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“I am fully aware of that,” Sinclair said in flat tones, yet still not able to disguise some of the pain her words dealt him.

She glanced around at him quickly, some of her anger appearing to dissolve. Heaving a deep sigh, she pushed herself away from the table. “I am sorry, Sinclair. I did not mean that.”

She crossed the room to his side. After a moment’s hesitation she placed her palms lightly against the flat of his chest. A smile crooked her lips. “It is only that you can be so damnably stubborn, Mr. Carrington.”

“So can you, Mrs. Carrington.” Although he half-returned her smile, he forced himself to remain unyielding beneath her touch. “I thought you had agreed to abandon this impossible task. I wish I knew what really happened to make you almost desperate to go through with it again.”

“I told you. I saw that playbill. It gave me the idea to?—”

“I wonder.” Sinclair regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Or did it have more to do with something he said to you today?”

He could feel the sudden tension in the soft hands that rested against his chest.

“I suppose,” he said bitterly, “you will tell me it is none of my concern what Varens wanted of you.”

Her hands fell away from him. She took a step back. “He wanted nothing. Only to apologize for his behavior at the reception—that is all.”

“Was it? I feared that perhaps the noble idiot finally realized what he had thrown away when he let you go.”

Her indignant glance should have stopped him, but he had gone through far too many agonies of jealousy and suspicion while waiting for Belle’s return. He feared if he did not release some of it, he would explode.

“Perhaps Varens is the reason for your sudden eagerness to make your plan work at all costs. You are no longer thinking of a little cottage in Dorsetshire, are you, Belle? Maybe it has occurred to you that with Bonaparte gone, Varens might get his estates back and you could be his countess again. And you expect me to risk my neck to help you.”

Her throat constricted. “I don’t expect anything from you—ever again.” Whipping away from him, she strode to the door that connected their bedchambers and yanked it open. “I think you had better go.”

“Right.” He marched toward the door, but when he reached the threshold, he hesitated. He glanced down at Belle, her face so pale, the set of her jaw so obdurate, yet the misery roiling in her eyes matched the turmoil he felt in his own soul.

Ever cool in his relations with women, he was not accustomed to these gnawing feelings of anger, the suspicion that he was behaving like an ass.

“Oh, hell.” He expelled his breath in an explosive sigh. Prying her fingers from the knob, he eased the door closed. He gave her a rueful smile. “We have really gotten our parts down well, Angel. We are even starting to sound married.”

His remark choked a reluctant laugh from her. When he held out his arms, she cast herself into them. He strained close, burying his face against her hair.

“I told you once that I did not mind about Varens, but he is not just a memory anymore, is he? And I am very much afraid—” Sinclair drew in a deep breath and then took the plunge. “I have fallen in love with you.”

“Oh, Sinclair.” She gazed up at him, earnestly scanning face. “I wish that I could tell you how I feel, but I am so confused. Nothing is clear to me anymore.”

Her arms tightened about his neck, and she rested her head wearily against his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Angel. You don’t have to try to say anything.

We agreed from the beginning, no promises, no forevers.

But no matter how things turn out between us—” Sinclair felt his jaw tighten as he pleaded, “Don’t go back to Varens.

He’s bad for you, Belle. You don’t belong in his artificial world of dreams. You are too strong, too real for that. ”

“I am not planning to go off with anyone,” she said.

“He has not even asked me. But there was some truth to what you said earlier. I would like to see him regain his estates, at least some part of what he has lost. But that is not my only reason for wanting to go ahead with the plan against Bonaparte.”

“Forget Bonaparte. Forget Varens,” Sinclair groaned. He forced her face up to his. “For this one last night, just be mine.”

He crushed her mouth beneath his in a kiss that was hard and long, only breaking off to continue the feverish caress along the soft white column of her throat.

He felt Belle stiffen with surprise, resistance at first of this fierce onslaught, only to give way with a burst of passion that matched his own.

They clung, kissed, tumbled to the bed, and embraced in a manner that was little short of desperate.

The tenderness, the playful skill that had always graced their previous couplings was gone.

Sinclair bore but one determination. If he could drive Jean-Claude from Belle’s heart with the ferocity of his loving, he would do it.

And she responded eagerly, her own desire as savage as though equally determined to forget.

Yet when they at last lay spent in each other’s arms, they experienced none of the usual glow of satisfaction. Belle drew away from him, and they rested side by side, without touching. And when their eyes met, it was clear that Jean-Claude was yet very much with them. Nothing had been resolved.