He had just become engaged to Allison. He had had a number of women between the ages of seventeen and twenty-eight, but he had committed himself to fidelity when he had agreed to marry Allison. Was it right to sleep now with Adèle?

But she was his wife.

And he knew that if he had to go back to the twentieth century he would not be able to marry Allison after all. He thought with grim humor of the reason he would have to give her if he was going to be honest. He could not marry her because he was in love with a woman almost two hundred years old.

Adèle was a virgin. With his Regency self he had no doubt of that, even though his other self might have taken for granted that at the age of twenty-four she must have had a few lovers. Was it right that he be the one to make love to her first? Who would be doing it? But he knew the answer to that. It would be her husband. He was her husband.

But what if the other John came back as sick as he had been? Would it be better for her not to have known the consummation? And what if he left her pregnant?

But he knew that John Chandler, Viscount Cordell, had not died so soon. And he knew that the two of them had had children. Was it his own history he had learned? Or was it another man's? He felt dizzy again, realizing that he was seriously considering such a question.

It was his desire and his indecision that had driven him out of bed to pace for a while. He had decided to wait, to let more time pass, to be more sure that he was here to stay. But then he had had that brief coughing spell as he was about to slip back into bed, and she had woken up.

She was small and well-shaped without being in any way voluptuous. Every part of her was nicely in proportion with every other part. He had noticed that with pleasure since the first time he woke up to her in his bed. Now he noticed it with desire.

She was virgin and innocent and totally inexperienced. He had known that from the start. She had not even known how to kiss sexually. And now she lay still and passive, obviously not knowing either what to do or what exactly was about to happen to her. But there was a willingness and a longing in her stillness, even an eagerness. He could tell that. She wanted what was to happen. With him. Because she loved him.

He was fiercely glad that it was not the other John loving her tonight. Only he could give her everything there was to give. Only he could give her the whole of himself.

He found her inexperience wholly endearing and not a little exciting. She had thought he had a fever… And then her embarrassment at realizing the truth had been almost palpable.

He undid the buttons that held her nightdress closed to the throat and opened back the edges. He touched her breasts one at a time, stroking them lightly, cupping them, rubbing his thumb very gently across the nipples, pulsing lightly against them. And while he did so, he leaned his head back from hers so that he could watch her face in the faint light from the window. She looked back until her eyelids fluttered closed and she made soft sounds of pleasure.

She was exquisitely feminine. He had to close his own eyes for a few moments in order to bring his desire under control. He did not intend to do anything with her tonight that might shock her too deeply. He intended only basic foreplay and a more lengthy union of their bodies. But he certainly did not want to rush anything. He wanted to give her pleasure, and more than pleasure. He wanted her to feel herself loved and cherished and worshiped and-married.

He kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her temples, her eyes, her ears. He closed his teeth over one earlobe and felt her shiver. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, drawing the nipples one at a time into his mouth and sucking as he wanted his child to do in nine months or so. And he took her nightgown with both hands and moved it down and off her arms and down her body until he could toss it to one side. He pulled off his own nightshirt and sent it to join her nightdress.

"Don't be embarrassed," he said, drawing her back into his arms. "You are so very beautiful, Adèle, and I did promise at our wedding to worship you with my body, did I not?"

"I am not embarrassed," she said. "I want you to see me, John. I want you to touch me. I want you to know me. I want to feel you i-inside me. That is what happens, is it not?"

He had to draw a slow, steadying breath before answering. "Deep inside," he murmured against her ear. "Where we will share bodies and beget children. Where we will be husband and wife together."

He moved his hand over her as he spoke, feeling the small waist, the feminine curve of her hip, the firm, shapely buttock. He slipped his hand into the warmth between her legs, parting the folds with gentle fingers-stroking, probing slowly, giving her time to master the shock that had been indicated by a sharply indrawn breath, and to relax again.

"Mm," he said, his mouth against hers. "Wonderful. You are warm and wet. No, don't tense. It is as you should be. Your body has readied itself so that we can unite without discomfort."

But he knew there would be pain for her. He had no experience with virgins. He hoped he could be careful enough. It would not be easy. He was on fire for her.

She did not help him. She looked up at him as he turned her onto her back and lifted himself over her. But she did not hinder him either. She let him push her legs wide astride his and she slid her feet up the bed when he whispered the suggestion to her. She watched him steadily as he positioned himself and mounted her very slowly.

The passage was small and tight. He could feel his heart beating in his throat and in his ears. He ignored two warring urges-one to withdraw lest he hurt her, the other to thrust mindlessly inward for release-and opened her as gently as he could. He felt the barrier and saw the pain of it in her face as she closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. But then it was gone and he moved inward to his full length.

He had never really thought before of sex as a uniting of bodies. He thought of it now. It was as if he had fitted himself to the missing part of himself. It was a magnificent, heady feeling, despite the fact that he was still fully aroused and pulsing with the need to thrust himself to climax.

Her eyes had opened again. He kept most of his weight on his forearms.

"Am I hurting you?" he whispered.

"There could be no happier moment than this," she said. "If only I could keep you here forever and ever."

He smiled at her. And he held still in her, allowing her body to accustom itself to the stretching and the invasion, allowing her mind to adjust to this new status of her being. Then he withdrew slowly.

Her hands pressed against his waist. "Oh, not yet," she said. "Must it end so soon?"

He lowered his head and kissed her softly. "It is beginning," he said to her. "I am going to love you, Adèle. Relax and enjoy it. Or if you want to move, if there is anything you wish to do for your pleasure, do it. We are together-not master and servant, but man and wife. We are both lover and we are both beloved."

"Oh," she said, "I am so ignorant. There was no one to tell me… I did not expect… Oh!"

He had pushed firmly back into her.

He had always been an energetic lover and he had always had experienced, uninhibited women. That was true of both his persons. He had always been able to take his own pleasure in the confident knowledge that his woman would take her equal share. It had always been two separate people taking pleasure from each other. Even with Allison.

Having to think of someone else, having to remember that this was all new to her, having to hold back his own pleasure so that she would remember her first experience with joy-it was all paradoxically erotic. He had never desired as much as he did now; he had never enjoyed as much as he did now. And he had never before now, he realized, made love. He had had sex-marvelously satisfying sex in many cases, but never more than that.