Lovelace's expression, usually as impassive as an Egyptian sepulchral mask, registered momentary surprise. "I am pleased to hear that, sir. You do not usually return from an evening's round of social affairs with such, ah, enthusiasm."

"I am well aware of that, Lovelace. Tonight's affairs were of a somewhat unusual nature." Marcus crossed to the library. His boots rang on the gold-veined black marble floor. "You may go to bed. I shall see to the lamps."

"Thank you, sir." Lovelace paused delicately. "There is one item of news to relate."

"And that is?" "Your brother arrived here earlier this evening. He left an hour ago. I believe he went out to his club."

"Bennet is here in London?" Marcus frowned "lie is supposed to be visiting friends in Scotland."

"Yes, m'lord. I know." "Well, I shall talk to him in the morning." Marcus went into the library. "Good night, Lovelace."

"Good night, sir." Lovelace quietly closed the door. Marcus crossed the room to the small table in the

corner. The rich French brandy inside the crystal decanter glowed a mellow shade of amber.

Marcus poured himself a glass of the brandy and settled into the large, comfortable wingback chair. He absently inhaled the heady fumes that emanated from his glass as he contemplated the fact that he was about to become involved in another liaison.

The astounding thing was that he was Idled with a deep sense of anticipation this time.

Most unusual. He had always disliked the customary unpleasantness that accompanied the inevitable ending of an affair. Lately, however, he had actually found himself resenting the investment of time and effort that it took to form a new connection.

It was difficult to work up enthusiasm for the project when one knew precisely how it was all going to end. He had even gotten very good at predicting exactly when it would all terminate.

He had been allowing the periods between affairs to stretch out longer and longer, until the pressure of his physical needs grew too strong to ignore.

The difficulty was that he was burdened with a full complement of the usual masculine desires. When he was in a particularly melancholy frame of mind, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to he freed of his passions. He would then he able to abandon the murky world of romantic entanglements in favor of devoting himself to the satisfactions of his intellectual endeavors.

The thought made him grin briefly. If there was one thing he had discovered tonight, it was that there was no immediate likelihood that his body would allow him to ignore his lust. The talons of unsatisfied desire still gripped his loins.

But the most interesting aspect of the situation was that he was — not dreading the work of seduction that lay ahead. In truth, for the first time in a long, long while, he was looking forward to it.

All his instincts told him that with Iphiginia things were going to he new and different.

For starters, he could not see the inevitable conclusion to the affair.

For once he would be going into a liaison without knowing when and how it would end. That alone was enough to whet his appetite.

Marcus sipped the brandy and contemplated the pleasures of a passionate attachment that held the promise of surprise and unpredictability.

He wondered how long she would stick to her outrageous tale of a plan to catch a blackmailer.

He gave the lady high marks for creativity. She had hit upon a brilliant way to thrust herself into Society at the highest levels.

She had no doubt expected him to remain away from London for the full month, which would have given her time to entice a wealthy paramour. Or perhaps she had been out to capture his attention all along.

That last was an intriguing notion. And rather flattering.

Marcus turned the brandy glass lazily in his hands. He would allow her to continue her pretense of hunting a blackmailer as long as she pleased. It did no harm and it would he amusing to see how long she could keep up the charade.

But in the meantime he had other, more interesting games to play with Iphiginia Bright.

An unpleasant sensation of dampness made Marcus glance down at the front of his coat. He groaned when he saw the dark, spreading stain that marred the expensive fabric.

He got to his feet, removed his coat, and reached into the inside pocket. He withdrew the metal object there and regarded it with some dismay.

Clearly his latest design for a reliable hydraulic reservoir pen that contained its own supply of ink and could be carried about in one's pocket needed more work.

This was the third coat that he had ruined in the past two weeks.

But in the meantime he had other, more interesting games to play with Iphiginia Bright.

An unpleasant sensation of dampness made Marcus glance down at the front of his coat. He groaned when he saw the dark, spreading stain that marred the expensive fabric.

He got to his feet, removed his coat, and reached into the inside pocket. He withdrew the metal object there and regarded it with some dismay.

Clearly his latest design for a reliable hydraulic reservoir pen that contained its own supply of ink and could be carried about in one's pocket needed more work.

This was the third coat that he had ruined in the past two weeks.

MARCUS HAD JUST HELPED HIMSELF TO A PORTION OF eggs from one of the trays on the sideboard when Bennet sauntered into the breakfast room the next morning.

" 'Morning, Marcus." "Good morning. Lovelace said you had returned to London. I wasn't expecting you." Marcus glanced at his brother, started to smile, and then blinked in astonishment. "Bloody hell. What happened to your hair?"

"Nothing happened to my hair." Bennet's handsome face twisted into an offended scowl. He went to the sideboard and busied himself lifting the lids of various serving trays. "This style is all the rage."

"Only among Byron and his crowd," Marcus surveyed his brother's elaborately tousled curls. Bennet's dark hair was normally quite straight, just as Marcus's was. "Remind your valet to he cautious with the crimping iron. He'll set fire to your head if he's not careful." "That is not amusing. Are there any muffins?" "Last tray on the end, I believe." Marcus carried his own heavily loaded plate back to the table and sat down. "I thought you intended to spend the entire month in Scotland with your friend Harry and his family."

Bennet kept his attention focused on the muffin tray. "I thought you were going to spend the month in Yorkshire."

"I changed my mind." "So did I."

Marcus frowned. "Did something happen to cause you to alter your plans?"

"No." Bennet concentrated intently on laying eggs out of another tray.

Marcus eyed his brother's back with an uneasy feeling. He knew Bennet A too well. Bennet had never kept secrets from him. Something was wrong.

Marcus had single-handedly raised Bennet since their mother's death eighteen years ago. True, Marcus's father had still been alive at the time, but George Cloud had taken no more interest in his youngest son than he had in his eldest. George preferred his hounds, his hunting, and his friends in the local tavern to the bothersome burdens of family life.

There had been no one else to see to the rearing of Bennet, so Marcus had taken on the responsibility, just as, at an even earlier age, he had assumed the responsibility of working the family farm.

The profits from the farm improved steadily over the years, thanks to Marcus's successful experiments with tools, fertilizers, plows, and breeding techniques.

George had used much of the increased income to purchase better hounds and jumpers. When Marcus's mother had timidly suggested that Marcus he allowed to attend Oxford or Cambridge, George had squashed the idea immediately. He was not about to deprive himself of the income produced by the best farmer in the district.