            And yet, Jenny, her lady’s maid, had been fooled. Jenny, who knew Sal so intimately, said it was like having Sal here again. And if Jenny could be fooled, then others could be fooled as well....

            His instincts as an agent kicked in.

            He’d been at the Game far too long to deceive himself. Back in Helm’s office, he’d seen something in Miss Covington—something fierce and steely. A different fierceness from Sal’s, but formidable nonetheless. Surely that had not all depended on her attire. Surely that had come from somewhere deep inside her.

            The task might be even harder than he’d thought. They might yet be forced to abandon it. He hoped they’d abandon it. But duty was too strong in him to ignore her potential.

            And duty told him an agent never undermined the basic confidence of his partner. Never. If this mission went forward, loss of confidence in her ability to impersonate her twin could be fatal, to one or both of them, to agents all across the field, and their chances were slim enough as it was....

            If what he truly wanted was to end this now, to send this soft girl somewhere safe and make his own endless, waking nightmares go away—well, he forced those feelings down. Crushed them, pummeled them, beat them into pulp. And if it meant the last little vestige of his heart was to be crushed, pummeled, pulped along with them—well, the most cynical voice within him said, that might be a nice side benefit. Beat the damn thing into submission. Lock it away, once and for all.

            He smiled, the sort of lazy, aristocratic smile Miss Covington no doubt expected of him.

Thankfully, lies came as nimbly to his tongue as chat about the weather. “The resemblance astonishes, my dear,” he assured her. “You look exactly like your sister. To the most precise degree.”

            Miss Covington let out a sigh, seemingly gratified, and blushed again. Immediately, she turned and regarded herself in the full-length cheval glass. “Did she look just like this? Truly?”

            There was something intense in the way she studied herself, something that had nothing to do with vanity, and it struck him that Miss Covington hadn’t seen her twin sister since late childhood.

            It was her sister’s image she was seeking in her glass.

            He felt a chill go through him. And he was very much afraid of what he would see next, what he did indeed see next. Damn it all—tears springing to her eyes.

            He was not in the habit of comforting women. In truth, he spent little time with the sort of women who needed to be comforted. He greatly disliked the sensation it was creating in the center of his chest. 

            Before he thought what he was doing, though, he’d reached out his hand and touched his fingertips to Miss Covington’s shoulder. She tensed a bit, but she let his fingers rest there a few moments as she briskly dashed her tears away.

            Without a word, he dropped his hand back to his side. Even such a little touch was something Sal would never have accepted from him. Sal would have swatted his hand away. Stamped a heel into his instep. Snapped an elbow into his ribs. All while calling him vile names in a remarkable assortment of languages, for daring to imply there was anything vulnerable about her.

            And, frankly, it would never have occurred to him in the first place to try to comfort Sal.

            They’d supported one another, of course; they’d have willingly died for one another. He’d die for her now, God knew, by the cruelest tortures, if it would bring her back, give her even five minutes more of conscious life. But comfort? No. That was their unspoken bargain: they acknowledged only strength.

            How strange he’d never consciously realized that before. Ah, well, now he had yet another subject to keep his brain awake and brewing in the middle of the night.

            Miss Covington turned now with a tentative smile, though her posture had tightened, became more correct again. “Forgive me,” she said, brushing her hands self-consciously over the silk of her skirts. “I’m just a little—disoriented right now. All this is—confusing.”

            “Yes,” he heard himself murmur.

            She tilted her head a bit, looked at him perceptively. “For you too, of course.”

            “Of course,” he repeated perfunctorily, though he didn’t care to pursue the thought. He didn’t fully understand the way he was feeling. There were too many things to feel, all at once. He certainly didn’t like the way he was feeling.

            He swallowed hard. Damn it all, why did Jenny not return? How long could it take a lady’s maid to have a good sob, then get back to care for her new mistress?

            A mistress who, by the by, was in dire need of having her hair dressed, of having it cut a foot or two shorter preferably, as was the fashion, instead of hanging loose halfway to her knees. Instead of spilling everywhere in wanton tangles, reflecting firelight with a flare like a siren’s call—so any male in the vicinity might feel compelled to reach out to catch some silken strands between his fingers and....

            He thought seriously for a moment about slapping himself.         

            He needed a return to normality. So he cast his gaze over Miss Covington again, assuming the air of a jaded connoisseur—which, in the usual run of his life, he most certainly was.

