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leave, but hesitated. He stalked toward her, grasping her about the throat with his right hand and thrusting her against the nearest tree.
    Celeste’s heart slammed against her chest. Her hero was going to murder her after all. It came as a bit of a shock, even though she knew it to be a possibility.
    "If you were not a woman, I would kill you for what you have done to my men." And then his lips were covering hers, punishing her as he pressed them painfully and purposefully against her teeth. She thrashed from side to side to catch her breath, but he held her.
    His enemy.
    But with a suddenness that took her breath away, the kiss altered. His lips softened, became supple, pliant. They moved over her leisurely, drinking in the contours of her mouth. She was shaking with pleasure, and she sensed his understanding, his concurrence that at that moment in time they were simply man and woman.
    He lifted his head and peered down at her, his eyes shielded by the darkness.
    " Au revoir , Lady Rivenhall," he whispered, still holding her by the throat. "May you burn in hell for what you have done to my countrymen."
    Her enemy once again.
    The Earl of Wessex stepped away and began walking in the opposite direction of the camp. Frustrated by the knowledge that he would never know it was she that had freed him, Celeste reached for her knife and hurled it at the tree to the left of his head. The sound of the knife embedding in the wood caused Wessex to stop and turn to look at her standing some thirty feet away.
    "Quite deadly," he said with a contemptuous sneer.
    Lady Rivenhall watched her hero turn and disappear into the dense underbrush of the forest, waiting until he was out of sight before she gloried in her victory. She grinned, feeling more relief and joy than she could have imagined. The Earl of Wessex would live, the embodiment of masculinity, integrity, courage, and honor…in short, an English gentleman.

Chapter Five
     
    London, England
    June 23, 1811
     
    Aidan Duhearst, Earl of Wessex, stood propping up the gilded walls of the gaming room at Lord Reynolds’s annual ball.
    Since his return from the peninsula, he had been recuperating at his estates in Wessex, and it had nearly killed him. If his physicians had their way, he would be there still, but Aiden could no longer sit on his backside, quiescent as the French swept through Europe.
    He looked about, tugging at his black evening jacket and thinking how much more comfortable he felt in his uniform. His sister had hounded him into attending the ball in the hopes of raising his spirits. But the grand events that had for so long been a central entertainment of his life now seem insignificant and hollow.
    He lifted his champagne flute to his lips, wishing it were filled with something stronger. Aidan sighed as he studied the crowded ballroom. Beautiful woman scurried passed him, adorned with a king’s ransom in jewels and silk. He smiled politely, knowing the ladies had no idea what was befalling their brothers and sons on the battlefields of Europe. Men were dying so that the privilege London elite could continue living the opulent lifestyle they now enjoyed.
    Aidan sneered at the fastidious dandies that were so careful to wear the latest fashions. He wondered how the pink-waist coated gentlemen to his left would react to blood seeping through their precious silks as a bullet lodged in their chest. But, of course, they would never know, as they made damn sure to pay other men to fight for their estates.
    Men Aiden watched die.
    Disgusted, he took another sip of champagne, contemplating how soon he would be able to leave without increasing his sister’s concern for him. All he wanted to do was drain himself between the thighs of the most readily available woman, and then return to his own bed.
    "Damnation," he swore under his breath when silver eyes locked on his.
    Aidan pushed away from the wall, his first instinct to make a dash for the door. However, he remained where he