Itched to find out what it would be like to bed him.

  Stop it!

  He was heading straight for the doors. Still gripping her elbow, he steered her past the fringes of the crowd and outside. The night was frosty. Clear, cold moonlight shone through a velvet sky. He let go of her long enough to take off his coat and place it around her shoulders, then, raising a brow, he offered his arm.

  As though she had any choice! Trembling with fury, Eva took it.

  Silently, he escorted her past a frozen fountain, where icicles dripped from the arms of a stone cherub. Their shoes crunched on frozen gravel, their breaths plumed the air. Tension crackled between them. Tension — and a raw, sexual awareness that Eva was trying her best to ignore.

  Trying — and failing.

  Blackheath led her some distance from the house, then to her surprise, he released her.

  "Do not leave me until you hear me out."

  Confused, Eva stepped back to put some distance between them, drawing his heavy velvet coat about her shoulders. It was warm with the heat of his body. Rich and lusciously expensive against her skin, emanating his own uniquely male scent. She resisted the urge to bury her nose in it.

  "I'm listening," she said warily, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart, the feverish tingles of anticipation that were racing across her skin. "What do you want?"

  He levelled his flat stare on her. "Your help."

  Of all the reasons a virile, dangerous man such as himself might drag a woman out into the night, this was the last one that Eva might have expected. His answer threw her totally off balance. Brought a rush of unexpected disappointment. For a moment, she couldn't respond to such a bald plea, and had to quell a burst of laughter. Why, the idea of this arrogant, manipulative monster asking for help of all things, was almost ludicrous.

  "My help," she scoffed, with an arch, pitying look. "Well, Blackheath, you've certainly found the last person on earth willing to give it to you."

  "I am sure that for a price, you will give me anything."

  "Some things cannot be bought."

  "No, some things can only be given," he said coldly. "I know you would have me believe you're a hard-hearted witch, but, as tempting as the thought is, I am not totally convinced of it."

  She smiled sweetly. "No? After what I did to your brothers? After what I nearly did to you? How much more convincing must I be?"

  "Help me and I will consider your offenses against my family forgiven. It is for their sake, not mine, that I have sought you out."

  Eva raised a brow.

  He moved a little distance away, no doubt trying to rein in the natural enmity he must certainly feel for her. She could almost see him collecting himself. Retreating behind that impeccably aristocratic mask that would remain in place no matter what emotions, what thoughts, boiled behind it. But no. She was mistaken. In the silent majesty of the night, his eyes were darker than the deepest water of the ocean, and for a moment, just a moment, he allowed her to see the haunting anguish in their depths, the pain she didn't think he was capable of feeling.

  Something in her softened, responding to that naked revelation; he was human, then, after all.

  Imagine.

  "I have a sister," he continued, gazing out into the night. His back was toward her, rising in splendid magnificence from his lean torso, crowned with powerful shoulders of a breadth that was nothing short of . . . mesmerizing. She feasted her eyes on that back, on those shoulders, even as she cursed herself for taking such a liberty. "Her name is Nerissa. She means more to me than anything on God's earth."

  Eva said nothing, merely watching him.

  "She is young and romantic, and hopelessly in love with a fellow who has no wish to settle down and get on with the responsibilities of his birthright." He turned and, offering his arm once more, began to walk. You must be freezing, Eva thought. He had only a sleeveless waistcoat to ward off the cold. But the Duke of Blackheath's iron control was such that he would never shiver, let his teeth chatter, or even allow a tremor to mar his urbane voice. "A fortnight ago, this beau of hers — the Earl of Brookhampton — was . . . sent to Spain aboard the English ship, Sarah Rose. Just off the coast of France, the vessel was attacked and sunk by an American privateer."

  Eva felt herself softening, a dangerous thing. It scared her — so she reacted as she always did when threatened.

  With sarcastic hostility.

  "Ah, yes," she drawled. "I do recall hearing of that particular triumph on my country's part."

  A muscle tightened in the duke's jaw, but he would not allow himself to be goaded. "Lord Brookhampton was amongst those feared lost when the ship went down. My sister is inconsolable."

  "Why was Brookhampton sent to Spain?"

  Blackheath's face closed up. "That is of no importance. The only thing that matters is finding him and bringing him safely back to England."

  "Well, I'll ask the fish and crabs off Calais, then, if they happen to remember eating him."

  This time, the duke could not rein in his anger. He turned on her, his eyes so dark and savage that Eva involuntarily took a step back. "That was crass and uncalled-for. We are talking about a human life, here."

  "We are talking about an Englishman who'd just as soon see Americans slaughtered, starved, and beaten into submission."

  "If you believe that, then you are a fool," he said coldly. "There are those in Parliament, and throughout England, who are friends of America. Men like Pitt and Burke, who wish to see this war at an end, who oppose George's American policy, who are willing to meet your countrymens' demands."

  "And are you one of them?" she asked, her tone poisonously sweet.

  His eyes had never seemed so black. "Two of my sisters-in-law are American. My brother Charles — the one you struck down — served with the army in Boston, where he gained both an understanding of the American people and sympathy for their plight. He owes his life to their benevolence. Yes, madam, I can assure you that I am one of them, and the sooner there's an end to this damnable conflict, the happier I shall be."