            “That gown looks well on you,” he told her, with a judgmental quirk of his lips. “A shame to abandon your old dress, though. So practical, that dark wool—ready for a prayer meeting, or a funeral, at a moment’s notice. Good for scrubbing chimneys, too, I suppose. And with cloth that thick you’d survive a snowstorm overnight, given a decent pair of boots.”

            Her eyes flashed at him, and for a moment he thought he’d get the sharp edge of her tongue. But then she seemed to decide not to take up the challenge of his insult. “I prefer this color to gray, actually,” she declared. “And I prefer silk.”

            “Oh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Interesting. Unexpected.”

            The color was coming up in her cheeks again. “Why should it be unexpected? What fool prefers the scratch of wool to the feel of silk?”

            The feel of silk. He really wished she hadn’t used that phrase. Quite without his conscious permission, his eyes slid down to the gleam of the fabric where it cupped her breasts. Quite lovely breasts. The wool had concealed, somehow, both her slenderness and her curves....

            Where in hell was Jenny?

            “I’m not the fool who’s been wearing woolens,” he managed to say.

            Miss Covington made a tsking sound with her tongue. “A governess cannot wear silks, even if she could afford them. The lady of the house would have her flogged.”

            He hadn’t expected to laugh any time within this conversation, but he laughed now. “Flogged? Is it really as bad as that for governesses?”

            “Yes!”

            “You were flogged?”

            “Well,” she hesitated, slightly flustered. “No, not literally flogged. But worse, somehow. Worse than you can imagine.”

            His brow furrowed. “What in heaven’s name did they do to you?”

            She was frowning; he got the impression she’d just lost patience with him. “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing...physical. It’s difficult to explain. But actual flogging might have been preferable.”

            “You’d have preferred flogging?”

            “At least then, you’d be free to scream. Scream all you’d like. And at least it would be—something to feel. Something actually alive.”

            His mind was floundering, skidding on ice. This girl really did look so very much like Sal, disconcertingly like Sal. Her voice was Sal’s—the same depth, the same timbre. The rhythm of her speech. She held her shoulders in exactly the same way. Even her fingernails were the same shape, efficiently short, with neat half-moons at the tips.

            Part of his brain was convinced she was Sal, and that part was sliding, quite without his consent, into that old, easy familiarity. And yet, the other part knew she...wasn’t. She was an utter mystery to him, a complete stranger. And he...wanted to understand her.

            The blush stained her cheeks again. Why?

            What must her life have been, locked away up in Lancashire, a near-servant in a stranger’s home, embalmed in dark wool? Sal would’ve gone mad in a month. “Is that why you’re helping us?” he murmured. “To feel alive? To have an adventure?”

            Abruptly, she was the stiff little governess again, her eyes blazing.  “No! I’m doing this for my sister. For Sarah. Not for adventure. And not for England, either. I don’t give a damn for England.” She held up a hand, palm out, though he hadn’t made the least move towards her.  “And I’m certainly not doing it for you!”

            Odd thing to say. He paused. Made himself breathe. Turned himself arch and combative. “Did I suggest otherwise?” he asked. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, in any case. If the worst ends up happening, I’d hate to have you on my conscience.”

            At that, her face completely shuttered. The conversation was clearly over. “Might you find Jenny for me now?” she asked, her tone quite crisp again. “I’d like to change back into my own clothing.”

            “Really?” He cocked an eyebrow. “The scratchy wool?”

            “Yes. This is....” Her voice trailed. “I’d prefer something familiar just now. I’m not used to this sort of gown; I feel scarcely dressed.” At those words, she blushed again, and crossed her arms over her chest, clutching her shoulders with her spread fingers, as if to hide herself.

            Oh, Lord, he wished she hadn’t done that. There was something so graceful and feminine and inadvertently sensuous in the gesture—the gesture of a nymph, not a nun. Not to mention that the pressure of her crossed wrists plumped her breasts into a truly luscious cleavage.

            He edged closer to her again, but deliberately kept his eyes fixed on hers, not a quarter-inch lower. “I assure you, by the standards of the demimonde, that gown’s entirely modest.”

            She regarded him warily, took a step back.  “But I do not belong to the demimonde.”

