"Which means your ancestor was the murdered prior's son," she said with some fascination. "You are correct, Lord Hawthorne, it is a most intriguing story. Though it does pain me to know that there is tragedy in your family's past."

"Rest assured, the wounds are healed," he replied. "It was many generations ago." He stopped and pointed at the small, oval portrait before them. "This is all we have of the first duke's mother, who died when he was still a boy."

"She was lovely."

"Yes. It is unfortunate that she never knew what her son would accomplish. Shall we move on?"

"Please."

They continued up the long gallery, looking at the other family portraits and discussing the estate's collection of French and Italian works.

"I am impressed with your knowledge of art," he said when they started back toward the drawing room. "You have a very sophisticated eye."

"But I confess, Lord Hawthorne, that most of my knowledge comes from books, as I have rarely been away from my father's estate." She gazed up at him again with those stunning green eyes, and he felt almost weak in the knees, awaiting her next confession.

"So I am yearning," she continued, "to experience real life for myself. I wish to know all its many pleasures-pleasures I have never known. Sometimes I fear I am going to collapse from the pressure of all my pent-up desires."

He studied her face, trying to decide whether she was a supremely accomplished flirt with no inhibitions-which he doubted-or if she was so incredibly innocent, she had no idea of what she was implying with such silky words and sensual looks. How did she know to say things like this?

He supposed it did not matter. The effect was the same. He found her irresistible in the most basic carnal way. He was even tempted to pull her into his arms right here in the gallery and taste the flavor of her lips and satisfy those pent up desires she had just mentioned. The urge almost knocked him over. He had never met a woman so sexually alluring, yet so remarkably innocent at the same time. What a contradiction she was, and how very convenient that he had found such a woman when he was obliged to take that long dreaded walk down the aisle.

She was an innocent, he wanted to bed her, and maybe, just maybe he could.

He stopped on the soft carpet and held both her gloved hands in front of him. "I am pleased you decided to join us for the week, Lady Rebecca."

Her eyes lit up like the morning sun, and she spoke with fiery passion. "I am pleased, too. More than you could ever know. You see, I have never forgotten that night in the forest four years ago, and I have thought of you so many times since then. And when you left for America, all I did was yearn for you to return."

His head drew back in surprise. Only then did he realize his smile had reversed itself.

Not that he was angry or unhappy with her. Quite the opposite in fact. He felt rather swept away by a very romantic twisting of fate that had brought them together a second time-at a very convenient time-after that intense first meeting. Here he was, listening to her bold declarations of yearning, suddenly giving in to romantic notions when he was the least romantic man in the world.

"What exactly did you yearn for?" he asked in a low voice, feeling a shameful compulsion to lure her out of her innocence, when he had not yet officially declared himself.

She wet her lips. "I longed to see you again," she told him.

"So now that you've seen me," he said, taking a step even closer to her-so close, it was beyond propriety-"is there anything else you want?"

Her eyes glistened with anticipation. "Yes. A great many things."

He was experienced enough to recognize the heated tone of her voice, and for that reason, she did not need to elaborate. It was enough that he could feel the pull of her desires flanking his own.

He looked over the top of her head, down the length of the gallery. Ascertaining that they were alone, he took her hand and led her to the edge of the room. He spun her, as if taking a step in a dance, and the next thing he knew, he had her up against the wall with his hands braced on either side of her. She was looking up at him with eager eyes and parted lips, and he could smell the flowery fragrance of her perfume.

"Is this what you were longing for?" he asked.

"Yes."

He looked down at her moist and tempting lips. "Have you ever been kissed, Lady Rebecca?"

"Never in my life."

"Then you might want to prepare yourself," he said in a low whisper, "because I intend to be your first."

He dipped his head and tasted at last the flavor of that warm, sweet mouth.

A tiny whimper escaped her and she slid her arms up over his shoulders and wrapped them around his neck, urging him to press his upper body to the lush swell of her breasts and pin her tight to the wall. She was surprisingly eager, which was by no means a complaint.

