She finished the task. The satin glove that dangled from her teeth gleamed in the strip of fight. She reached down, fumbled a bit, and then gently curled her fingers around him.

"Marcus." The glove dropped from her teeth. For a moment Marcus thought he would disgrace himself just as he had on the last occasion. He sucked in his breath and wondered if he would survive.

"Marcus?" Iphiginia sounded anxious. "Are you all right? You are not about to collapse again, are you?"

Marcus nearly choked on his laughter. He smiled faintly. "No. At least not just yet. I want to he inside you, Iphiginia. But I don't want to rush you. This time you must guide me."

"Very well. But I warn you, all I know of this sort of thing is what I have learned from our last experience together and what I observed during my tour of Lartmore's statuary hall."

"It will be enough, I promise you." He cupped her with his palm and felt the moist beat that awaited him. "More than enough."

"You're certain?" She ran her thumb across the end of his shaft.

Marcus steeled himself. "Quite certain." He moved his fingers through the soft nest of hair between her thighs until he uncovered the swollen bud. He stroked gently.

"Good heavens, Marcus." He felt the tremor that went through her. It was a sweet, powerful signal of her response to him. A fierce joy seized Marcus.

Her fingers tightened convulsively around him. Marcus winced and caught his breath.

"Did I hurt you, my lord?" "You are going to he the death of me, Iphiginia." "Oh, no, I'm so sorry. Are you all right, sir? I did not mean to do you an injury." Alarm briefly doused the sweet intensity of passion in her husky voice. "I warned you that I did not know precisely what to do."

"I was merely jesting," he assured her. He took another deep breath. "I'm nowhere near death." He continued to stroke her carefully, drawing forth the dew until his hand was slick with it. "In truth, I do not know when I have ever felt more alive."

Iphiginia's tentative, experimental caresses threatened to demolish his defenses and scatter his senses to the four winds. He was sweating now, every muscle tensed.

She moved slightly in his lap, adjusting herself. She tightened her legs. Her inner thigh brushed against his engorged shaft. His whole body clenched. Her whispered sighs and quickening breath told him of her increasing' excitement.

Then, when he was beginning to wonder if she would ever finish the business, she guided him awkwardly to the exquisitely soft, hot place between her legs. Cautiously, slowly, carefully, she fitted herself to him.

She was so tight. Marcus wondered if he would, indeed, expire before he got inside.

She eased herself downward, drawing in her breath sharply at one point. Then her passage closed snugly around him. Marcus shuddered and held himself unmoving.

A distant warning bell rang somewhere in his fevered brain. He reminded himself that he must withdraw before he spilled his seed. He was not using one of his specially modified French sheep-gut condoms.

And then Iphiginia began to move on him and all rational thought dissolved in Marcus's fevered brain. More demanding than any goddess from classical times, she clutched at him, whispered his name, pleaded, begged, scolded, demanded.

Marcus teased her gently, tormenting himself in the process. And then quite suddenly she shivered and convulsed in his arms.

«Marcus.»

She collapsed against him with a tiny scream of surprise and pleasure.

The warning bell sounded again somewhere, but Marcus was unable to respond. He gripped Iphiginia's thighs and surged upward. He bit back the exultant shout of satisfaction that threatened to erupt from his throat.

Several moments later he sagged back into the corner of the carriage scat. Iphiginia sprawled on top of him.

There was silence. Marcus listened to it while he inhaled the unique, earthy scent of sexual satisfaction that drifted in the air of the closed cab.

The carriage turned a corner and came to a halt a few minutes later. Marcus stirred reluctantly and lit one of the interior lamps. He allowed himself a few seconds to savor the feel of Iphiginia nestled against him and then reality struck him,

"Iphiginia? We have arrived at your home." She mumbled something indistinct and snuggled closer. Her skirts rustled softly. Marcus realized that she had fallen asleep. He smiled.

"Wake up. Hurry, my dear." He shook her gently, urging her to a sitting position. He heard the footman clamber down from the box to open the carriage door. Marcus hastily reached out to latch it.

Iphiginia. "What is it?" She patted back a charming yawn and blinked with sleepy languor. Her skirts were crumpled around her thighs. One neat coil of hair had come loose. It dangled over her ear. A white plume bobbed at an odd angle. "Is it morning?"

"No, it is not." Marcus quickly set himself to rights. "It's the middle of the night and you look as though you have been tumbled in a carriage."

Iphiginia giggled, "Fancy that, my lord." Marcus paused in the act of shoving his shirttails into his breeches. He gazed at her, riveted by her happiness.

He was responsible for this, he thought with a sense of awed wonder. He had made her happy. It was an infinitely more satisfying achievement than the creation of a clockwork butler or viewing stars through a telescope.

The footman rapped on the carriage door. "M'lord, do you wish to descend?"

"One moment, Jenkins." Marcus shook himself out of his momentary reverie. "Turn around," he muttered to Iphiginia. "The bodice of your gown is twisted and that plume looks as though it's about to fall out of your hair."

"Yes, my lord. I cannot imagine how I came to be in such disarray." Iphiginia obediently turned her back toward him and sat patiently while he fumbled with her gown.

"There, now, let me see you." Marcus turned her about again and surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. He scowled at the loop of hair that still danced over Iphiginia's right ear, "Give me a pin."

She reached up and removed one from her chignon. "Here you are, sir. Pray do not stick yourself."

"Stop giggling. The footman will think I am tickling you. P,

"Yes, my lord." Mirth bubbled up inside her once more.

Marcus pinned the fallen coil into place. "With any luck that will hold until you get inside."

"I'm certain that it will, sir. You have a talent for mechanical things."

He unmatched the carriage door and shoved it open. Jenkins, waiting patiently outside, turned with an impassive expression and set down the step.

Marcus bid a smile as he watched Iphiginia descend with grand dignity just as though she had been doing nothing more unconventional than conversing about classical antiquities for the past half hour.

When she reached the pavement she gave Jenkins a smile which appeared to temporarily blind the man.

"Thank you," she murmured to the footman.

She would make a perfect countess, Marcus thought. He walked her to her door and saw her safely inside.

It took every ounce of his willpower to stay outside on the front steps. He had an almost overpowering urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her up the stairs to her bedchamber.

"You were quite correct about one thing, my lord," Iphiginia whispered in a soft, dreamy voice as he made to close the door.

He paused on the step. "What was that?" "It was much better this time."

He grinned. "Yes, it was, wasn't it? I actually survived a second encounter. It was not even necessary to summon a doctor to revive me afterward."

Iphiginia smiled with smug satisfaction' "Obviously you are possessed of a very strong constitution, my lord."

"Obviously."

Marcus closed the door and went down the steps to where his carriage waited. He whistled softly and took a deep breath of the midnight air.