She could not believe she'd let them talk her into it.

      Shay O'Sullivan kept muttering this mentally, as the crowded coach rocked and jostled on its way to the Lakeland manor and the Christmas ball. She was not of the fast set, not actually friends with the group who had somehow dragged her out of the Clairmont's sedate, boring, holiday musical. Yet she found herself in the wave that headed for the coaches—and here she sat, across from one of London's most wickedly handsome, terribly intimidating, and sought after rakehells.

      Fortunately, for her, someone, Lady Janna, she thought, had given her a mask so the feathered thing hid some part of her mortified face. It did not help that there were too many people squished in the coach, and that the aforementioned rake had long, muscular legs that were wedged, or weaved rather, between her own.

      Her too-bloody-thin gown, worn for an indoor musical, not for a dash through a snowy night to a ball, did nothing to prevent the rasp of his polished boots or the warmth of his knee rubbing her own. Really! What could be more discomforting?

      Actually, there was something more mortifying, but she had spent the last few seasons' trying to forget that. Now it was in her face, so to speak. Lord Gerard Quinlan Noel Derrington, Earl of Blackbourne, had been at the center of her youthful indiscretion; the sort of horrendous thing an impoverished Viscount's daughter could not afford to let leak out.

      Never mind that it was so far in the past, and her father was dead and her circumstances more dire, so that she barely had enough to keep any sort of pretence in society. The truth was that at twenty-five, her prospects for a good marriage were gone, the country estate had been sold to pay the London rent on a less than fashionable townhouse, and all she had was her reputation and a few kind hostesses who included her in their season's invites.

      Oh, the devil, Shay groaned. Ever since she had lost her head and her virtue on that daring and reckless Christmas night, her luck had gone from bad to worse, and without her virginity, even if she had been asked for her hand, she would have refused.

      This was too much. Really it was. Blackbourne was visible in London. Of course; his exploits kept the whispers going and the gossip rags filled with juicy scandal. However, he was wealthy, lofty, handsome, and quite busy raking and slumming, so that it was not as if a lesser in the rungs of the social ladder would cross his path. She had avoided it deliberately, quite nicely. But now the gods were laughing and no doubt rolling with glee, for she had at least an hour's ride yet, a night of entertainment to get through—and had the awful sinking feeling, it was his coach and he'd eventually have to see her home.

      Amid the chatter, off key singing, rather drunken revelry of the other passengers, she peeked through the mask though not at his face, able to see only the ruffled white shirt, black coat over broad shoulders, and the silken edges of his long raven hair. She did not need to look up to know he had a hawkish, dark visage, sensual white smile and velvet lips. His thick lashes and deep smoky eyes were ingrained in her mind, seared there like a brand. He was tall, muscular, six four at the most, large enough to make a woman of her uncommon height at five foot six feel incredibly small.

      She was known to her friends for her wit and common sense, for a mature bravado, which had carried her through the depressing circumstances of her life. Certainly one that got her through that after Christmas morning, when she'd realized what she had done, and whom she had done it with.

      It had been her birthday, yes, born on Christmas, and she had turned twenty with a sort of reckless hysteric sadness, realizing that all her youthful dreams were behind her. Her father had told her the bare facts and held nothing back. There was little to provide for her then, and would be less when he passed on.

      That night, out in the deep snow and to the grand ball at the duchess's house, she'd gone without invite, never expecting to ever go to London—or—have a season, hearing only the worst of her father's frank talk, and she’d decided to have her fairy tale, even if she had to make herself.

      She had made it all right.

      Shay looked out the window then decided to let it down, because the bodies and the heat made the coach unbearable. Between the perfume and cologne and the scent of brandy someone was nipping, her head was swimming enough without the memories.

      Tiny flakes of snow flew inward; feeling pleasant on her hot cheeks. The crisp air cleared her mind somewhat. Leaning her head back, trying to ignore the gent mashing her left side and his somewhat annoying laugh, she finally looked at Blackbourne and wished like bloody hell she had not.

      He was postured with his arm along the back of the seat, two males and a female crushed in beside him. For all of that, his large frame filled enough space and with his shoulders being wider and his body taller, it was if the others did not exist. He was not masked, and his ebony hair was tucked behind his ears, exposing the strong bones and sinew of a face, that had become more wicked looking at thirty-eight. Due to his legs wedged between hers, or the fact that he was seated so comfortably, he appeared to be less jostled by the fast moving coach, and was, quite frankly, looking right at her.

      Those eyes, shimmering in the shadows like sooty mists of smoke, his arrow-like nose flared, and the sensual set of his lips, was enough to let her know the mask did not do her a bit of good.

      The man who supposedly bedded thousands had too good of a memory, and she knew, that he knew, exactly who she was.

      Shay looked away from him, feeling the tension in her shoulders and neck, added to the stuffy heat and noise of the coach. She wished she had buttoned her long cape. It at least would have covered her torso, but no, she had never got the blasted thing on, only laid it in the seat, before being pushed over to the end before the others piled in.

      Her gown was ivory silk with a green sheer overlay on the skirt, a fluttery useless scarf of a skirt, that did nothing to protect the under slip from sliding against her stockings. It was no barrier to the heat and muscle of his masculine limbs, because he wore those damned snug pantaloons.

      Though the air felt good on her face and arms, the gown, having a low round neckline, quarter sleeves that were met by her emerald gloves it also chilled her nipples. Nevertheless, given the choice of the heat and tension and noise, making her throw up on his boots, she'd suffer a bit of embarrassment that they were likely visible via moon-light to the man across from her.

