Georgina wasn't ignorant of lovemaking. She'd overheard her brothers too many times discussing such things in plain and sometimes crude terms not to have gathered a general idea about how it was done.

But she hadn't associated that with what was happening to her—until now, when she felt his body with all of hers, skin to skin, heat feeding heat.

She didn't even wonder how or when he'd finished her disrobing. She realized she was now as na**d as he, but she was feeling too many other things to be embarrassed. He was on top of her, pressing her down, surrounding her in a purely dominant way. Vaguely she thought she ought to be crushed, brick wall that he was, but she wasn't, not at all. His large hands were holding her face while he kissed her and kissed her, slowly, tenderly, then with scorching intensity. His tongue delved, tasted her, let her know the taste of him.

She didn't want any of this to stop, what he was doing, what she was feeling, and yet ... shouldn't she stop it, at least make an effort to? To succumb knowingly, and she was reasonably certain now where this was leading, was to agree and accept. But did she? Really and truly?

How could she know for sure when she could barely put two thoughts together? Set her ten feet away from him, no, make that twenty, and she'd know. But right now, she liked the fact that there wasn't even an inch separating them. Oh, God, she must have succumbed already. She just didn't know it. No! She had to make an effort to be sure, for the sake of the conscience that was going to ask "What happened?"

tomorrow.

"Captain?" she got out between kisses.

"Hmmm?"

"You're making love to me?"

"Oh, yes, my darling girl."

"Do you really think you should?"

"Absolutely. It's the cure, after all, for what's been ailing you."

"You can't be serious."

"But I am. Your nausea, dear girl, was nothing more than a healthy desire ... for me."

She wanted him? But she didn't even like him. Yet that would explain perfectly why she was enjoying this so much. Obviously, one didn't have to like the object of one's passion. And she had her answer.

Talking, concentrating, getting her mind off what she was feeling, if only for a minute, hadn't made any of it go away. It was all still there and wildly exciting. Yes, she wanted him, at least this one time.

You have my permission to proceed, Captain.

She didn't say it aloud, for he would only be amused, and she didn't want to amuse him just now. The thought had been for her conscience anyway. She communicated the same thing, however, subtly, by wrapping her arms around him. And he took the hint, quite swiftly, in fact.

Exciting? Not nearly explicit enough. He settled between her legs, and everything inside her seemed to roll over to make room for him. His lips returned to hers, then moved down her neck, down to her breasts. He raised himself. She regretted that. She liked his weight. But there was compensation, more pressure below, and, God, the heat there. And she could feel him, thick and hard, pressing into the heat, so tight, filling her, thrilling her. She knew his body, knew just what was entering hers. She wasn't afraid. .

. but then, no one had ever told her it would be painful.

She gasped, mostly in surprise, but there was no denying it. That had hurt.

"Captain, did I mention that I've never done this before?"

His weight had returned to her, had more or less collapsed on her. His face was turned toward her neck, his lips hot on her skin there.

"I believe I've just discovered that on my own," she just barely heard him say. "And I think it would be permissible for you to call me James now.''

"I'll consider it, but would you mind terribly if I asked you to stop now?"

"Yes."

Was he laughing? His body was certainly shaking.

''Was I too polite?'' she wanted to know.

There was no doubt that he was laughing now, loudly and clearly. "I'm sorry, love, I swear I am, but . . .

Good God, the shock. You weren't supposed to be ... that is, you were too passionate . . . Oh, bloody hell."

"Stuttering, Captain?"

"So it seems." He raised up to lightly brush his lips across hers before he grinned down at her. "My dear, there's no need to stop now, even if I could. But the damage is done, and your virgin's pain is over." He moved in her to prove it, and her eyes flared, for the movement was nothing but sensually pleasant. "So do you still want me to stop?"

This is for you, conscience."No."

"Thank God!"

His obvious relief made her smile. The kiss he treated her to then made her groan. Accompanied bythe slow movement of his hips, the sensations built again gradually, but escalated and surpassed anything she'd felt before, until the crowning glory was upon her, exploding in tiny shocks that left her dazed.

She'd cried out, but the sound had gone from her mouth to his, and as his own cl**ax was reached, was given right back to her.

Still dazed, Georgina was having difficulty believing she'd felt what she did, that anything could feel like that. But she held fast to the man who had shown her what her body was capable of. Feelings of gratitude and tenderness mixed with something else that made her want to thank him, kiss him, tell him how magnificent he'd been, how euphoric she felt now. She didn't, of course. She just continued to hold him, occasionally she caressed him, finally she kissed his shoulder so softly, he couldn't possibly have noticed. But he did notice. James Malory, connoisseur of women, jaded aristocrat, was in such a state of heightened awareness, he felt each and every little movement the girl made, and was touched by her tenderness more than he cared to admit. He'd never felt anything like it, and it was bloody well frightening.

Chapter Twenty-two

"I understand now why people do this sort of thing."

James sighed in relief. That was just what he needed to hear, some silly bit of nonsense to put things in their proper perspective. She was just a wench, albeit a prime piece. But she was no different from any other woman he'd set out to seduce. With the challenge gone, there was nothing left to hold his interest.

So why didn't he get off her and send her back to her own bed? Because he bloody well didn't want to yet.

He rose up to his elbows to gaze down at her. Her skin was still flushed, her lips appeared well-ravaged.

With his finger he gently tried to sooth them. And there was a soft look in her velvety-brown eyes that for some reason delighted him. It certainly wasn't a look he was accustomed to from her. Usually her eyes expressed her nervousness, or frustration, or outright irritation, so amusing in her lad's disguise ... By God, he'd forgotten about that, her masquerade, her reasons for it. There was still the mystery of her to hold his interest, wasn't there?

