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snugly fitting pants, he heard her sit up and arrange her clothing more modestly. He was preoccupied.
    The very last thing he needed right now was the distraction of Marie-Elena running all over London as if she owned it. She was not a discreet woman, it was not her nature, although too many times to count she had promised to be more careful. And while they had gone their separate ways for many years, in London it might be better to create an illusion that they shared a more conventional marriage. For the pendulum of public opinion often swung to their side when they did move together in society—the golden Russian prince, the beautiful German princess, a match made almost in heaven, if not by the tsar. It could very well help his mission if he could warm up the cold British fish he had thus far encountered. Until now, the British peerage had seemed curious but suspicious, and a few ladies and lords in his comer could definitely help him in his quest when he had so far come up against Castlereagh's very solid brick wall.
    Nicholas suspected that someone inside of the government was working very hard to sabotage the talks. He had the strongest sixth sense about it. But he had yet to identify that man—or woman.
    But his wife was pregnant, shockingly so. And the Brit-

    ish were so boringly, damnably, conventional. Marie-Elena might hinder his mission far more than she might aid it. He shrugged on his jacket, adorned with a dozen rows of gold buttons and golden epaulets, rather violently.
    "Nicholas? Is something wrong?" Lady Carradine moved to the side of the four-poster bed, her legs over the edge.
    "I have to go. It is late." That was the truth. But it was the price paid for these kinds of encounters.
    "You cannot leave now!" she exclaimed.
    "It is unfortunate," he agreed, a mild lie, "but I can, and will." He reached for his ceremonial sword.
    "You have been distracted all evening," she said evenly. But there was the slightest trace of hurt in her eyes.
    "I am sorry." To make her feel better, he added, "I have grave matters on my mind."
    She stood. "When will I. . ." She hesitated. "Now that your wife has arrived, will I see you again?"
    He hated messes and scenes. He did not see the point of seeing Lady Carradine again. "I do not think so."
    She nodded, pursing her mouth. Then abruptly she rose, moved to him, and put her arms around him. ' 'Let me take care of you," she whispered. "One last time."
    "It's not necessary," he said, taking her hands in his and removing them from his hips.
    "Then promise me that we shall see each other again." Her brown eyes searched his face. "Or have I displeased you in some way?"
    "You have not displeased me, Marcia. And I am sorry to have disappointed you. But we made one another no promises."
    She sank back down on the bed, watching him stride to the door. "Then it is true. What they say—what I have heard. That you are inhuman when it comes to women— unfeeling. Incapable of love."
    He paused. "If you are asking me if I am a romantic, then the answ^er is no," he said calmly. "I am not a poet, Marcia."

    "Have you ever loved a woman, Nicholas?" she asked, her eyes glistening. "Have you ever even tried?"
    The question was absurd. "What does love have to do with the few nights we shared? Did I ever speak of love? We are two adults. We have enjoyed one another's company. That is all there is to it."
    "No." She smoothed her gown, as if intent on ironing out the wrinkles with her palms. "You made me no promises, but you are very compelling, Nicholas, when you wish to be. I knew I was going to fall for you—^just as I knew I was going to get hurt." She blinked several times. "I have fallen in love with you."
    He refrained from sighing. "I am sorry."
    "Sorry," she echoed. She glanced up. "Is it because of her? Your wife? Do you love her? She is so terribly beautiful. And who was that man she was with?"
    He stared. He had no intention of telling her the truth, that no, he did not love his wife