(In this scene, James Hartley has run into Ellie one evening at a roadside inn. He is chasing after the notorious 'count de Bonneville' —a confidence trickster, believed to have stolen the priceless Hartley diamonds. When he finds Ellie in the 'count's bed, he assumes she's the villain's mistress. Immediately he decides to rescue her. From herself.)

It was a very good thing she clutched that coverlet around her waist, for she was evidently not wearing anything but the shirt. Not another stitch. Naked as the day she was born under that bit of lace and silk.

James cleared his throat. Back to business. "Get your clothes on, Vyne. I'm taking you with me. Someone should save you from your own stupidity."

"Don't fool yourself, Hartley. I do not need rescuing."

"Have it your way then, shameless hussy."

"Thank you. I shall. Pompous, hypocritical twit."

Half–turned away, he regained a breath and then looked back at her. "You are, quite possibly, the most irritating, truculent creature I've ever known. In the fifteen years of our acquaintance, you haven't changed."

"Seventeen," she corrected. "And your existence is equally trying on my nerves."

"You're an ill–mannered, brazen—"

"And you're a vain, mean–tempered—"

"Lying, scheming—"

"Arrogant wretch."

The lacy shirt slipped down over one shoulder, leaving her flesh bared.

"Put your clothes on," he muttered, gloved fingers tightening around his quirt. "You're coming with me."

"I most certainly am not."

"Indeed you are. Before I take my whip to your behind." He moved around the bed and eyed her warily, amused to see the supposedly fearless Ellie Vyne back up against the wall and hold that coverlet like a shield around her body.

"Touch me," she warned, "and I'll scream."

He tried to relax his jaw and save the wear on his teeth. She stood very straight on the bed, like a woman defending herself in the dock—as he was certain she would one day. He was only surprised it hadn't happened yet.

"Aren't you supposed to be chasing after the count to get your diamonds back? He must be miles away by now, and here you are quarrelling with me, Hartley."

James tapped his quirt lightly against the palm of his left hand. Why was he still there? Had that lacy sleeve just fallen another half inch from her shoulder? Good Lord, he could see the swell of her breast now above the ruffles. And her darker nipple through that fine silk. His throat went dry; a harsh breath stalled there as he felt the instantaneous quickening of his manhood.

Don't look. Not at that.

She was an annoying little chit who did nothing but make mischief at every turn and constantly mocked him as a fool. Mariella Vyne was out of control. Tempting as it might be to consider reining her in, he'd long since decided some other man could have that strife. They were welcome to it.

Look at anything else. Anything—

Suddenly, he caught her sliding an anxious glance at the copper bed warmer. He hadn't noticed it until now.

Curious, he moved toward it.

* * * *

With nothing else at hand to use as a distraction, Ellie opened her grip on the coverlet and let it fall away from her body.

He stilled. Thick silence descended over the strange, lantern–lit scene. His sternly questing gaze abandoned all other subjects of interest and swept her slowly from head to toe, taking particular note of her naked legs.

She knew the "count's" shirt barely skimmed the top of her thighs. The slight movement he'd taken away from her was now reversed. Unconsciously done, no doubt. Even men who had access to any number of willing women every night of the week could become dullards in the presence of a half–naked female. It was a primeval neediness, she supposed, some void in the male animal that kept them constantly on the hunt. Each slow, deliberate beat of his eyelashes fanned the tiny bumps now sprouting liberally across her skin. The silence became oppressive as he stared at her legs.

"I hope you mean to pay the good innkeeper for his door, Hartley." Despite the tone of bravado, every pore on her body tingled with anticipation.

His regard hardened and cooled from August sky blue to a wintry steel gray. He shot her knees one last, lingering scowl—probably meant to shrivel her bones to dust, spun around, and stalked out, trampling the broken, jagged planks where once there stood a door.

"Give my regards to Lady Southwold!" she shouted.

But he was not leaving yet. She heard him arguing now with the innkeeper in the passage.

Thank goodness she'd distracted him from prying inside the bed warmer. Had he looked there, he would have found tonight's winnings, his precious diamond necklace, and the count's wig. But for now, the count de Bonneville had won a narrow escape. And so had the notorious Ellie Vyne.