            “If you wish to avenge your sister, you will. You must.” Thankfully, his voice sounded stern and entirely composed, the voice of a cool professional, which he was supposed to be. Which he normally was. “Covering yourself like that would reveal to anyone who knew her that you are not Sal.”

            A troubled look crossed her face. She clearly understood the difficulty of the challenge she’d accepted, but understanding seemed to make it no easier for her. Her arms were still clamped across her bosom.

            He could not afford to show her pity.

            She was to make her first appearance as Salomé at Lady Barham’s in three nights’ time.  If she passed muster, they’d set out for Spain soon after, headed for the place where Sal died. Where Rachel would die as well, if she made the smallest error.

             This was about training, pure and simple.

            He slid his own fingers between hers and the bare flesh of her arms, and pulled her stiff hands loose. She tried to step back further.

            “Now, that won’t do, love,” he chided her, wrapping his long fingers around her upper arms. He caressed her skin, down to her elbows and back again—just enough of a hold to keep her close to him, just enough stroking to make her shiver.

            Her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat.

            He kept up the caress, both with his fingers and his words. “Sal might laugh in a man’s face and push him away, or give him a playful slap of her fan. Perhaps promise him pleasure later, at her own convenience. But she’d never show fear. She was in control always, confident always. The way a good collie handles sheep.”

            Miss Covington’s mouth fell open in a gasp, the alarm on her face quite palpable, just a step away from panic. Or horror maybe. No doubt it shocked her to hear him talk of her sister that way.  

            He almost relented, but....

            Pity now could get her killed later.

            “Laugh, Miss Covington!” he commanded, his gaze drilling into hers. “Push me away! If you want to get rid of me, that is. Widening your eyes like that, in that innocent way, will only serve as an enticement.”

            She couldn’t seem to move or speak, though her breathing quickened audibly.

            A strange restlessness seized him, a sizzling new awareness of her flesh under his hands, of her scent and her heat and the delicious softness of her. He was also aware—very, very deeply aware—that she was not Sal...

            “There’s nothing to fear,” he heard himself murmuring, bringing his mouth down close to her ear. “If you knew the first thing about the pleasure men can give to women, you might not want to resist at all.” He met her eyes again, and found hers widening still more, their bright green depths drawing him in like pools for drowning.

            Her lips parted softly.

            She expected him to kiss her, he realized. She wouldn’t stop him if he did.

            And, even as he realized that, the idea of kissing her became mesmerizingly appealing.  This whole encounter had unbalanced him, as if confusion over who she was had muddled his sense of himself. He felt dizzied, over-warm. He felt the air between them melting.

            He had to stay rational, keep the sensible part of his brain in control. He recalled the last time he’d fallen prey to the drugging pull of desire, and that memory struck him like an icy wave, bringing him back to instant self-mastery.

            His shoulders stiffened. He knew nothing for sure about this woman either.        

            He was not going to be the one to lose control.

            But she would.

            It was something she needed to learn, and quickly, to be convincing in her role. And she deserved it, anyway, after that kiss she’d sprung on him the other day.

            He didn’t have to make this easy for her.

            He looked down at her with a more strategic eye. Well, he most certainly shouldn’t do what she expected—kiss her the way a young girl expected to be kissed. Deliberately, though, he let his mouth drift closer to hers, relishing the feel of her softening under his hands, surrendering, succumbing. Perfect. Her gaze went to his lips.

             He darted sideways, and down, and pressed his mouth into the warm curve of her neck instead. She gasped and jolted at the contact, and then arched herself into him as he sucked lightly at the tender flesh there, and flicked his tongue along the long line where her heartbeat pulsed. He brushed his lips up under her jaw, and back to the silken lobe of her ear, which he drew between his teeth, and sucked again, harder.

            Her breathing went ragged. Lord, how perfectly innocent she was!

            She shifted slightly, instinctively offering him more of her throat. Her fingers drifted over the sides of his coat, and clutched at the fabric there, convulsively, as if to keep herself from falling.

            Triumph pulsed through him—but, damn it all, the scent of her beneath the soft veil of hair was extraordinary. The taste of her, the warmth, the overwhelming proof that she was after all flesh and blood and woman....

            He relinquished his hold on one arm and traced his hand teasingly over her shoulder, down over the smooth neckline of her gown, and down further, increasing the pressure as his palm molded to the shape of her breast. The silk had warmed to her flesh, like a peach ripened in the sun, and despite all his intentions he felt his own blood heat dangerously.