      The group started singing, doing a song of rounds that half of them made up for pure amusement. She felt the coach lean into a curb, and clutched the strap, but shot her gaze to Blackbourne, as he seemed to take advantage and slid his knee a bit deeper between her thighs.

      Her eyes widened before narrowing on him in warning. However, his expression was maddeningly benign—all except for his eyes, which were sensually teasing. She looked away, but occasionally watched him out the corner of the mask. She saw when he lowered his own window, to lean further over and light a cheroot. His hand cupped it, allowing the smoke to flow out the window away from the interior, but he'd slid up as much as possible, and turning somewhat away from the others.

      His shifting of position made her have to adjust too. There was some head bumping and laughing as the others seemed to switch around, so the men could have the windows and smoke. Her limbs were now completely trapped by his and since everyone seemed to be looking the other way, focused on the amusing and witty Lord Ashley, who was telling naughty St. Nick stories, she could only be thankful when no one saw his next move.

      A wiry lad, half hanging from the coachman's seat, held to his top hat, as his upside down face appeared at the window. “Fritz be stopping ahead, your lordship, for the ladies to refresh.”

      “Very good, Peter,” Blackbourne's voice sounded as close and deep as it was.

      She was aware the discreet stop was to refresh everyone after the punch and brandy drinking, and because the journey was long. Nevertheless, as he shifted to tell the others, Blackbourne's free, ungloved hand, absent the cheroot, slid down and landed on her thigh. He did it so casually, moving it as soon as he had straightened that when she met his gaze again, and felt like he was telling her something she would rather not know.

      Until the coach stopped at the Horse and Hound, she sat like stone. In addition, when it did stop, the others piled out the other side, while the lad jumped to open his lordship's door. She was of course, urged to go before him, and her legs were none too steady, even without the snow and slick soles, that made her reach out for the coach to make her way around.

      An attempt had been made to shovel the white stuff, but mud was freezing in the wind bringing more flakes. She felt her cape land on her shoulders. Looking up to find Blackbourne right there, looking down at her.

      The others were laughing, sliding and holding to each other, while the Inn-keep held the doors, calling out cheerfully, having ale brought to the driver.

      “Hullo, Shay.”

      That voice went down her body like slow drop of hot honey.

      “My lord.”

      His brow arched and his lips curved. “Gerard surely? I think we passed formality at some point.”

      “The impulses of youth,” she muttered, but had to take his strong arm to get to the doorway, noting he did not put on a heavy coat but wore a thigh length black one.

      As soon as she could stand steady enough, she dropped it and went inside, following the other females to the back hallway, where they discreetly go through a back door, and to a privy. It was not effortless. They clung to each other, laughing, holding skirts capes, and doing the thing with as much dignity as possible.

      Back inside, they gathered by the fire, the men having ordered warm drinks, forming a semi circle and getting toasty, while the horses and driver were resting a bit.

      At the corner of the fire, a bit out of the circle, she smoothed her wavy hair, a dark mink hue, not at all as fashionable as the bevy of blondes in their group. It was half pulled back in a faux emerald net, but the damp air had stirred it past the neatness she had fashioned for the musical. Taking a sip of her warm ale, she felt rather than saw Blackbourne move close behind her. He'd come from the corner where his driver and young groom sat.

      Under the talk of the others, he leaned slightly down and murmured, “I'm surprised to see you with Ashley's crowd.”

      “So am I. I barely know them. Seems I got swept up in a crush and ended up going where I did not intend to.”

      “Um… I have scarcely seen you twice in five years.”

      “We travel in different circles,” she said dryly, smelling a hint of warm spice on him. “And even if we did not, I doubt either of us has reason to keep track of each other.”

      She felt his fingers, just the tips of them brush across her nape. “You wound me; I rather thought we shared something—unique.”

      She snorted. “Given your rep, Blackbourne, I doubt that. Isn't the point of gaining the title rake, just to flaunt how very jaded you are?”

      He stepped up, so that he was half touching her shoulder with his arm. “I don't recall that we introduced ourselves. In fact, I am sure you did not, because it took me a bloody year to find out who you were. Seeing as how you were not on the guest list. You did not come to London. When you did come, you are right; you were not seen amid my circle. But I'll wager, you knew exactly who I was.”

      She shook her head. “No actually. I did not know. Until…afterwards.”

      He was regarding her so intently, that she had to look up. When their eyes met, he murmured, “You didn't know?” he repeated, as if surprised by that.

      “No. When I left the ball at dawn, I saw you getting into your coach, the crest of course and your driver called your name.”

      His brows seemed to rise slowly and there was a puzzled look to his face before he glanced away. “I'll be damned.”

      She was the one staring at him now. “Am I missing something? Is there some reason that is relevant? Or rather was, five years ago?”

      “Yes. Yes it was…” He this time stared at her differently.

      She laughed softly. “You're making me awfully uncomfortable, deliberately, I think.”

      That white, devastating smile bloomed, slow and sensual. “I thought you were out to trap me. I Kept waiting for a blackmail note, the irate father to break down my door.”

      “I wasn't obviously. My father is dead by the way.”

      “No. No you weren't.” He was still observing her, puzzled, when they were ready to pile in the coach again. He said nothing, until just before he handed her inside. "It's happened enough, you know. Every sort of trick and trap.”

      “No doubt.” She glanced at him before ducking in.

      The journey started once more, with the others talking still and in the same high spirits. Shay was back with her legs trapped by his, and back to avoiding his gaze. Although she took off the mask, seeing little point in pretending it helped. He stared at her through most of the trip, yet she had a feeling his mind was running in different directions this time, yet unable to fathom what was in it.