Her thumb stroked the line of his jaw. His body quickened, and he deepened the kiss and swept his tongue into her mouth. She kissed him in return like a seasoned lover, though he knew she was not. Her sexuality simply came naturally, he suspected. He had picked up on it from the beginning.

She tipped her head back and he kissed and suckled the side of her soft neck.

"What if someone comes?" she asked.

"There's no one here," he assured her, bending at the knees and sweeping his pelvis upward in a scooping motion that almost lifted her off her feet.

"Oh, Lord Hawthorne, you have no idea how many times I've dreamed of this."

"What else have you dreamed of?" he asked. "Tell me and I'll do it for you."

"I couldn't possibly say."

He pressed his mouth to hers again and tasted her lips and tongue, then brushed his open hand down the front of her neck and kissed the skin just above her low neckline, where the swell of her breasts was driving him mad with lust. He simply could not resist her. "I really wish you would. I want to hear you say wicked things."

She blinked up at him and tipped her head back against the wall, as if she did not possess the strength to keep it upright on her own. Her eyes were lazy with desire. "I've dreamed of what it would be like to feel you on top of me, and I like to imagine how heavy you would be. Every time I imagine it, I can almost feel you inside me. I've grown to crave the sensations."

They were hardly the words of a virgin. But she had said she'd never been kissed. Was she lying?

Whether she was or wasn't, it hardly mattered. In fact, he would almost prefer it if she were not a virgin, so he could take her to his bed this very night-with or without a wedding ring.

"What a coincidence," he replied with a smile, gently thrusting his hips toward hers. "Right now I'm craving all the sensations as well."

She whispered with breathless anticipation. "I'm still afraid someone will come."

He brushed his lips against her ear. "Don't be afraid. No one will see."

"How is it you always have everything under control?"

"But I don't," he openly replied, lowering himself onto one knee and looking up at her while she rested her hands lightly upon his shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

He gave no answer. He simply kept his gaze locked on hers as he slid his hands down her waist, feeling the shape of her hips beneath all the layers of her shiny, satin gown. He moved his hands over her thighs and knees and down her calves until he reached the lacy hem. He continued to look up at her, noting by the rise and fall of her luscious breasts how quickly she was breathing.

He reached under the gown and wrapped his hands around each tiny foot, his grip gently pulsing.

Another whimper escaped her, revealing a mixture of shock and fear and delight. "This is very wicked," she said.

"Yes." He slid his hands up to her slender ankles, feeling the fine texture of her stockings while he stroked the inner bones with his thumbs. Still, he did not pull his gaze from hers, for it gave him great pleasure to watch her eyes roll back slightly as she inhaled.

She was leaning forward now with more of her weight resting on his shoulders. He slid his hands up a little farther to the warmth at the backs of her knees, drew two figure eights there on each one, which made her quiver, then he ran his fingers like feathers down the length of her calves to her ankles. He lingered there a moment, then returned to her knees again, rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles over the soft flesh.

"Higher?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Yes."

He slid his hands up the front of her thighs until the tips of his thumbs slid into her split drawers and touched her soft, wispy curls. The heat and moisture there was intoxicating, and he paused a moment, considering his options. Dare he go farther? Was it even necessary? He'd already done more than enough to require that he propose and she accept.

But the fact was, at the moment, this had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the fierce yearning taking over his body. He wanted to touch her and feel the creamy heat of her womanhood. Marriage proposal or no, he wanted her salty scent on his fingers long after they'd returned to the drawing room.

He slid the pad of one thumb into her heated folds, and shuddered with his own burst of pleasure from the inviting wetness.

"Step wider," he said, and she moved her feet apart.

He continued to look up at her beautiful face while he stroked her slick opening, searching, feeling. Then he found it. Her maidenhead. She was indeed a virgin. Not that it mattered at this point, because he wanted her regardless of anything.