And despite himself, he slipped an inch. A blissful inch, to judge by the low moan she gave.

"More," she said. And then: "Please. I beg you."

That was a vow. There are limits to what a man can put himself through when there's only one thought in his mind. So he pressed a kiss on her mouth that was his vow, silent but heartfelt, and then pulled her hips into just the angle he wanted.

And plunged.

She didn't moan this time; she screamed. Her fingers clenched, and he drove forward again, just that half centimeter until their bodies were as joined as possible… and after that, he didn't have the energy to think about vows or consciences or anything of the nature. He just concentrated on breathing, staying with her, plunging deeper and deeper, harder and harder, riding her as if the two of them were trying to reach some imaginary country of sweat and sobs and little cries.

And then—and then fire raced up his body and every muscle froze for a moment as if he'd died and gone to heaven. He managed to pull free just in time.

It must be because he hadn't made love to a lady in years. That must be it.

Because men didn't fall like a felled tree on the body of their female companion and find that their eyes were inexplicably damp, at the same time their lips were curling in a fool's grin.

Only a fool would think it was something sacred, making love in a hired room, with a widow who thought he was his own brother. But if the rightness of what just happened meant he was a fool…

She was lying in the crook of his arm (because he shifted his weight after a moment). He couldn't see her face, but he could hear her breathing, and then as he was holding her, her body shook with one final little tremor.

There hadn't been much to be proud of in the past few years. The only thing he'd done with passion was drink, and there were no prizes for that.

But the bone-deep satisfaction roared through his body. She was his, after this. He'd done it. He'd seduced Imogen Maitland, and now she was having an affair, and of course, he would tell her who he really was.

And then she'd marry him.

And then… he was grinning when a sweet, hot thought had come to him. Who was he to think that Imogen was definitely won by that encounter? He couldn't resist, so he brushed his mouth over her nose: just that delicate little nose, and yet it made him swallow hard.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and he was tired of trying to stay out of her line of vision, never mind the fact that the room had grown as dark as the bottom of a scullery bucket.

One moment Imogen was lying in a comfortable dazed state, and the next broad hands had lifted her and before she had a moment to see what was happening, she was facedown in the pillow and those hands—those hands—

Her body arched up, and a powerful body reared behind her. For a moment she tried to pull away; the situation felt oddly vulnerable, for all she couldn't see his face. But those hands held her hips, and he was holding her, forcing her to yield, pulling her up so that…

And then her body decided of its own accord. She cried out, aloud, and didn't even register that it was her own voice. She was frantic, pushing back against his every stroke, and the only sound in the room was his groan of pleasure and her own soft pants in her ears. He was bent over her now, braced on muscled arms that came down beside hers, as sturdy as if those long, heated movements of his body weren't happening at all.

But they were, they were, and Imogen was greedy for them, aching. And then suddenly he straightened his back, and his hands caught her in the hips, and he began to thrust harder, high and deep, pounding.

It wasn't until later that she even felt the pressure of his ten fingers on her hips. It wasn't until later that she remembered hearing his hoarse voice, telling her—nay, commanding her—to come, and even though she had no idea what he meant, her whole body had clenched around him and then turned to heat, a sobbing, pulsing kind of heat that was like nothing she could have imagined.

Nothing.

Chapter 30

It Doesn't Take Shakespeare for a Man to Make an Ass of Himself

Rafe woke the next morning, in his own bed, with a distinct sense of shame. It had been the most wonderful act of his life, and why on earth he'd let it pass without asking Imogen to marry him, he didn't know.

Except, as he stretched and started at the ceiling (the plaster really was starting to flake; he'd have to have that fixed before inviting a bride into his chambers), he knew why. He'd run scared. Coward that he was.

Imogen had been so laughingly dismissive after he kissed her in the field. What if—what if she'd said yes, I'll marry you. But she meant, Yes, I'll marry Gabe?

So then what if he'd said first, I am Rafe, and she'd been as indignant as she had every right to be?

He groaned. The fact of the matter was that he was a bad bargain. He was a half-pickled duke who was only just picking up the jumble of his affairs again. Thanks to God—and his old friend Felton, who had pretty much told his man in London what to do—the Holbrook estate seemed to have ballooned in the past few years. He could afford a wife. Hell, he was a duke. He could afford fifteen wives.

But he had never been any good at fooling himself. It all sounded good: a sober duke with a great deal of money and land to spare.

Peter had been true nobility, and if he'd lived, Imogen would likely… Except he, Rafe, would never have let Peter even take a look at Imogen. He'd have had to slay his own brother.

He got out of bed, buck naked, and walked to the window. The memory of the previous night was in every satisfied inch of his body. She had to acknowledge that.

A rich duke might sound good in a fairy tale, but he knew that Imogen saw him for precisely what he was: a man who no longer drank and never would be able to again. A man who had neglected his estate for years. A man who had no real passions in the world other than riding horses, watching yellow cow parsley bloom, and making love to his wife.

And the last was only true if somehow he managed to make Imogen into his wife.

Perhaps his own desire would be enough to persuade her. After all, by her own account that ass Maitland hadn't really wanted her, Gabe didn't, and, thank God, Mayne hadn't either, because Mayne was not a man a woman ever forgot. There was no one in Imogen's memory but himself.

He leaned against the window, looking again at the sweep of cobblestones and knowing that in truth, he only had one significant thing of value to offer her: last night. But even thinking of it made his breathing hitch. His breath fogged the panes, and he turned away.

Rafe tried not to look at Imogen during breakfast. She was involved in a long conversation with Miss Pythian-Adams about a scene that they had rehearsed the previous afternoon. She didn't glance at him; of course he noticed that. She looked briefly at Gabe, but apparently she had taken the scolding of the previous afternoon to heart. No one could have told from her glance that she thought she'd passed a delightful evening with him.

So Rafe ate eggs, and corners of toast, and whatever else Brinkley put before him, and tried to discipline himself. He would not stare at his ward like a lovesick calf.

Miss Pythian-Adams was planning a full-length rehearsal for the afternoon. "Miss Hawes arrived yesterday," she explained.

"Where is she?" Rafe asked, waking belatedly to the conversation.

Miss Pythian-Adams glanced at Gabe for a moment and then looked toward Rafe. "She will join us for the rehearsal. Apparently she finds Mrs. Redfern congenial company. She has chosen to stay belowstairs."