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Exmoor,” he replied. “The cousin of Lord Buckminster. A woman firmly entrenched in the aristocracy. A woman of name and beauty…therefore one who doubtless made an excellent marriage. I had thought you were the Countess of Exmoor.”

      “I? Married to Richard? Hardly. That is my sister.”

      “So my men told me. But I would assume that you made an equally advantageous marriage—even better. Perhaps a duke? Have I erred in calling you ‘my lady’? Should it have been ‘your grace’?”

      “Neither.” Nicola bit off the word. I am Miss Falcourt.”

      The highwayman glanced at her sharply. “You are not married?”

      “No, I am not. It is hardly so astonishing. There are women who do not marry.”

      “Rare for a woman of your beauty and background. That is the purpose of a lady’s life, is it not? To marry for alliance? To gain the best position she can, given her natural assets?”

      “You make marriage sound like a business proposition.”

      “Is it not?” he answered, his voice cold and sharp as a knife. “A noblewoman is the same as any prostitute, selling her wares to the highest bidder. The only difference is that the buyer pays with a wedding ring instead of coins of the realm.”

      Nicola’s hands clenched her reins tightly, and she felt again the compelling urge to slap this man, but she struggled to control herself. “You, sir, are a fool. It is your prerogative, of course, but I do not have to stay and listen to you. Good day.”

      She started to dig her heels into her horse, but the man lashed out with one hand and grabbed her upper arm tightly, holding her in place. “I’m no fool, Miss Falcourt. I was once, but no longer. I found out what motivates a woman to choose a husband, and it is not love or even desire. I know whereof I speak.”

      “You know nothing. You only think you know. Obviously some woman disappointed you, but only a fool would paint all women with the same brush.”

      “Not all women. Noblewomen. I know many a common woman whose heart is large and warm. But a lady’s heart is a cold, hard stone.”

      “Then a lady’s heart must be something like your mind,” Nicola shot back.

      Much to her surprise, the man laughed. “A fair shot, my—I mean, Miss Falcourt.” He released her arm, and their mounts started forward again.

      “You are utterly infuriating.”

      “Indeed, I have been told that.”

      “I must say, I wonder why you should choose to ride along with me, despising noblewomen as you do.”

      “Once a man understands what they are about, he can partake of—” his eyes slid appreciatively down her body, leaving little doubt as to the underlying meaning of his words “—the pleasure of her company without being so foolhardy as to lose his heart. Or his head.”

      “That is typical of a man—noble or low. ‘Tis not the same for a woman.”

      He let out a bark of laughter again, but this time it had little amusement in it. “Women would have us think so.”

      “Oh, and I suppose that you know better than I how a woman feels or thinks?”

      “I am more honest about it.”

      “Your arrogance is astonishing.”

      “It isn’t arrogance to speak the truth. Women like to pretend that they feel no desire unless their heart is engaged, that they marry for love, not wealth or position. The truth is that they marry for well-calculated reasons, and their passion can burn quite hot without the spark of love.”

      “Then I must be an odd woman indeed, for it is not that way with me.”

      “You lie through your pearly white teeth,” her companion responded without heat.

      “How dare you imply that—”

      “I imply nothing. I say it outright. You are not speaking the truth, and you know it. Do you feel love for me?”

      Nicola quirked an eyebrow at him. “Hardly.”

      “Yet last night you responded to my kiss with passion.”

      “What nonsense.” Nicola could hear the lack of conviction in her own voice.

      “You and I both know that it is not.” He reached out and grasped her bridle, pulling her horse to a halt with his. He leaned toward her, his face unnervingly blank, half-covered as it was with a mask, in contrast to the hot spark in his eyes. “I kissed you, and you kissed me back, even though you did not love me—indeed, were not even acquainted with me. You did not even know my name, yet your lips quivered and melted beneath mine.”

      “A man’s capacity for self-deception is boundless.” Nicola’s stomach fluttered, though she strove to keep her tone cool and unconcerned. “I slapped you, if you will remember, yet you term that response passionate? Passionately angry, perhaps.”

      His hand curled around her wrist as he held her still, staring straight into her eyes. “How much of that anger was at me—and how much at yourself?”

      Nicola could not conceal the shiver that shook her at his touch. “You presume too much.”

      “I presume no more than you feel.” He leaned even closer to her, his face only inches from hers. Nicola wanted to look away, to pull her arm from his grasp, yet she could not. She could only gaze back at him, exerting all her will to keep her eyes steady and cool.

      “No.”

      “Kiss me, then, and tell me you feel no passion. No desire. Show me how only love moves your body.”

      “I do not wish to kiss you,” Nicola protested, knowing as she did so that she was lying. A strange heat flooded her insides even as her hands turned freezing, and all she could think about was his mouth, exposed beneath his half-mask, the bottom lip full and eminently kissable, hinting at passionate delights. She remembered how his mouth had felt against hers, and deep down she knew that she wanted to feel it again.

      He smiled in a knowing way, and in the next instant, his mouth met hers. It was just as it had been the night before: his lips were warm and velvety, searing her with heat and a strange, shivery delight. She could not conceal the long shudder of pleasure that ran through her, and he made a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat at her response. His arm went around her tightly, lifting her from her saddle onto his horse in front of him. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her into his chest, as his mouth continued to conquer hers. Nicola leaned against him quiescently, a trifle stunned by her own response.

      She had told herself that last night had been a fluke, that she had kissed him with a fervor that had been somehow born of that time and place and would never happen again. But she had been fooling herself, she knew now. This kiss touched her like fire, too, a strange fire that both consumed and fed her, that made her burn not only where his lips touched her but deep inside herself, as well. It was both wonderful and frightening, magical in its effect. Nicola felt a stranger to herself, yet she could not bring herself to want to return to the woman she knew.

      Her arms went up and encircled his neck, and his kiss deepened, all lightness and mockery vanished in the flaming heat of passion. His lips dug into hers, opening her mouth to him, and his hand came up to anchor itself in her hair, holding her captive to his marauding lips and tongue. But she had no desire to escape him, only to taste more and more of the delight his mouth offered. She pressed her lips against his, her tongue meeting his in a delicate, sensual dance. She felt the shudder of his response as he let out a long, yearning sigh, and it stoked the fires of her passion even more.

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