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Ann and Sophie. As an adolescent, she had felt the pangs of a deep infatuation turn to horrifying mortification when she impetuously kissed him on the terrace one night. She hadn't really meant to do it, but he had been teaching them how to waltz, and she had been so moved by the magic of it that she had felt compelled to kiss him, bouncing up on her toes and bussing him on the lips. He had all but banished her from Kettering Hall then, but it hadn't stopped her desire. As she grew older, she hung on every rumor and story surrounding the Rogues of Regent Street. Of all of them, the Earl of Kettering was the one with the reputation of being the suave lady-killer, and Lord, what she would have given to be slain by him!
    But he never showed her any interest. Worse, he crushed her hopes when she was seventeen. At a ball given in honor of Eugenie's wedding, Julian had smiled at her, told her she looked beautiful, then stood up with her for the first waltz. With effortless grace, he twirled her about the dance floor, all the while smiling down at her and arresting her heart with those black eyes. He spoke of how she had grown, how lovely she appeared in her gown, how very well she danced. If he hadn't been holding her so close, she would have swooned right onto the ballroom floor. And when it ended, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her gloved knuckles. "Will you save me another dance?" he had asked. Too dazzled to speak, she had nodded dumbly, then waited all night for him to approach her again.
    He never did.
    He never so much as glanced in her direction again. And when Claudia saw him slip out a side door into the gardens with Miss Roberta Dalhart on his arm, she had been crushed.
    That's right, he had crushed her foolish heart, and she wasn't about to idle away the hours with him. Claudia suddenly came to her feet. "Au revoir, Lord Kettering, I believe I shall wait alone," she said coolly, and started to turn.
    He caught her wrist in something of a vise-like grip. "Claudia. Sit," he said low. "I may not be the perfect companion, but I'd wager I'm quite a bit more desirable than some drunken Frenchman you cannot understand."
    The arrogance! She had labeled him a Rake with a capital R seven years ago and could hardly abide the thought of being in the same room with such a terribly arrogant Rogue, especially one so full of esteem for himself.
    She sat.
    It seemed to her that his fingers lingered on her wrist a moment longer. But then he abruptly let go and smiled. "My, my," he said as he settled back to observe her. "The last time I was successful at making you heed my word, you were twelve years old—and it was a rather shallow victory at that."
    "What are you talking about?" she asked warily.
    "My horse."
    The heat immediately crept into her cheeks. "Oh honestly. My father allowed me to ride any mount I preferred. I naturally assumed you would, too," she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
    "Your father allowed you on the back of stallions accustomed to the weight and crop of a man?" he asked incredulously.
    Claudia shrugged slightly and looked at her tankard. Not precisely.
    "And though I would like to think you never attempted to ride Apollyon again because of my sound advice, I rather think it was the tumble onto your bum that did the trick."
    She couldn't keep the thin smile from her lips. "You may be correct, sir," she conceded. "But as I recall, your so-called advice was just as painful."
    Kettering laughed. "You were quite an extraordinary lass, Claudia."
    Please. She had been a plain little girl with knobby knees and a mouth that was too big for her face.
    "And you are an extraordinary woman," he added.
    That caused her to choke on her ale. He might as well have called her a traitor, a whore—it was just as shocking. Conscious that he was watching her, she lifted the tankard and took a long, generous swig of the bitter stuff as her mind reeled. He had never thought her extraordinary when she was a child,