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stopped—a little more than a sword’s thrust away—and he grinned. “Who is the friend you came to find, sweetheart?”

    He was Marcus’s good friend—he had seen her perhaps a half dozen times. She was so close she feared he would know who she was. That he could see behind her simple white mask and guess the truth of her soul. That she was Maryanne Hamilton, ordinary virgin, here in Hades to find a courtesan.

    “Georgiana,” she admitted softly.

    His black brow lifted. “Do you belong to her, sweeting?”

    Mystified, she asked, “How do you mean that, my lord?”

    “Do you know who I am?”

    “A viscount. And you expect me to answer your questions, but you will not answer mine.” She smiled and dipped her head. Heavens, had she just said that? “You are Lord Swansborough.” Surely that was safe enough to admit. He would think her a jade who knew him from brothels and Cyprian balls.

    She still wasn’t certain what role she should play. Should she pretend to be experienced? Should she admit she was an innocent in trouble?

    “I hardly expected to find you in here alone in the dark, my lord.”

    “But I often drink alone, sweet. There’s no pleasure in drinking alone in the middle of a crowd.”

    He was foxed. Absolutely. “But why—?”

    “I encountered a man. He spoke of a tragic incident that happened a long time ago. It is something I like to forget. And I needed a way to help me do that.” His lordship lowered the decanter, let it drop the last inches to the table, where it rattled. “You are lovely, Verity. But then, the truth is always beautiful. Dangerous but beautiful.”

    “I’m hardly dangerous, my lord.”

    He reached out his hand—bare of gloves. A perfect, long-fingered gentleman’s hand. She had never touched the naked hand of a gentleman. He meant to kiss her fingers. Uncertain, she moved forward, for good breeding dictated it, and let him sweep her hand to his lips.

    Lovely lips. Firm and delectable and brushing her gloved knuckles. The champagne inside her bubbled up once more at his hot, seductive touch, at the caress of his full lower lip over satin.

    He drew her closer, his hand casually holding her fingers. She took one look into his dark eyes, at the sculpted curve of cheekbones, the autocratic nose, and lost her breath.

    Shadowed by dark stubble gracing his jaw, a dimple teased. She looked closer. Beneath his thick, black lashes, his eyes focused in two different directions.

    “In you, sweeting, would I find truth?”

    In her?

    Before she could even gasp, his mouth slanted down over hers, and his broad back blotted out the light. She fell into black shadow and reached out to him. She should not allow this, but she was here, and he expected it and—

    No. She was Verity. Truth. She wanted to kiss him.

    His lips pressed to hers, his tongue parted her lips and slid inside her mouth. She tasted him— delicious was too mild a word!

    She tasted brandy, too much brandy, and the warm flavor of him that was so erotically male. His hand cupped her breast. He must know her nipples were indecently erect.

    His large body surrounded her, his scent—brandy and shaving soap and witch hazel and the earthy hint of his sweat—washed over her, yet all she wanted was to kiss him deeper. Beneath her fingertips, his shoulders were solid lines of muscle and bone. Daringly, she trailed her fingers toward his neck. She left the almost propriety of his shirt and touched his bare flesh.

    And moaned wantonly into his mouth.

    His tongue teased hers, and he toyed with her, letting his tongue thrust lazily in a promise that made her heart hammer and her quim turn to liquid honey.

    She went rigid, suddenly uncertain.

    He eased back from the kiss, bending forward to bestow kisses to her nose, her right cheek, her chin. “Do you want to give me what I want?”

    Oh, yes, he was drunk. She tried to make sense of his words. “W—what is it you want?”

    He stepped back and yanked