Julien St. Clair, earl of March, flicked a careless finger over her white belly, lay back on the large canopied bed, and gazed beneath half-closed lids at the dancing patterns cast by the firelight on the opposite wall. He felt a sort of lazy satisfaction that, for the moment, relieved his boredom.

"I have pleased you, my lord?" She twined her fingers in his fair hair, her own body languid from the pleasure he had given her.

"Of course, Yvette," he said, annoyed that she disturbed the silence he wanted.

There was a flash of anger in her doe-brown eyes. She knew full well she had pleased him but a short time before, and it galled her now to see him again remote and withdrawn. But from her long experience with noblemen, she realized that reproaches would gain her nothing. She let her face soften into an inviting expression and lowered herself onto his chest, pressing her breasts against him. She slid her arms around his neck and gently tugged until he turned his face to hers. She smiled knowingly as he brought his arms lazily from behind his head downward through her chestnut hair and began to explore her back and knead her hips.

To Yvette's surprise, she soon felt a quiver run the length of her body, and she sighed, a low moan of pleasure.

In a graceful motion Julien rolled over on top of her. He took her mouth. He would give her what she wanted. His hands stroked her body, teasing, caressing, feeling the soft flesh of her buttocks.

He watched her eyes widen when his fingers found her. Her lashes fluttered and her mouth worked, making her look very real, very human. A dull flush began to creep over her cheeks, and her body trembled. She urgently willed him to enter her, and he drew up so she could guide him into her.

Though his body responded with rhythmic motion, Julien felt strangely detached from the very soft, giving woman beneath him, unable to let himself feel the passionate intensity of her need. Yet he felt his breathing quicken as she reached her final tensing. He drove deep, heard her cries of release, and let his body respond.

He allowed himself to be locked to her for one long moment before falling full length on top of her, his head beside her face on the pillow.

Yvette calmed, becoming relaxed and still beneath him. She was certain this time she had pleased him. Her own pleasure she discounted. She waited for him to utter some slight words of endearment, but he lay quiet above her, his breath becoming even.

Her body began to protest against his weight, but she didn't move, for fear of disturbing him.

"Yvette, what is the time?" he asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"It lacks but a few moments until ten, my lord," she said with definite edge to her voice.

"Be damned." He rolled away from her. Yvette watched him rise from the bed and briefly stretch his tall, muscular body. As always, she was unable to look at him without admiring him. For months she had called him her golden god. But now, she thought bitterly, he was a fickle god, leaving her with scarce a backward thought.

Her frustration grew as she racked her mind for a charmingly turned phrase to catch his attention. Finding herself unequal to the task, she sighed and raised herself up onto the pillow, pulling a cover over her body.

He drew on his white ruffled shirt and turned to look at her. "I must leave, Yvette. I am promised to meet Blairstock at White's and am already late."

"When am I to see you again, my lord?" she asked with controlled sweetness, half-rising to go to him.

He halted her progress with an impatient wave of his hand and replied with only casual interest, "That is difficult to say. I'm meeting friends in the country for hunting and shall be absent from London for some time."

She sucked in her breath, now wary. He had not told her of his imminent departure from London.

He shrugged himself, not without some difficulty, into a coat of superfine blue cloth that was molded exquisitely to his broad shoulders, and strode over to her.

"I trust you will find sufficient to amuse you during my absence," he said, and she could hear the warning in his voice. "I only ask that you not be too indiscreet while you are still in my keeping." A faintly sardonic look passed over his handsome face, making his gray eyes cold and hard.

"I don't know what you mean." Her face drained of color even as she spoke.

"Oh, don't you, Yvette? How very strange. I had thought you would know exactly what I meant. In any case," he continued with careless emphasis, "we shall discuss the matter upon my return."

He picked up his cane and pulled his many-caped cloak around his shoulders and walked to the door. As he let himself out, he said over his shoulder, "Don't, whatever you do, underestimate your value, my dear. You're as fine a possession as any man could wish."

He closed the door quietly behind him and was gone. Yvette could hear his retreating footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time.

"Damn you," she shouted at the closed bedchamber door, wishing for something to hurl. "All those fine lords, damn them, arrogant crowing peacocks."

As her anger lessened, a frown creased her white brow and she pursed her lips, now annoyed at herself for her own carelessness. She should have guessed that her capitulation to Lord Riverton would send his boasting, vain lordship to proclaim his triumph. It was a mistake she should not have made, a stupid, ill-timed blunder that had lost her, she was forced to admit, a very generous protector.

She pushed back the covers and rose slowly, her body aching from her exertions. She sat at her dressing table and began to brush out her tangled chestnut hair. She paused a moment to examine the undeniably alluring face and felt cheered. Lord Riverton was a rich man and appeared to enjoy her lisping English and her views of life in England, as well as the voluptuous attractions her body offered.

She sighed, momentarily cast down. She was fond of Julien, and he was after all an earl. And dreadfully rich. She found herself gazing wistfully at her elegantly furnished room. She would miss this charming apartment and also, she reflected, a man very nicely skilled in the art of lovemaking -- and only a few of those skills had she taught him. No, when she'd first come to him, he was already a man of pleasure, a man who wasn't selfish in the giving of pleasure, despite the fact that she was his mistress. He could still surprise her by his ability to make her forget herself, make her forget all her own wiles for giving him pleasure.

She rose from her dressing table, blew out the candles, and took herself back to bed. As pragmatic as she was passionate, she realized that it was just as well that Julien was leaving for the country. It would give her time to assess Lord Riverton's intentions.

It did not take her long to devise a plan which pleased her, and she fell asleep confident that she could part the pinch-penny Lord Riverton from some of his precious guineas.