"If I'm not in the house, do I have to stay over the stables?" Loretta asked.

Mr. Brinkley snorted. "I should hope not! We have good, clean quarters in the west wing of the house."

"If you're asking do I need a big chamber and someone to bring me my tea, then no, I do not."

Mr. Brinkley beamed at her. "Now, and you're a good girl, aren't you? I should have known the professor wouldn't kit us up with one of them actresses like that Mrs. Jordan. He's a divinity professor, after all."

"Who's Mrs. Jordan?" Mrs. Redfern asked.

"You do know it, Mrs. Redfern, that you do. She's the actress that's had children with the Duke of Clarence."

"Oooh, to be sure!"

"You see," Mr. Brinkley said, turning to Loretta, "I wasn't sure whether you was hoping that the Duke of Holbrook would be amenable to that sort of arrangement. I'm by way of the gatekeeper for the duke."

"He's had to be, the duke's been cup-shot for the past few years," Mrs. Redfern put in.

"That's gossip," Mr. Brinkley said to the cook. "His Grace doesn't drink a drop at the moment."

"I've no wish to have ten children with your drunken duke," Loretta said. And she meant it.

"Nay, and I can see in the shake of a lamb's tail that you're not that sort of girl," Mrs. Redfern said comfortably. "I think you'd do better here with us, love, rather than eating at the big table and having to worry about your manners and such. I expect you have a young man wanting your hand once you're done with this acting business."

"His name is Will," Loretta said, nodding. "We've exchanged rosemary."

"There, and isn't that nice that the old customs are being kept up," Mrs. Redfern said. "Why, Mr. Redfern and I exchanged rosemary not so many years ago ourselves. Perhaps thirty."

Loretta thought that sounded like an eternity.

"I'll speak to His Grace," Mr. Brinkley said. "I'm thinking you're right, Mrs. Redfern. Miss Loretta will do nicely with us. We'll keep her safe for her Will. One never knows when Lord Mayne will stop by."

"Not that the young man's ever said a rude word to one of my maids," Mrs. Redfern said comfortably. She had a lot more tolerance for the handsome earl than did Mr. Brinkley.

Loretta didn't care where she slept, nor who the Earl of Mayne was. "May I see the theater?" she asked.

"I'll take you tomorrow morning to meet the young lady who's in charge of the production. Miss Pythian-Adams, she is, and a very cultivated young lady indeed."

Mrs. Redfern leaned in, confidentially. "Her maid's quite convinced that His Grace will ask for her hand before the month is out."

Loretta unwittingly proved herself above reproach when she showed absolutely no interest in this fascinating nugget of information, but instead begged for the history of the theater.

Chapter 29

In Which Various Improprieties Continue

As Rafe saw it, there were very good reasons for stopping this erotic play. Those reasons all had to do with honor and propriety, and included things like not anticipating one's wedding date.

Warring against propriety was a kind of hunger that he'd never experienced before. Imogen was lying beside him, looking pleased with herself, and his personal equipment didn't even seem to have noticed what had just happened. The only thing pounding in his head— and his groin, which at this moment was practically the same thing—was an insistence that he roll over and acquaint Lady Imogen Maitland with what it felt like to sleep with a man who wasn't underendowed by nature, as Draven Maitland almost certainly had been.

Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him, and he forgot for a moment that he didn't want her to have a good look at his face. She looked a little limp and a lot happy, and the dim golden light from the dying fire was enough to make it clear that Imogen Maitland had the most beautiful female curves that he'd seen in years. Probably in his whole life. They had to be touched, and tasted…

You have your whole life to do it in, argued his conscience.

Only once you truly convince her that your skills are such that she should take on a bad bargain, argued back his common sense.

Common sense won, backed as it was by a hefty dose of pure lust.

He began an exploration of the plump underside of her breast, an intimate investigation of every inch that almost—but not quite—took all his attention.

A gentlemen wouldn't take advantage of his future wife before the vows are spoken, pointed out his conscience.

I'll vow anything, the rest of him mumbled, teasing her nipple until she began making little gasps of pleasure. It would be most ungentlemanly to leave a lady in such a condition.

Imogen's whole body was damp, her breath shallow, her eyes languorous and unfocused. His lips drifted south. He had his hand there already, playing with her damp, warm flesh, making her jump and roll her hips. She had stopped making little squeaks and was uttering throaty moans.

He was having a little trouble breathing himself. Who was he fooling? Of course he was going to make love to Imogen. He felt as if he'd been intending to make love to her since the first moment she strolled into his house, all passionate over Draven Maitland, so in love that she didn't even see him.

No, that wasn't true.

He can't have been base enough to lust after a woman in love with another man. The very thought made him roll over Imogen and pull her hips toward him.

She reached up her arms without opening her eyes, so he could lavish just as much time as he wanted kissing her eyes and her nose, her high forehead and her lush mouth.

And all the while another part of him was stroking her as well, making her gasp, strangled little sounds of pleasure wrenched from her chest until she snapped open her eyes, and said, "If you're planning to go somewhere, would you mind doing so now?"

"Tsk, tsk," he said, grinning down at her. "There's no point in hurrying these things, is there?"

He clenched his teeth and stopped himself, withdrawing. She clutched his arms so tightly that he almost winced. Then she arched up, following him, seeking him, needing him.

And suddenly he realized that those were the words he needed to hear… had to hear. The vow he kept thinking about.

"Imogen," he said, between clenched teeth, "do you need me?"

She followed him again, arching that beautiful lean body in the air, but he stopped halfway and didn't give it to her. She opened her mouth, panting a little, and said, "What?"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Making love," he said reasonably. "Is there something wrong with the way I'm doing it?" He went a little deeper and then withdrew again.

"Yes," she said tightly.

"Do you need me to do something different?"

He managed an insouciant tone, even though every muscle in his body was vibrating like a spring wound too tight. Halfway, and halfway, and she was pushing against him, turning her head against the pillow, trying to catch him.

"Just tell me this, Imogen," he said between clenched teeth, "tell me you need me. You need—" His voice died, for her hands had slipped from his shoulders down his back, held onto his ass, and pulled.