Almost.

He reappeared in the broken doorway. "Get dressed, Vyne. I'm not leaving without you."

"I told you, I don't need rescuing. Go away."

He looked at her steadily, his height and the breadth of his shoulders filling the doorway. "Who else will save you, if I do not?" She thought she caught a subtle lightening of his stormy eyes, but from that distance it was hard to tell. "No one but me is fool enough."

Damn and blast. Stubborn, pig–headed brute.

She supposed she might as well let the villain escort her to her sister's house as long as he told no one where he found her.

* * * *

"Not tell where I found you?" he exclaimed, prodding her up into the hackney carriage with his quirt. "Why the devil should I keep your assignation with that crook a secret? Your family ought to know what you get up to. Again."

"Do shut up, Hartley. Shall I write to your grand¬mama and tell her you gave the Hartley Diamonds to your latest harlot?"

He slammed the carriage door shut, his face white and pinched in the moonlight.

"Your family ought to know what you get up to," she chirped, throwing his words back at him. "Again."

He had no answer to that, just a frustrated curse. Naturally, it was all well and good for him to enjoy love affairs before marriage. She, being a woman, was supposed to have no wicked urges and keep herself encased in iron drawers until she found a husband.

"Ever hear of uneven standards?" she shouted through the carriage window.

"No," he quipped. "Is it a race horse?"

Quietly seething, she watched him mount his hunter to ride alongside, and then the carriage wheels rumbled forward.

In common with most of the world, which was always so eager to think ill of her, James must have assumed she was recently the Duke of Ardleigh's mistress. She knew that rumor had flourished for a year or so, but her duties had actually been little more than those of a nurse. She'd traveled with the duke, made certain he took his tonic as prescribed by the physician, and amused him in the evenings with card tricks and ribald tales. Naturally, the duke enjoyed everyone thinking he still had the energy to misbe¬have, so he never bothered to correct the mistaken ideas about their relationship. For Ellie, it had been a very convenient way to keep any marriage–minded suitors at bay and travel with a degree of freedom most women never enjoyed.

It was the duke who first came up with the idea of disguising Ellie at a party and introducing her as the "count de Bonneville" for a jest at the expense of his peers. He was a fun–loving, larger–than–life fellow, and it was a great shock to many when the duke died suddenly in his bed. Most people assumed it was her fault, naturally.

That's what happens, she'd heard people say, when an elderly fool takes up with a wayward slip of a girl half his age.

Ellie settled back into the seat, her shabby, much–traveled trunk at her feet and the hatbox of concealed valuables beside her on the leather cushion. For a moment, she weighed the idea of giving his diamonds back with no further ado. Stealing another glance through the window, she observed him trotting beside the carriage, his noble profile cast in pewter moonlight. It was tempting to imagine he'd come to rescue her from the count's lecherous clutches, and if she squinted hard, she could picture him in armor, a handsome, gallant knight ready to defend her from brigands on the road. She'd never been rescued from anything before; she was usually rescuing other folk.

Suddenly something plucked at her nerves with ice–cold fingers—the sense of being followed again. She twisted around, squinting into the dark through the tiny back window of the carriage. The lights of the inn had already faded, and the carriage was surrounded on all sides by the rattling shadow of naked trees. There was no sign of any other traveler, but the feeling of being stalked remained. It was a sensation she'd felt several times over the past six months, but for want of any proof, she always put it down to her unfettered imagination.

She turned again on her seat and lowered the sash window.

"By the by, Hartley, what have you been up to this evening? Your eye is swollen with a nasty bruise. You ought to—"

Before she could finish, he began another lecture he somehow felt entitled to give her. Ellie swiftly closed the window again and slid back in her seat.

Well, he could whistle in the wind for his damned diamonds then. He should never have loaned his treasures to a faithless woman like Ophelia Southwold to wear, so she'd let him sweat a while. He needed a lesson.

So much for a quiet retirement and the end of mischief. But it was hardly her fault that this man came and poked his nose into her business. James Hartley really ought to be more careful with his family jewels, or any notorious woman might get her hands on them.

As indeed, she just had.