(December 1997, Zebra ISBN 0-8217-5812-8)

Winner: 1998 RITA AWARD Best Regency

Nominated: Romantic Times Best Regency Romance

"Intriguing and witty . . . a cloak and dagger of the highest quality. Be sure to read LOVE'S REWARD. One for the keeper shelf."The Literary Times

She turned away and walked to the window. Pushing hard at the catch, she opened it and looked down into the courtyard below. "By someone like you? No, I haven't. But I think it might be quite an interesting experience. You're a rake, aren't you? I imagine you've had lots of practice." Her voice changed suddenly as she put both hands on the sill. "Good Lord! How outrageous! That team is ready to drop!"

Quentin was looking just a little disconcerted. "What?"

"A man just arrived in a high-perch phaeton, of all things! Beneath a liberal spattering of mire, one can see that the wheels are picked out in yellow and black in the very latest mode. There is an exactly correct amount of seriously shiny brass. It is a most expensive rig to risk among the flyers and wagons, yet it would seem that he has driven that showy town carriage at breakneck speed along the turnpike. His cattle are quite soaked with foam." Joanna leaned further from the window. "You might have more care for those poor horses, sir!" she yelled. "Do you think to call yourself a gentleman?"

Fitzroy leapt down from the phaeton, handed the reins to an ostler, and looked up. Some termagant was shouting at him from an upstairs window. He had driven hard and fast in pursuit of his father's curricle. It had been absurdly easy to trace. After leaving Miss Able's Academy, Quentin had obviously made no effort to cover his tracks, and had attracted notice at each toll gate and posting house by the speed with which he was traveling and his liberal dispensing of vails. By the time the sun was coming up over Bedfordshire, Fitzroy knew he would catch up with the fugitives long before they reached Scotland. But he was also painfully aware that Lady Joanna Acton had just spent an entire night in his profligate brother's company. He was not at all sure what he was going to do about it when he caught up with them.

Nevertheless, his last change of horses had put him not more than a few hours behind them. He would make inquiries here at the Swan, get a quick bite to eat and fresh horses, before pressing on once again. The sound of a young female voice dropping invective on his tired head was the cap to an already exhausting journey.

"Do you think to call yourself a gentleman?"

She was leaning from a window, the thin morning sun shining on impossibly rich black hair piled on top of her head in a mass of curls. Above perfectly molded cheekbones, her eyes were impenetrable. Deeply black, they seemed to be all pupil under glossy black brows which arched provocatively up at the center. Her color was high, bringing a deep flush to her cheeks. For one absurd moment, he thought of the fairy tale: hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, lips red as blood: Snow White, who lay in a glass coffin and waited for a prince to awaken her with a kiss. Their eyes met for one burning instant before she blushed and looked down. A moment later a brown-haired gentleman appeared at her shoulder. The man looked at Fitzroy, then he laughed aloud. With a wink he pulled the girl away from the window, only to take her exquisitely delicate chin in his hand. He searched her lovely face for a moment while she stared back up at him. Then he began to kiss her far too thoroughly on those blood-red lips.

Fitzroy's driving whip bent almost double in his hands. Quentin, for God's sake!

* * * * *

Joanna turned to see the gentleman of the high-perch phaeton standing in the doorway. He was tall and lean, with wide shoulders and strong, graceful limbs enhanced by a very expensive, fashionable caped greatcoat. For some reason he was wearing an evening shirt and cravat with buckskin breeches and boots. His hair was as dark as her own, wildly curling over a brow contracted into a black scowl, his clear, smooth tan flushed a little with color across the high cheekbones. More than handsome, he had the look of a vampire, of demons flying out of the night: magnetic, enchanting, and out for blood. He leaned back against the door jamb and crossed his arms over his chest as if to contain that surging power. Oh, dear God, those dark eyes would pierce her to the heart!

"How very charming," he said with a derisive curl to his lip. "True love in a tavern. How do you do, Lady Joanna? Do you think that this gentleman will offer you the protection of his name as well as his heart and his passionate embraces? Or are you content to become his harlot and tend to your flock of bastards with a glad heart and a forgiving nature? For that is all you will get. And while you are waiting for him so faithfully in your nice little parlor, the innocent children clamoring at your knee, he will be fathering other little by-blows on other mistresses, with just as much enthusiasm as he brought to your bed. I hope you enjoyed it."

Joanna felt the hot, dreadful wave of anger and embarrassment start somewhere near her knees and flood uncomfortably up through her body until it set fire to her face. She wanted to cry, but only from anger. How dare he!

"Ah, Fitzroy," said Quentin, still holding her against him. "The officious older brother, always on my track. Good morning, my lord. Allow me to present Lady Joanna Acton. Lady Joanna, my brother, Lord Tarrant, an honorary viscount. Of course, you know that, don't you? Your brother Richard holds the same courtesy rank, the mark of an earl's heir, and just enough in Fitzroy's case to make him think that he can be bloody imperious and insulting whenever he likes."

"It would be easier, Quentin," said Fitzroy with the same deadly mockery, "if you were to release Lady Joanna from your lecherous grip. Then I could knock you down and murder you without compunction. I left my weapons with mine host, but I'd be happy to strangle you with your own neckcloth: neater and less sanguine than lead or steel. After all, we are in the presence of a lady, whether or not she is inclined to act like one. She might not mind bearing you a brood of bastards, but she would probably faint at the sight of your blood."

"You are unarmed, brother? How damned noble and impertinent of you!" Quentin smiled at Joanna. There was no humor at all in his expression. "Shall I kill him for you?" he said, and laughed.