"This sort of thing, George?"

The fact that his brow went up told her more plainly than words that she'd amused him. Well, so what?

The mannerism wasn't quite so annoying just now, either. "That wasn't very romantic sounding, wasit?"

she inquired softly, feeling incredibly shy all of a sudden.

"Not very loverlike, either, but I didn't miss the point, dear girl. You enjoyed yourself, did you?"

She couldn't quite manage to say the word, so she nodded, then felt a delicious thrill at the smile he bestowed on her. "Did you?" Georgie! Are you mad to ask him that? "I mean—"

He threw back his head in laughter, rolled to the side, but brought her with him. She was now looking down at him, a bit more in control in this new position, until he opened his legs and she slid between them.

"What am I going to do with you, George?"

He was still laughing, and hugging her to him. She didn't really mind his amusement, except, as usual, she'd missed the joke.

"You could stop calling me George, to begin with."

As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't. She went very still, hoping she hadn't brought her deception to mind with that remark. But he became just as still. The smile was still there, but the change in him was almost palpable. The sardonic autocrat was back.

"And what, pray tell, should I call you? By your true name perhaps?"

"Georgie is my true name."

"Try again, sweet, and this time make me believe you." No answer. In fact, her expression became quite mulish. "Ah, so I'm going to have to drag it out of you, am I? Shall I bring on the instruments of the Inquisition, whips and racks and all that?"

"That isn't funny," she retorted.

"I daresay you wouldn't think so, but I might find it entertaining . . . No, don't squirm, love. It feels delightful, but I'm in the mood for explanations just now. And why don't we begin with the reason for your charade."

She sighed and laid her head on his chest. "I had to leave England."

"Were you in trouble?"

"No, I just couldn't stand it there another day."

"Then why didn't you leave in the customary fashion, by purchasing passage?"

"Because the only ships crossing the Atlantic were English."

"I imagine that's supposed to make sense. Give me a moment and I might figure it out . . . then again, I might not. What the deuce is wrong with English ships?"

She leaned up to frown at him. " You wouldn't find anything wrong with them, but I happen to despise all things English."

"Do you indeed? And am I included in that package?"

When his brow went up this time, she had the greatest urge to yank it back down. "You were. I haven't made up my mind whether you still are."

He grinned, then chuckled. "I'm beginning to see the light, George. You wouldn't happen to be one of those hotheaded Americans, would you? That would certainly account for the accent I haven't been able to place."

"And what if I am?" she demanded defensively.

"Why, I'd consider locking you up, of course. Safest place for people who like to start wars so much."

" We didn't start—"

He kissed her silent. Then, holding her head in both hands, he kissed her thoroughly, until she was breathless enough for him to announce, "I'm not going to argue dead issues with you, dear girl. So you're an American. I can forgive you for that."

"Why you—"

What works is worth repeating, James had always found, so he silenced her with another kiss, and kept this one up until she was quite dazed. By then he was aroused himself, and sorry he'd teased her.

"I don't give a bloody damn what nationality you are," he said against her lips. "I wasn't involved in that ridiculous war, didn't support it or the policies that led to it. I was, in fact, living in the West indies at the time."

"You're still English," she said, but with very little heat now.

"Quite true. But we're not going to let that matter, are we, love?"

Because he asked while he was nibbling on her lips, she couldn't think of a single reason that it should matter. She gave him a whispered no, and began some nibbling of her own. She'd felt the change in his body when it occurred, and had an idea now what it meant. And in the back of her mind came the thought that the questioning might end if they made love again. Of course, the fact that those marvelous feelings were stirring inside her again had nothing to do with it.

But a while later, after the bedsheets were a bit more rumpled and she was once again rolled on top of him, though only partially this time, he said, "Now, shall we discuss how I felt upon discoveringthat you're a wench rather than the lad I took under my wing? My mortification in recalling the times you'd assisted me at my bath, the times that I ... disrobed in your presence?"

With it put that way, Georgina felt absolutely terrible. Her deception alone was bad enough, but much worse was allowing the captain to put himself unknowingly into positions that he now found embarrassing. She should have confessed the truth that very first day when he called her into the area of his bath. Instead, she had foolishly thought she could make it through the whole voyage without being found out.

He had every right to be furious with her, and so it was with a good deal of hesitancy that she asked,

"Are you very angry?"

"Not very, not anymore. I'd say IVe been adequately compensated for all embarrassments. In fact, you've just paid for your passage and anything else you'd like."

Georgina drew in her breath sharply in disbelief. How could he say something like that after the intimacy they'd just shared? Easily, you ninny. He's an Englishman, isn't he; an arrogant, blasted lord? And what did he call you? A wench, which says plain enough how lowly he thinks you.

She sat up slowly. By the time she looked down at him, her features set in lines of fury, there wasn't a single doubt in James's mind that she felt insulted.

"You could have waited until morning before you got nasty again, you son of a bitch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"As well you should!"

James reached for her, but she bounded off the bed.

He tried to explain, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded, George."

She whirled around to glare down at him. "Don't call me that!"

He was beginning to see the absurdity in what was happening, which kept his voice calm as he pointed out. "Well, you haven't given me your name yet, you know."

"It's Georgina."

"Good Lord, you've my utter sympathy. I'll stick with George, thank you."

Was that supposed to coax a smile from her? With the expression of feigned horror that accompanied it, it almost did. But not quite. That crack about having paid for her passage hurt.