"Lucien, please. I do only what I can."

"And modest as well," he murmured softly. "A most potent combination."

"You are being a fool," she chided in flustered tones.

There was a moment's pause before Jocelyn felt a warm hand cup her chin and gently press her countenance upward.

"Look at me, Jocelyn," he commanded.

Slowly she lifted her heavy lashes to meet the eyes that glowed with a pure golden light in the falling dusk.

"What?"

"Be proud of what you have accomplished," he said firmly. "Be proud of who you have become. It is far more worthy than being the neglected wife of some mindless dandy."

She paused as she pondered his words.

It was true that the road she traveled had not been the one she had expected to. Certainly she could never have dreamed as a child she would one day live in the dark streets of St. Giles with only an elderly servant as company.

Still, she could not deny that she found it difficult to think of herself in an elegant town house with nothing to occupy her mind beyond the cut of her dress and the latest gossip.

Could she ever have been satisfied with such an existence?

Could she have found joy in tending to a husband who preferred his life at his club and his mistresses while she chatted over tea and flitted about dance floors?

Her life might not have been of her choosing, but Jocelyn knew in her heart that it provided a sense of accomplishment that she never could have found in the more fashionable world.

"Yes," she at last breathed softly.

A sudden expression of satisfaction rippled over Lucien's countenance before he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her own.

Caught off guard, Jocelyn did not even make a pretense of resisting the sweet caress. She did not desire to resist, she fuzzily acknowledged.

Tantalizing warmth shimmered through her blood, a burst of excitement exploding within her stomach. Her lips parted in silent invitation, and with a fractured groan Lucien gathered her in his arms.

"You taste of champagne," he murmured against her mouth.

Her hands rose to clutch his shoulders. She struggled to think through the fog of pleasure that clouded her mind.

"Lucien."

"Yes, Jocelyn?"

"It... it is growing late."

He gave a soft laugh, his warm breath sweetly brushing over her sensitive lips.

"Yes, it is. I have waited too long to hold you in my arms."

She felt lost in the golden heat of his eyes, longing for nothing more than to remain pressed against the strength of his hard form. This was where she truly belonged, she inanely acknowledged. The only place she desired to be.

Alone with this man who had filled her empty heart with joy.

Nearly overwhelmed by the stark realization, she struggled to break the spell of enchantment.

"You have won no bets," she reminded him in breathless tones.

His brows rose in a teasing fashion. "Ah, you have forgotten. Earlier I wagered that I would discover your small farm fascinating, and I assure you that I did so."

She gave a choked laugh at his absurdity. "That was no genuine wager."

"Of course it was," he argued, his hands stroking the curve of her back. "And now I demand my forfeit."

Jocelyn shivered in delicious anticipation. "I do not believe that you play fair, sir."

"Why, Miss Kingly, surely you do not accuse me of cheating?"

It was decidedly difficult to keep her mind upon the playful conversation when those hands continued to trail up and down her spine and the temptation of his lips were only a breath away.

"You are certainly swift to take advantage of the situation," she accused him.

"I must need be swift with you, my dove. You are far too elusive for my liking."

She searched the dark countenance, wondering why she did not feel the panic or even reluctance that had plagued her since the scandal. Surely she had not forgotten just how dangerous desire could be to a young maiden?

But even as she sought the lingering sense of distrust for such passions, she discovered that

she felt nothing but a growing need to give herself utterly to this man.

"Not so elusive," she murmured.

She heard his breath catch in his throat, then, with a low moan, he was pressing her close and kissing her with a barely concealed hunger.

Jocelyn clutched at his shoulders, reveling in the demands of his lips. This was what she ached for. This restless, yearning desire. This consuming passion that must surely be fulfilled.

She leaned closer, sighing softly when the seeking lips left her mouth to trail a scorching path down her jaw and then the curve of her neck. She took no note of the gathering darkness or of the soft call of distant birds that echoed through the air.

There was nothing beyond the magic of Lucien's touch.

After what may have been mere moments or hours, Lucien reluctantly pulled back to regard her with a darkened gaze.

"Ah, my dove, you have firmly captured me in your spell," he said in husky tones.

She gave a dazed shake of her head. "I have no spells."

"Tell that to my heart."

Her eyes widened at his soft words. His heart? Could he possibly mean . . . did he imply that he was in love with her? Could his emotions have become as deeply entwined as her own?

"Lucien, I—"

Without warning he suddenly pressed his fingers to her lips, halting the impulsive confession that she had been about to utter.

"No, say nothing," he said, an oddly regretful expression upon his handsome countenance.

Almost as if he knew what she was about to say and was determined to prevent the words. "The time will come when we may freely speak of such things. But not yet."

She frowned at his unusual reserve. Lucien was not a man who deliberately hid his emotions.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Why?" she demanded, an unwelcome disquiet worming its way into her heart.

Something that might have been pain rippled over his finely chiseled features.

"Because I could not bear to lose you."

Nine

A peaceful silence had descended upon the cramped sitting room. Seated in a chair beside the window, Jocelyn glanced toward the golden-haired gentleman who was settled upon the sofa.

After an evening devoted to ensuring the children in the warehouse were well fed and also seeking out the various prostitutes who had come to depend upon Jocelyn's assistance, they had returned to the quiet house for a light dinner.

Although feeling far too restless to seek her bed, Jocelyn had been determined to avoid yet another of Lucien's dangerous games. She was not a fool. She was well aware that she was but a breath from tossing aside all sense and giving in to the passions simmering within her.

So, collecting her large sewing basket, she had made her way to the sitting room, determined to finish the linen shirt she had been stitching for Thomas.

Much to her amazement, Lucien had swiftly joined her. She had half expected him to demand that she fulfill her side of their devilish bargain. She had, after all, taken the money he gave her each evening for accompanying her to the streets. But instead, he calmly scooped up a blouse she was altering for Annie from the basket and with needle and thread had moved to the sofa to work upon the unfinished hem.

He should appear the fool, she told herself as she covertly studied the lean profile outlined in the flickering candlelight. Whoever heard of a sophisticated gentleman stitching like a common tailor?

But there was nothing foolish in the beautiful features set into lines of concentration, or the slender, artistic fingers that moved with a supple grace. He appeared perfectly comfortable and not at all embarrassed to be performing such a menial, womanly task.

She tried and failed to think of any other gentleman of her acquaintance who would be so secure within himself.

There was simply no one else to compare with Lucien Valin, she acknowledged with a faint sigh. It was little wonder that he had so easily bewitched his way into her heart.

As if sensing her intense regard, the golden head abruptly lifted and he flashed her that wicked grin that never failed to stop her heart.

"Well?"

Lost in the beauty of his smile, it took a moment for her to realize he was holding up the small blouse for her inspection. Feeling decidedly foolish, she rose from the chair and crossed the floor to take the garment.

Soon she would be one of those witless maidens who could do nothing but giggle and simper when in the company of a handsome gentleman, she chided herself.

"You are very swift," she murmured, hoping to hide her brief flare of embarrassment.

"Will it do?"

Rather absently raising the blouse to glance at the fresh hem, her attention was firmly caught by the tiny, utterly precise stitches.

Not even the most talented dressmaker could have achieved such efficient work.

She gave a slow shake of her head. "I do not believe it."

He rose to his feet, his golden brows raised at her muttered words. "What is it?"

"It is perfect. Absolutely perfect."

He gave a choked laugh. "And that is a bad thing?"

"Everything you do is perfect." She lifted her head to meet his glittering gaze. "Do you have no faults whatsoever?"