LITMIR.BIZ

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took her hand again and this time pressed his lips to the palm. “Whereas kissing me is merely … satisfactory? Interesting?”

      “Very interesting,” Merryn amended. Her heart thumped. Her skin was prickling. She could feel Garrick’s stubble rough against the softness of her hand, chasing shivers along her nerves. For a second she felt as though she was trembling on the edge of something unbearably sweet; she wanted him to take her in his arms again, to kiss her until every other thought was banished and she was eager under his touch; she wanted to tumble headlong into whatever hot, blissful temptation waited for her.

      She pulled her hand away, only to curl her fingers protectively over as though trapping the kiss.

      She heard Garrick sigh. “I’m glad we straightened that out,” he murmured. The teasing note in his voice faded. “I think that you should get some sleep, Lady Merryn,” he said. “It will be for the best. And in the morning we will find a way out.”

      Merryn knew he was right. She could forget the past for a few minutes perhaps and allow herself to luxuriate in the pleasure of talking to a man whose mind seemed so delightfully in tune with her own. She could even allow herself the seduction of his kisses, a different but equally tempting sort of pleasure. But then memory would taunt her, making her stomach lurch with misery and self-reproach, and she knew that there could be no future for them. It was impossible. She should not want it.

      “You always call me Lady Merryn when you want to put some distance between us,” she said slowly.

      “I do,” Garrick agreed. She waited but he made no attempt to narrow that distance or to touch her again. After a moment Merryn settled herself down on as dry a bit of the floor as she could find, wrapped her pelisse around her and willed herself to sleep.

      WHEN TOM BRADSHAW arrived at the house in Tavistock Street it was the early hours of the morning and he discovered that Lady Grant was hosting a dinner. The dining room blazed with light and it spilled out across the terrace and the gardens. Tom, lurking in the shadows, could see that Merryn was not among the assembled guests. That did not surprise him. He knew exactly where she was. And whom she was with.

      As soon as Tom had heard about Garrick Farne’s strange, quixotic gift to the Fenner sisters he had set Heighton to watch on Merryn and report back to him. Garrick, Tom thought, had been quite exceptionally clever in buying off the Fenner family. He had grave doubts now that Merryn would follow through on her intention to ruin Garrick because it was not in her interests to do so anymore. Tom understood all about self-interest. It was his prime inspiration. So he could hardly blame Merryn for throwing in her lot with Farne. But it did mean that he no longer trusted her and he could no longer use her.

      Heighton had followed Merryn the entire afternoon. He had tailed both Merryn and Garrick to the rookeries of the Tottenham Court Road and had witnessed the beer flood. Barely stopping to sample a swift pint, he had made his way back to report to Tom.

      So now Tom was in a very powerful position. He was prepared to tell Lady Grant and Lady Darent what had happened to their little sister—at a price. He was even considering revealing to them that Merryn had been working for him for two years, and then charging a higher price still for his silence, for Merryn would be utterly ruined if the truth came out. Tom was ruthless in discarding those for whom he had no further use and Merryn had served her purpose. Now she could make him some money.

      He knocked discreetly at the door and asked the butler if he might speak with Lady Darent. He had thought of approaching Joanna, but there was always the danger that he might find himself confronting Alex Grant instead. That would be a very different business from blackmailing a woman of Lady Darent’s apparent sensibilities. The butler gave him a supercilious look and Tom was almost certain he was going to refuse, but a hefty bribe helped the situation enormously and he was shown into the library. Nor did Tess Darent keep him waiting. It was barely two minutes later that he heard her step in the doorway and her voice.

      “You asked to speak with me?”

      Tom, who had been admiring the picturesque display of china that Lady Grant had arranged in a window alcove, turned abruptly. For a moment he thought he was seeing things, for in the light of the candles the woman standing in front of him looked like Merryn, sounded like Merryn and yet she most definitely was not Merryn. His instincts told him that even before the light shifted again and he saw that the superficial likeness was deceptive. This woman was taller than Merryn was, darker, lushly curved where Merryn was more angular. Tom realized vaguely that he had never considered Merryn beautiful, never really thought about her in such feminine terms because she had always insisted on being treated as an equal, like a man. This woman, in contrast, was lavishly, deliciously female. Tom swallowed hard.

      The woman came forward into the light. “How do you do?” She extended a hand to him. “I am Teresa Darent.”

      Tom automatically took her hand in his. Hers was warm and soft and it seemed to flutter within his grasp. He felt short of breath and oddly out of countenance. So this was the widowed Lady Darent, whom the ton called the much-married marchioness. This was the woman who was barely twenty-eight but had buried four husbands already, whom rumor said wore them out by her insatiable demands in the marriage bed. Suddenly Tom’s mouth felt as dry as cinders.

      There was nothing predatory about Tess Darent. When he had heard the stories of her, Tom had imagined she would be one of those fast widows who indulged each and every one of their appetites whether it was for gambling, men or every other vice. He had thought of her as an older, wilder, more ravenous version of Harriet Knight. Now he saw her—touched her—he realized that her appeal was the opposite. She was entrancingly, fatally innocent. Every last man she met would want to protect and cherish her, Tom thought. She was irresistible, from the dimples that dented her cheeks when she smiled to the way in which she looked on a man as though he were the only creature on earth. She was smiling at him now and dimpling at him as well, as though he were a god, the most fascinating man she had ever met. Tom, who had thought he was immune to feminine wiles, could feel himself slipping and sliding somewhere very hot and tempting indeed. The combination of Tess’s winning charm and lusciously rounded body made Tom feel that his collar—and other items of clothing—were simply too tight.

      “And you are?” Tess prompted him, and Tom realized that he had been staring. Probably his mouth had been hanging open, too. He knew he was making an almighty hash of this and if he was not careful Tess Darent would remember him in future as no more than an inarticulate oaf she had found loitering in the library. He tried to pull himself together.

      “How do you do, Lady Darent,” he said. “I am Tom Bradshaw.” Smooth he was not. He groaned inwardly. This was not going quite according to plan.

      But Tess was still smiling. Her gaze traveled over him, assessing, thoughtful, in no way a fool.

      “How may I help you?” she asked. A small frown puckered her brow. “You must forgive me, Mr. Bradshaw—” she hesitated “—but I am not accustomed to meeting with mysterious gentlemen.”

      “I’m not a gentleman,” Tom said before he could stop himself.

      Tess’s lips twitched. He saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Indeed?” she said. She put her head on one side, studying him. “So you are not a gentleman. Who then are you?”

      This, Tom thought, was his cue to reveal his identity and that he had information on Merryn’s whereabouts that he was prepared to sell to her. Lady Darent would be horrified of course, shocked and distraught, but she would see the sense in agreeing to his terms in order to buy his silence. But he could feel himself struggling. Normally he had no qualms about introducing people to a few painful facts. But with Tess Darent it seemed wilfully cruel, like breaking a butterfly. He shrugged inwardly and squared his shoulders. He could do this.

      “I have come about your sister, Lady Merryn,” he said. “I have information as to her whereabouts. And other information that you may wish to … buy … from me.”

      He waited for the vapors, screams or swooning, but Tess Darent stood absolutely still. He was not even certain that she had understood him. He had heard gossip that she

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