  Eva looked away, suddenly regretting her caustic words. Humility was a bitter pill to swallow. "So what do you want from me?"

  "Your help in finding out what happened to Lord Brookhampton."

  She shrugged. "I don't know how much help I can be. If the reports say he went down with the ship, that's probably exactly what happened."

  "Reports can be falsified. Perry might have used a different name to escape detection. He might have been injured, taken in as a hostage . . . Any number of things might have occurred. I will not be satisfied until I have the truth."

  "Isn't that something you can find yourself?"

  "As you so quickly reminded me, madam, I am English — not exactly a friend of the French, and soon to be an enemy, if you Yankees get your way." Inwardly Eva winced, though she knew the English, thanks to their own spies, knew exactly what the Americans had been up to. "You, on the other hand, can move quite comfortably within the higher echelons of French society. I want you to find out if Perry survived. If he did, I want you to learn where he is imprisoned." His jaw tightened and he looked away, his voice harsh. "I want you to help me give my sister her life back."

  I want you to help me give my sister her life back.

  Nothing he might have said could have swayed her more. Blackheath had said she was young, romantic, and in love. Eva remembered what it had been like to be young, romantic, and in love. She remembered it with a bitter pang that still hurt after all these years, causing the back of her throat to ache with the pain of betrayal, the loss of innocence, the death of dreams. She had no desire whatsoever to help the duke, of course. But his sister . . .

  She gave a deep sigh. "I will do what I can, Blackheath. But not for you. For your sister."

  "Despite the fact you've never met her?"

  "It doesn't matter. She's a woman. She hurts. I sympathize with her pain."

  "You think men do not hurt?"

  "I know men do not hurt. How can they? They do not have hearts, which is why they take such delight in breaking ours."

  He studied her for a long moment, and Eva had the uncanny sensation he could see right into her soul and all its long-buried, deeply guarded secrets. She shivered. With awe. With nervousness.

  And, with unspoken longing.

  "Are you cold?"

  "Yes," she lied.

  "I will remedy that," he said.

  And, pulling her into his arms, he kissed her.

  Chapter 6

  The night was frigid, the air as brittle as glass, but when Blackheath's lips came down on hers, Eva felt nothing but a searing, sweeping warmth.

  His hands slipped beneath the velvet coat and down, cupping her figure, the thumbs grazing her silk-clad breasts, the palms following her rib cage, snugging into the curve of her waist and out over her hips, her bottom. He pulled her close, right up against the unforgivably hard wall of his body, trapping her there even as his mouth covered hers. Eva had no desire to reclaim the space he had stolen. She spread her palms against his chest, feeling the taut, coiled muscle just beneath, the steady beat of his heart. How delicious it was to be in such powerful arms! How dangerously heady, this unexpected abandonment of her senses, her convictions! She forgot her anger; forgot regret, indignation, outrage. There was only his mouth against hers, demanding and impatient, cool and hard and wonderful.

  And now his tongue, tracing the swell of her lower lip, painting it with warm, tingling heat. With a sigh of defeat, she opened to him. Clung to him. Let him touch and taste and explore even as she returned the intimate caress. Her blood caught on fire, engulfing her in flames, a heretic burning at the stake.

  There was no denying it. She wanted him. God help her, she wanted him, and if she was any sort of a woman she would have him — on her terms, of course, not his, never his — and she would have him tonight. It was a seductive thought. A delicious thought. One that flared to life on the kindling of her own rising desire . . .

  His hands pressed against the small of her back now, molding her, holding her, drawing her right up against the rock-hard length of him, pelvis to pelvis, until her head tipped back under the onslaught of his kiss. Her arms came up to encircle his neck, the heavy velvet coat now sliding from her shoulders, tumbling off her back, and landing in a crumpled heap at her feet. But she never felt the cold. There was only his lips against hers, his breath mingling with her own, her hands roving across his shirt and tracing the fascinating interplay of muscle, ribs, and hard, flat abdomen just beneath the fine lawn.

  Eva pulled back, resting her hot forehead against his chest and breathing hard.

  "If you do that again I shall have to kill you," she said without conviction, trying to catch her breath as she stared somewhat dazedly down at their feet.

  "And you think that threat will deter me?"

  "You know I feel nothing for you."

  "Then you are a magnificent actress."

  "I loath you. I've loathed you ever since I found that you were the one who was sabotaging our spying efforts here in France . . . The matter of the aphrodisiac was just the frosting on the cake."

  "Hmm, yes . . ." His hand, so warm despite the night air, stroked her nape, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin just behind her ear. "I wish I could make the same denial, but I fear I've been fascinated with you from the moment I first saw you, when your cousin brought you to my brother's wedding."

  "Lust, nothing more. Ignore it and it will go away."

  "I have tried to ignore it. It has not gone away."

  "Find another woman, then."

  "I don't want another woman." His voice dropped to a husky murmur, and she felt his breath against the side of her neck. His lips. The whisper of a kiss — dark, forbidden, dangerous. "I want you."

