She buttoned the shirt, regarding him with her head to one side, a slightly sardonic gleam in her eye as she posed the question that would force him to admit that he wanted their love play to continue.

“Public indiscretion, buttercup,” he said deliberately.

“That's what I'm talking about.” He turned and walked back up the slope toward the garden, whistling carelessly, hands thrust into his pockets.

Tamsyn grinned appreciatively. He'd managed to wriggle out of that one without admitting anything, while leaving private indiscretion wide-open for further interpretation. She scrambled up the valley after him.

Julian paused as he reached the wall, waiting for her to catch up with him. The small, firm swell of her breasts was clearly outlined beneath the wet shirt, the nipples dark points.

“You'd better stay here while I fetch you a cloak,” he said. “You can't enter the house looking like that, it'll be all over the countryside within the hour. But be warned, this is the last time I shall cover up your… your…” His eyes rested in leisurely fashion on her breasts; then he put a hand on the top of her head and turned her like a spinning top. His free hand moved in a pointed caress over the indentation of her waist and the curve of her backside. “You understand me, I'm sure.”

“It would be hard to misunderstand you, sir.” There had been something faintly insulting about the strokes, something a little vengeful. Tamsyn twitched away from him, crossed her arms over her chest, and sat on the wall. “I will await you here.”

She sat facing the sea, kicking her feet against the stone. She may have overcome his resistance to lovemaking this morning, but she hadn't won over his attitude.

She shrugged, trying to convince herself that his attitude didn't matter so long as she had his cooperation. But she didn't want to be at odds with him. They were too alike; they had shared so many experiences, the brutality and the triumphs of war; they enjoyed each other too much, and not just in love play. Tamsyn had the sense of a whole country of pleasure, of talk and laughter and shared opinions, just around the corner, but the border was patrolled by his resentment and her own purpose.

She glanced idly up at the cliff top toward Fowey and frowned, squinting against the sun. Two figures on horseback were outlined against the cloudless blue sky. They were too far away to see anything clearly, except that they were men, their horses had the elegant lines of good pedigree, and she thought she could see shotguns across their saddles. Tamsyn wondered without much concern how long they'd been there and how much they could have seen of the goings-on in the cove. They wouldn't have witnessed that lusty tumble in the foxgloves-the flowers had formed a perfect privacy screen -but two naked figures running into and out of the sea would have been hard to miss.

As she watched, they turned their horses and galloped out of sight over the cliff, and when Julian returned with her cloak, she didn't mention their possible audience, reasoning that it would only add fuel to his annoyance.

“Wrap this around you and don't talk to anyone as you go to your room,” Julian directed crisply. He was wearing shirt and boots now and looked perfectly respectable. “The household is barely awake, so with luck you won't meet anyone anyway. After breakfast come to the library, and we'll get started. Wear one of the morning gowns you bought in London-I want to work on your posture.”

“My posture?” Tamsyn demanded with more than a touch of indignation, but he'd already started back to the house, striding swiftly, making it clear he didn't wish for her company.

Posture? What on earth could he mean? Tamsyn scrambled after him, following him through the side door into the house, but he turned aside into the breakfast parlor, leaving her to make her own way upstairs in disgruntled puzzlement.

The door to Tamsyn's bedchamber stood ajar, and she could hear Josefa engaged in a somewhat one-sided exchange with a maidservant, who had brought a morning tray of chocolate and sweet biscuits for his lordship's guest.

Tamsyn wrapped the cloak securely around her so her unorthodox costume was fully hidden and entered the room with a cheerful, “Buenos dias, Josefa.”

“Oh, miss.” The girl turned with visible relief before Josefa could return the greeting. “I was trying to explain to your maid here that breakfast is served in the small parlor behind the library, but she doesn't seem to understand.”

“No, I'm afraid she won't,” Tamsyn said, smiling.

“But I can translate, and if there's a problem below stairs, Gabriel will translate.”

“That's that big bloke, is it, miss?” The girl's eyes were very round in a very round face.

“An accurate description,” Tamsyn agreed with a grin. “He's her husband.” It seemed simplest to tell the conventional fib.

“Right. Then I'll tell Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert-they're the butler and housekeeper,” she added. “We wasn't sure about how things stood, miss. You arriving so sudden like, and his lordship not being a great one for explanations.” She blushed in sudden confusion, clearly feeling she might have spoken out of turn, and bobbed a swift curtsy, backing out of the room muttering about fetching hot water.

“Ay… ay, I'll never understand my man's tongue,” Josefa declared. “Such a jabber. I told that girl three times that you'd be wanting hot water, and she just stared at me like an idiot.”

“She doesn't understand you, querida, any more than you understand her,” Tamsyn said, chuckling, as she threw off her cloak and the britches and shirt beneath. “But Gabriel or the colonel or myself will translate for you. Now, which of those stupid dresses shall I wear?”

Naked, she wandered to the armoire, taking the cup of chocolate on the way. She stood frowning in front of the wardrobe's contents, sipping chocolate, nibbling on a biscuit.

They'd spent five days in London, putting up at Grillon's hotel. The colonel had vanished once he'd seen them installed and hadn't reappeared until it was time to begin the journey to Cornwall. He'd given her a list of dressmakers and milliners, together with what he considered minimum requirements for a would-be debutante’s wardrobe, and left her to make shift as she could.

Tamsyn had found it tedious work putting together such a wardrobe, but she'd tackled the task with the grim determination she would have brought to any piece of necessary preparation for some serious venture. The colonel had inspected the fruits of her shopping the night before they'd begun their journey and had pronounced himself satisfied. Any other necessities or forgotten accessories could be purchased in St. Austell or Lostwithiel.

She heard the bustle behind her as Mary reappeared with a heavy copper jug of steaming water but didn't turn around, idly flicking through the garments. She disliked them all, reserving her greatest distaste for a sprig muslin that the colonel had particularly approved. She drew the dress out and held it up to the light. It was very pretty, pale lilac with a pattern of darker flowers and a cream sash.

“Ugh!” she muttered, tossing the despised gown onto the bed. “It had best be this.”

“Such a pretty dress, miss,” Mary said, fingering the material admiringly. “It'll suit your coloring.”

“I suppose so,” Tamsyn agreed half-heartedly, turning to the washstand where Josefa was filling the basin with hot water.

She scrubbed the salt from her skin with a soapy washcloth, enjoying the glow that her rough attentions left in their wake, then set about the tedious task of donning stockings, drawers, and chemise. So many clothes, and so unnecessary when the sun was as warm as it was today. She scrambled into a lawn petticoat, kicking at the folds with a grimace.

Josefa dropped the gown over her head, and she thrust her arms into the little puff sleeves with a roughly impatient movement that caused the other woman to tut reproachfully at the possible damage to the delicate material. The gown was hooked, the sash tied beneath her bosom, and she examined herself in the mirror. She really didn't look like herself