protector.
It had been the only way she could think of to make him hate her—to make certain that he would
not follow her and demand the truth. It had been the only way to set him free.
Rowarth squared his shoulders. “You mistake.” His voice, smooth and deep, cut across her
thoughts. “It is my business. In fact I have no business here other than to see you, Eve.”
For a moment Eve’s foolish heart soared again at the thought he might, against the odds, care for
her still. But there was something in his voice that warned her; in his tone and in the cool,
appraising look that he gave her. And frighteningly he had read her thoughts and seen how
vulnerable she was to him, for he smiled again with grim pleasure.
“Have no fear that I am about to importune you with impassioned declarations of love,” he said
drily. “Nothing was further from my thoughts. This is business only.”
Eve felt a little sick at the contempt she could hear in his voice. “What possible business could
you have with me after all this time?” she questioned, still striving to keep her voice light. “We
have no more to say to one another.”
“We’ll talk of that in private.”
“No, we shall not.” Suddenly furious, she freed herself from his grip and spun around to face
him. “We shall not do that just because you dictate it, Rowarth. You always were arrogant.”
Once they had laughed together about his innate confidence and the way in which people
deferred to him because of his position. Eve remembered with a pang what it had been like when
she had been his mistress, beside Rowarth on those occasions when they had visited the opera or
the theater or a ball. There was a dizzy glamour that had been attached to his title and his status,
a glittering, raffish fascination that had beguiled her. When they had lain together, tangled in her
sheets in the rapturous aftermath of making love, she had teased him about his importance and
his arrogance and the way that people fell over themselves to please him, and he had laughed and
kissed her and they had made love again through the hot summer nights. She had loved the fact
that behind the closed doors of her boudoir Rowarth was hers, and hers alone, that she was the
only one who truly knew him.
Perhaps it had been an illusion, but for a brief time it had made her happy. She had thought that
they had both been happy. From the start there had been an instant attraction between them,
blazing into vivid life the very first night they had met at the Cyprian’s Ball. She, the newest of
new courtesans, had been feted and courted as the gentlemen waited to see upon whom she
would bestow her favor—and her innocence. Her price was high. And then Rowarth had arrived,
cutting through the throng, and everyone else had faded away, pale imitations of men in
comparison with his natural authority and overwhelming charm. She had been his from that first
moment and miraculously, it seemed, he had been hers. She was not merely his mistress; they
had shared everything. It had been so wonderful that for a short while even she, raised on the
London streets, the illegitimate child of a seamstress and a sailor, abandoned as a baby and
forced to fight for everything she had ever had in her life, had started to believe in happy
endings. She had thought that there was more to their relationship than mere lust. She had felt
that they had had an instant affinity.
Eve swallowed what felt like an enormous lump in her throat. Those days and nights had been
full of color and excitement and joy, so far removed from her existence now that they had been
another world, a fading memory but one that was so laced with pain that it could never quite die.
“And you were always the only one who dared oppose me.” There was an odd note in Rowarth’s
voice now. For a moment it sounded almost like regret. “But in this, Eve, you cannot.”
“Watch me.” She was so cross now that she was
It had been the only way she could think of to make him hate her—to make certain that he would
not follow her and demand the truth. It had been the only way to set him free.
Rowarth squared his shoulders. “You mistake.” His voice, smooth and deep, cut across her
thoughts. “It is my business. In fact I have no business here other than to see you, Eve.”
For a moment Eve’s foolish heart soared again at the thought he might, against the odds, care for
her still. But there was something in his voice that warned her; in his tone and in the cool,
appraising look that he gave her. And frighteningly he had read her thoughts and seen how
vulnerable she was to him, for he smiled again with grim pleasure.
“Have no fear that I am about to importune you with impassioned declarations of love,” he said
drily. “Nothing was further from my thoughts. This is business only.”
Eve felt a little sick at the contempt she could hear in his voice. “What possible business could
you have with me after all this time?” she questioned, still striving to keep her voice light. “We
have no more to say to one another.”
“We’ll talk of that in private.”
“No, we shall not.” Suddenly furious, she freed herself from his grip and spun around to face
him. “We shall not do that just because you dictate it, Rowarth. You always were arrogant.”
Once they had laughed together about his innate confidence and the way in which people
deferred to him because of his position. Eve remembered with a pang what it had been like when
she had been his mistress, beside Rowarth on those occasions when they had visited the opera or
the theater or a ball. There was a dizzy glamour that had been attached to his title and his status,
a glittering, raffish fascination that had beguiled her. When they had lain together, tangled in her
sheets in the rapturous aftermath of making love, she had teased him about his importance and
his arrogance and the way that people fell over themselves to please him, and he had laughed and
kissed her and they had made love again through the hot summer nights. She had loved the fact
that behind the closed doors of her boudoir Rowarth was hers, and hers alone, that she was the
only one who truly knew him.
Perhaps it had been an illusion, but for a brief time it had made her happy. She had thought that
they had both been happy. From the start there had been an instant attraction between them,
blazing into vivid life the very first night they had met at the Cyprian’s Ball. She, the newest of
new courtesans, had been feted and courted as the gentlemen waited to see upon whom she
would bestow her favor—and her innocence. Her price was high. And then Rowarth had arrived,
cutting through the throng, and everyone else had faded away, pale imitations of men in
comparison with his natural authority and overwhelming charm. She had been his from that first
moment and miraculously, it seemed, he had been hers. She was not merely his mistress; they
had shared everything. It had been so wonderful that for a short while even she, raised on the
London streets, the illegitimate child of a seamstress and a sailor, abandoned as a baby and
forced to fight for everything she had ever had in her life, had started to believe in happy
endings. She had thought that there was more to their relationship than mere lust. She had felt
that they had had an instant affinity.
Eve swallowed what felt like an enormous lump in her throat. Those days and nights had been
full of color and excitement and joy, so far removed from her existence now that they had been
another world, a fading memory but one that was so laced with pain that it could never quite die.
“And you were always the only one who dared oppose me.” There was an odd note in Rowarth’s
voice now. For a moment it sounded almost like regret. “But in this, Eve, you cannot.”
“Watch me.” She was so cross now that she was
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