  Hot tremors shook her body. He could break her heart. Take it apart, stomp on it, and walk away without a backward glance. Fear almost paralyzed her — but Eva had no use for fear. If this was frightening her, it was all the more reason to confront it head on.

  "What do you say, my lady? You are an adult, a widow, no blushing innocent who's ignorant of what she'll find in a man's bed. And unless I'm mistaken, you're as eager as I am to finish what we already started in mine. But I'm not usually mistaken, Eva. Let me prove to you that men can be very . . . interesting, indeed."

  Her knees began to weaken. "I have . . . work to do at the ball."

  "You have work to do for me. But pleasure before business, no?"

  He took her arm. Fear and wanting warred within her. The night pressed in around her, icing her skin, trying to freeze her blood, but Blackheath had ignited something that was burning her from the inside out and could only be satisfied in one way, and one way only.

  And then, a sudden idea occurred to her. A wicked idea, so totally perfect for the occasion, so totally in line with her own plans, that she could barely contain her triumph.

  Her relief.

  "Very well, then, Blackheath," she murmured, looking up into his shadowy face. "I'm no champion of the male gender, but I'm willing to give you a chance to change my mind about it. You and I will return to my rooms, but" — she narrowed her eyes — "it will be on my terms."

  "And they are?"

  "Complete domination."

  Up went one black, arching brow. "Dear me, this night promises more excitement than I'd originally anticipated . . ."

  "And I'm telling you right now that if you disappoint me in any way, I swear I'll kill you."

  "In that case, I promise to do all in my power to leave you completely . . ." — his lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile — "satisfied."

  ~~~~

  They returned — individually — to the ball and, pleading a headache, Eva excused herself and left the great noisy chamber.

  She had seen Franklin eyeing her with raised brows, obviously not fooled by her excuse. He had seen her with Blackheath. He was certainly wondering why she was consorting with the enemy. But Eva had a plan, and Blackheath would be the perfect man on whom to carry it out.

  He was waiting for her, as promised, at the foot of the great stairway that led to the guest rooms on the mansion's upper floors. It was quiet here; not even a servant was about.

  "Last chance to change your mind," he murmured, with a challenging little smile that said he knew she would not.

  Eva took his offered arm. "I am not such a coward as all that. Though you'd like everyone to think you're the devil incarnate, I am most assuredly not afraid of the big bad wolf."

  "Really, now? Then why, might I ask, are you trembling?"

  She gave a flippant little laugh to cover her nervousness. "Anticipation."

  He only smiled, a thin, knowing smile that made her insides twist in a knot. So, she'd lied. A bit. She was afraid of the big bad wolf, because wolves were perfectly capable of tearing out your heart and eating it. And Eva was all too aware that her heart, which had been feasted on before, was dangerously close to finding itself on an offered platter.

  Stay calm! YOU are in control. He has consented that you will be in control! You have nothing to fear, as long as you don't start imagining he's something he's not, as long as you don't start dreaming little-girl dreams about him, as long as you don't start deluding yourself that he's any different from the rest of his abhorrent gender . . .

  She raised her head, haughty, flirtatious, in command once more. Yes, she was in control. She just had to convince herself of the fact. They reached the top of the stairs, and, her heart pounding, Eva led the way to her room. The closed door looked ominous. And exciting. What would lay beyond that door, tonight?

  She turned then and faced her companion with a hard stare. "Let me remind you, Blackheath. This is on my terms."

  "Ah, yes." His smile gleamed. "Complete domination."

  "And remember, I am perfectly capable of killing you if you deceive me in any way."

  "I know you are, my dear. It is one of many reasons why I find myself so fascinated by you." He reached out and placed his palm against the door just behind her ear, effectively trapping her between his arm and dark, ruthless face. His voice dropped to a seductive whisper. "You see, I adore dangerous women."

  Eva tensed, her heart beginning to race. "You may not adore them so much if one decides to kill you."

  "Ah, yes. Kill me. That is a threat you seem to revisit quite often, madam. Perhaps, before this night is over, you will convince me of how . . ." — he smiled — ". . . dangerous you really are."

  She gave him a level stare. "I would be most happy to."

  He merely laughed, and Eva felt a brief stab of fury that he would dismiss her so lightly. But then, he had done much the same when she'd broken into his apartments back at the castle, blatantly turning his back on her when she held a gun on him, as if to prove that he did not take her as seriously as she did herself.

  But then, that's one of the reasons you're so fascinated by him isn't it? Because he respects but not fears you, as so many other men do. Because he is totally unfazed by the fact that you could so easily kill him. You enjoy his courage. You have met your match, Eva.

  And she would best her match. She would.

  She merely smiled at him and glanced pointedly at his arm. It was still blocking her way. After a deliberate pause, he finally removed it. Eva pushed open the door. A fire burned in the hearth, and a candle stood on a lowboy with curved, spindly legs in the French fashion, its light casting a warm orange glow over the lacquered wood, across the fine Turkish carpet on the floor, and bringing out the lights and shadows from the heavy drapes at the windows and around the bed.

  "Have you no maid?" Blackheath asked, raising a brow.

  "I gave her the night off. It took her hours to prepare me for the evening. She deserved no less."