The change in Antonia Norwood's fortunes brought a frown to Margaret's face. She would not have liked the connection for any of her sisters. Still, Antonia Norwood was not her concern. As her sisters appeared to have taken the event philosophically enough, she felt justified in giving it no further thought, reserving her energies, mental and otherwise, for her increasingly frequent interludes with her guardian.

Despite her efforts to minimize his opportunities, she found herself sharing his carriage on their return journey to Mount Street. Marian Winford sat beside her and Felix, suavely elegant and exuding subtle aura of powerful sensuality, had taken the seat opposite her. Lady Hillsborough and her three sisters were following in the Twyford coach. As Margaret had suspected, their chaperon fell into a sound sleep before the carriage had cleared the Adamson House drive.

Gazing calmly at the moonlit fields, she calculated they had at least a forty-minute drive ahead of them. She waited patiently for the move she was sure would come and tried to marshal her resolve to deflect it. As the minutes ticked by, the damning knowledge slowly seeped into her consciousness that, if her guardian was to suddenly become afflicted with propriety and the journey was accomplished without incident, far from being relieved, she would feel let down, cheated of an eagerly anticipated treat. She frowned, recognizing her already racing pulse and the tense knot in her stomach that restricted her breathing for the symptoms they were. On the thought, she raised her eyes to the dark face before her.

He was watching the countryside slip by, the silvery light etching the planes of his face. As if feeling her gaze, he turned and his eyes met hers. For a moment, he read her thoughts and Margaret was visited by the dreadful certainty that he knew the truth she was struggling to hide. Then, a slow, infinitely wicked smile spread across his face. Margaret stopped breathing. He leaned forward. She expected him to take her hand and draw her to sit beside him. Instead, his strong hands slipped about her waist and, to her utter astonishment, he lifts her across and deposited her in a swirl of silks on his lap.

"Felix!" she gasped.

"Ssssh. You don't want to wake Mrs. Winford. She'd have palpitations."

Horrified, Margaret tried to get her feet to the ground, wriggling against the firm clasp about her waist. Almost immediately, Felix's voice sounded in her ear, in a tone quite different from any she had previously heard. "Sweetheart, unless you cease wriggling your delightful derriére in such an enticing fashion, this lesson is likely to go rather further than I had intended."

Margaret froze. She held her breath, not daring to so much as twitch. Then Felix's voice, the raw tones of an instant before no longer in evidence, washed over her in warm approval. "Much better."

She turned to face him, carefully keeping her hips still. She place her hands on his chest in an effort, futile, she knew, to fend him off. "Felix, this is madness. You must stop doing this!"

"Why? Don't you like it?" His hands were moving gently on her back, his touch scorching through the thin silk of her gown.

Margaret ignored the sardonic lift of his black brows and the clear evidence in his eyes that he was laughing at her. She found it much harder to ignore the sensations his hands were drawing forth. Forcing her face into strongly disapproving lines, she answered his first question, deeming it prudent to conveniently forget the second. "I'm your ward, remember? You know I am. You told me so yourself."

"A fact you should strive to bear in mind, my dear."

Margaret wondered what he meant by that. By Felix's mind, and hands, had shifted their focus of attention. As his hands closed over her breasts, Margaret nearly leapt to her feet. "Felix!"

But, "Sssh," was all her guardian said as his lips settled on hers.