Any attempt to struggle would be pointless, Hannah thought in the first startled moment, and it was always best not to indulge in a fight one could not win anyway. Not that she would not fight if this were something she really, really did not want, but—

Well, it was easier to stop thinking. And enjoy. For she did want it. And him.

She stepped closer until her bare feet touched his, wrapped her arms about him, and kissed him back with hot fervor. There was something different about this kiss. It was not the same game they had played earlier, before lying down on his bed. There was something more … real about this. More raw.

She stopped thinking.

And then his shirt was off over her head and his lower garments were on the floor again, and they were on the bed once more, tangled together, rolling together, first one on top and then the other, hands and mouths everywhere, even teeth, and this was indeed no game.

This was raw passion.

And she was giving as good as she got.

This was …

She should put an end to it, Hannah thought. She should say no and he would stop. She knew he would. She was not at all afraid. Not that she needed to be afraid. He was her lover. She had chosen him for just this. But—

He was on top of her, thrusting her legs wide, and she was a moment or two late saying no. Indeed, she never did say it.

He plunged inside her.

It felt like a dagger being stabbed into a raw wound.

She flinched, gasped, tried to relax, and …

And he was gone.

At least, he was not gone exactly. He was out of her body, but he was still on the bed beside her, propped on one elbow, looming over her. She was very glad she had snuffed the candles. Not that the darkness gave much cover from eyes that had become accustomed to it.

“What?” he asked.

She reached up one hand and ran the tip of her forefinger down the center of his chest.

“What indeed?” she said.

“I hurt you?” he asked.

“It was time to stop,” she said. “Once is quite enough for one night, Constantine. I must be getting home. You must not expect that I will spend all night with you now that we are lovers. That would be tedious.”

“You were not a virgin, were you?” he asked.

It was a question asked in jest, of course. But she took just a little too long to answer, and when she did, it was with haughtily raised eyebrows, the full effect of which was probably lost in the darkness.

“You were a virgin?” It was not a joke this time. It was not even really a question.

She was thirty years old. There had been no barrier left. There had been no blood. But she had still been a virgin in every way that counted.

“Is there a law against virginity?” she asked him. “I have never chosen to take a lover until now, Constantine, when I chose you. I thought you would be superior, and you are. Not that I have anyone with whom to compare you, it is true, but only a fool would wonder if perhaps you are only mediocre.”

“You were married,” he said, “for ten years.”

“To an elderly gentleman who was really not interested in that aspect of our marital relationship,” she said. “Which was just as well because I was not interested in it either. I married him for other reasons.”

“You became a duchess,” he said, supplying the only reasons there could possibly be, “and a wealthy one.”

“Positively rolling in riches,” she agreed. “And I am unlikely ever to acquire that ghastly title of dowager duchess as the current duke will almost certainly never marry. He has a mistress and ten children, ranging in age from eighteen to two, but he took her out of a brothel and will not, of course, marry her.”

“That is rather unsavory knowledge for a lady to have,” he said.

“Fortunately,” she said, “the duke—my duke—never did withhold the most interesting pieces of information from me. He heard all the most salacious gossip and came home and entertained me with it.”

“So,” he said, “no marital relations, Duchess. But what about the army of lovers you took during your marriage? Apparently took, that is.”

“You listen to too much gossip,” she said. “Or, rather, since we all listen, you believe too much. Do you really believe I would break marriage vows?”

“Even when you were getting no satisfaction from your husband?” he asked.

“I may be a merry widow now, Constantine,” she said. “Indeed, I intend to make very merry with you for the rest of the spring, though not again tonight. I may be a merry widow, but I was a faithful wife. And not because I was coerced into fidelity, though you may jump to that odious conclusion. It would be odious, you know. My duke was anything but a tyrant—to me, anyway. I chose to be faithful, just as I now choose to take a lover. I am always in control of my own life.”

He stared down at her in silence for a few moments, and for the first time it struck her that it must have taken enormous control on his part to withdraw from her when he was fully aroused, and then lie still and talk with her.

If she had said no in time, he would have stopped sooner, and they would not have had this conversation. That would teach her a lesson about hesitation.

It did not matter, though. Nothing was changed. Not for her. For him, perhaps. He had thought he was getting an experienced mistress.

“Well,” he said softly, “an outer petal falls away from the rose. Are there any more within, I wonder?”

He was not expecting an answer. He got none. Whatever was he talking about, anyway?

“I might have run the race with you with somewhat less, ah, vigor if I had known,” he said. “I might—”

“Constantine,” she said, interrupting him, “if you ever try to patronize me or be gentle with me or humor me as a delicate lady, I shall—”

“Yes?” he said.

“I shall drop you,” she said, “as I would a live coal. And by the next day I shall have another lover, twice as handsome and three times as virile as you. I shall not spare you another thought.”

“And that is a threat?” he asked, sounding anything but threatened.

“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I never make threats. Why ever would I need to? It is information. It is what will happen if you should ever try to treat me as anything less than I am.”

“I was merely telling you,” he said, “that the way a man makes love to a virgin is different from the way he does it with an experienced woman. I would have given you no less pleasure, Duchess. Perhaps I would have given you more.”

His free hand, she realized, was stroking lightly over her abdomen. It was warmer than her own flesh.

“I suppose,” she said, “you make love to a virgin at least once a fortnight.”

She could see his teeth very white in contrast to the rest of his face. He was smiling. That was a rare enough event—and there was no daylight with which to see it properly.

“One hates to boast,” he said, “or exaggerate. Once a month.”

He bent his head and kissed her softly on the mouth.

“I am sorry,” he murmured.

She tapped him sharply on one cheek.

“You must never ever say you are sorry,” she said. “You must never even feel sorry. If you always act with deliberate intent, there is nothing to be sorry about. And if you act in ignorance, there is nothing to apologize for. I do not apologize for having been a virgin until an hour or two ago. It was what I chose to be. And I do not apologize for withholding the information from you. It is something you did not need to know. It was, as you said on the night of the concert when I asked about your quarrel with the Duke of Moreland, none of your business. And while we are on this topic, I will tell you now that for the rest of this spring, while we are having our affair, I will be faithful to you. And I expect that you will be faithful to me. I will go home now.”