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lit room.
    â€œI didn’t think you’d come tonight, Rose. I thought you’d be down with the others in the kitchen, all seeing out the storm together.”
    I would be annoyed that he’d think that of me, except that the joy in his eyes at the fact that I did come is patent. He looks as if I’ve just given him a supremely magnificent gift, and that expression binds me to him far tighter than any length of rope ever could.
    Mad, mad thoughts gather in my mind. They’re thoughts that have been circling for the past two weeks, nipping at my resolutions and my every idea of what I’ve always wanted for my future.
    But they’re so crazy that I find it hard to acknowledgethem, and when thunder cracks again they disappear, along with almost all my normal ones.
    The marquess wraps me in his arms, softly cooing to me in low, comforting tones, and it’s only as I settle that it dawns on me that I just shouted out incoherently again.
    The embrace isn’t sexual, it’s protective. And yet I can still feel him hard against my belly. I hope he’ll make love to me tonight, seeing as it’s our last time. He doesn’t always. Sometimes he’s still hard when he escorts me to my little room, high in the old servants’ quarters, and I can only assume he deals with his own needs after, alone.
    His hold on me is too nice, too sweet and tempting. I struggle out of his grip and try to sink to the floor and kneel…to begin the game.
    But he holds on to me, his big, strong hands gripping my shoulders.
    â€œNot tonight, dear. You’re too frightened, aren’t you?”
    He gazes at me, his dark eyes full of complicated emotion. He does want to play. I can tell by his erection and the tension in his body that these games of ours seem to release just as much as actual sex does. But there’s more, so much more on his mind.
    Turbulent joy rushes through my veins. He’s going to miss me! My marquess is going to miss me!
    And it’s for more reasons than just the obvious one—because he likes to spank my bottom…
    Amazingly, for one so confident and masterful—both by birth and by inclination—he snags his lip like a nervous, unsure boy. And in this sudden, weighted moment, I sense another, far more real, chance of a lifetime.
    â€œWhere’s your bedroom, Christian?”
    His given name, on my lips for the first time, comes out so naturally. He looks perplexed for a moment. Not angry or confused, just amazed really. I can almost see him rapidly processing an array of new factors in our brief relationship. Then his sculpted, intelligent face lights with joy.
    â€œNot far,” he says, suddenly gruff as he grabs my hand and leads me swiftly out of the room. His long stride eats up the yards and I have to trot to keep up with him.
    As we round a corner onto another corridor, a particularly violent crack of thunder seems to shake the entire manor, and I yelp again and falter, despite my eagerness to follow wherever he leads. He spins around, his long, night-black hair whipping up as he turns, and in one smooth, effortless move, he sweeps me up in his arms, and then we continue on our way, me being carried and with my arms wound tight around his neck.
    The storm, his knight-errant act and his intoxicating and spicy male fragrance all make me dizzy. Everything feels unreal, yet more real than anything that has ever happened or will happen.
    As he kicks open a door, there is no job, no Caribbean, no life plan…just the marquess…no…just Christian and his bedroom and his bed.
    His room is big and dark and lit by just one rather anemic bedside lamp—rather gloomy. It’s nothing like what one would expect in a stately home, but then it’s not a public area, just actual living space. The bed isn’t even made, so I guess he does his own housework up here. My gaze skitters around and I notice there’s a black shirt flung across