            He let his fingers knead her, his thumb flick inwards over her nipple. She jerked and moaned, and his groin reacted with alarmingly speed.

            The one practical thought that came to him involved Miss Covington’s gown. In accordance with Sal’s sophisticated style, it had been fashioned with the more subtle, softly luminous side of the silk showing outwards. That meant the glossier, slicker side turned in against the skin. And he felt no evidence of a chemise beneath. He smiled.

            That fabric could be a most effective weapon, in the right hands.

            His hands.

            He pressed his palm against her breast, shifting it slightly and sliding his thumb so the glossy silk moved along with his stroke, over the taut nub of her nipple. She nearly fell forward into him. Her hands clawed upwards over his back, and gripped the muscles of his shoulders.

            Hooking his index finger into her neckline, he kept up the stroking, pressure and silk, flicks and swirls, his other fingers kneading relentlessly, until her fingertips dug into his flesh. She swayed, leaning backwards, head thrown back. Still trailing kisses across her throat, he added his other hand to the subtle torture, claiming her other breast.

            Though, blazes, at this point, all he could think about was tearing the damn fabric away entirely, getting his palms against the silk of her flesh itself, and touching her everywhere.... He was hard as a steel rod now, straining his trousers to the breaking point. He pressed himself against her, instinctively, alive with the need to lift her skirts and seek out the greater heat he knew he’d find there. 

            Almost without his conscious intent, his right hand slipped from her breast and skimmed down over her belly, to that enticing V at the very top of her long legs.

            The silk slid freely under his hand, against her skin. She gasped, and then moaned again, louder. Her spine bowed, mashing her breasts against his chest. He let his hand play against her, between her thighs, just the slightest teasing pressure against her sensitive flesh, letting the silk do most of the work.

            Chancing a glance at her face, he found her eyes tight closed, her lips open and ripe. Her skin was flushed, deliciously rosy. Her expression half pained, half blissful. On the cusp of new and exhilarating knowledge.

            And he’d hardly begun with her yet.

            Had no one ever touched her, truly? Never given her even this little taste of pleasure?

            Good God, what fools she must have lived amongst.

            And what a fool he was to have stopped and looked at her face. The sight made his head whirl, and he could scarcely remember where they were, or recall her name, or his own. He knew only that she was beautiful. Lush and desirable. Delectable. Soft. And that she was his for the taking.

            He leaned in. He was...going to kiss her mouth—

            Before his lips touched hers, though, she shifted in his arms. Her fingers eased from his coat. A new tension tightened the set of her jaw, her spine. She was gathering herself, steeling herself.

            She pulled away, letting her weight settle back on her own legs.

            Her eyes opened, and she looked at him.

            Her gaze was sharp and self-possessed again—if perhaps a little dazed around the edges. “Thank you, my lord,” she said with deliberate calm, as if he’d just brought her a glass of iced punch in a heated ballroom. “That was most useful.”

            “Useful?” He took a full step back.

            “The lesson. In pleasure.” Her breathing was not quite back to its normal rhythm, but her manner was decidedly polite. “Very helpful.”

            “Helpful?” He wasn’t quite sure whether to laugh, or grab her, toss her on the bed, flip up those silky skirts and teach her just how helpful he could be. He’d drive her over the brink a dozen times before he’d let her up again. “I’m always glad to be of service.”

            “You were right, you know,” she said. “There’s no reason to fear letting men close.”

            “Men?” His jaw clenched hard. He disliked that plural.

            She nodded cheerfully. “And perhaps we can continue the lesson another time. There must be more you can show me.”

            Blast it all. She might have talked to her tutor in exactly this no-nonsense tone.

            She couldn’t be half as calm and cool as she sounded—the rosy hue still suffused her throat and cheeks and arms. Her moans still echoed in his ears. The pulse beat hard in that lovely little hollow between her collarbones.

            He’d roused her, no doubt of that. Truly roused her.

            Of course, she’d roused him too.

            Damnation.

            He’d hated the idea of this mission quite enough to begin with. This morning, he’d have sworn nothing could possibly make the situation worse.  

            Now it was worse.

            Now it looked like outright catastrophe.

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AND NOW FOR A COUPLE OF BLOG POSTS FROM THE RUBY SLIPPERED SISTERHOOD: