"You are such a bad influence on me," she whispered. "Give me my necklace, you rogue." Stifling a giggle, she reached into his coat pocket, but he captured her hand, whirling her around gently so that she found herself backed up against the closed door. She narrowed her eyes at him, fighting a smile. "What are you up to?"

Lean and tall, his body packed with compact muscle beneath his formal black evening clothes, he braced one hand on the door by her head and leaned toward her, dangling the necklace before her eyes. "Want it? Come and get it."

She tried to snatch it out of his grasp, but he lifted it higher with a taunting smile.

"Billy!"

"Don't you want this fine bit o'sparkle?" He bent his head closer, the moonlight behind the window casting a silvery glow along his finely chiseled profile and narrow plane of his cheek. "Give me a kiss and it's yours."

"It already is mine."

"No, no, my lady, you gave it to me." His emerald eyes gleamed as he slung the diamond strand around his fingers and swung it before her face, mesmerizing her. "But if you kiss me, I will give it back to you again."

"But Lord Rackford, we have agreed that we are only friends."

"A friendly kiss," he whispered, moving closer, tilting his head slightly.

She felt herself weakening under the potency of his charm. "Perhaps... one."

His lips skimmed hers, back and forth, in a slow, tantalizing caress that made her quiver. She was grateful for the solid door behind her, steadying her weak-kneed response...

LADY OF DESIRE

GAELEN FOLEY


CHAPTER ONE

London, 1816


The hackney coach rumbled under the arched stone passage and rolled to a halt in the torchlit innyard, but even before the driver could throw the brake, let alone descend to assist his solitary passenger, the door swung open and she jumped out-a tempestuous, tousle-headed eighteen-year-old with the fire of rebellion in her dark eyes.

Sans maid, sans chaperon, Lady Jacinda Knight thrust the carriage door shut behind her with a satisfying slam. She turned, shrugged her leather satchel higher onto her shoulder, and passed a simmering glance over the galleried coaching inn with its double tier of white-painted balustrades as a pair of postboys dashed out to assist her.

"My luggage, please," she ordered, heedless of them gawking at her slender figure wrapped in a ruby velvet redingote with rich sable fur at collar and cuffs. She paid the coachman, then marched across the cobbled yard, her guinea-gold corkscrew curls bouncing with her every determined stride.

At the threshold of the busy inn, she paused, warily scanning the motley assortment of bickering, rumpled travelers. A child squalled on his mother's hip; plain, rustic-looking folk dozed on chairs and benches waiting for their stagecoaches to depart. A drunkard was making a nuisance of himself in one corner, while a beggar boy had crept in to escape the damp chill and huddled near the crackling hearth.

Lifting her chin a trifle self-consciously, she proceeded into the long room among what her countless wellborn beaux would have called "the Great Unwashed." She felt their stares following her, some rude, some merely curious. She noticed a man squinting at her feet as she passed and realized that beneath the long hem of her coat, her gold satin dancing slippers were visible.

She gave him a scowl that suggested he mind his own business and yanked the fur-trimmed hem over her toes. Doing her best to keep her feet tucked out of sight, she strode to the high wooden counter, where the booking agent sat ignoring the lobby's chaos, safely hidden behind a crinkled copy of the LondonTimes . Above him hung a chalkboard scrawled with a timetable of arrivals and departures, fares and destinations.

Jacinda tugged briskly at her gloves and hoped she looked like she knew what she was doing. "Yes, excuse me, I require passage to Dover."

"Stage leaves at two," he grunted without lowering his paper.

Her eyes widened at such rude, poor service. "You misapprehend me, sir. I wish to hire a post chaise."

This got his attention, for only the wealthy could afford to hire the yellow-painted private carriages. He peered over his paper, then heaved up out of his chair and slouched over to attend her just as the two postboys came laboring in under her hastily packed traveling trunks. The booking agent plucked his quill pen out of the inkpot and wiped his nose with ink-stained fingers. "Destination?"