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“No, my brother. You're the odds-on favorite to win tomorrow, you know,” she said, her smile warm.

  “I hope you're right. The course is formidable.” It was a modest reply by a man who'd outclassed everyone in the field, and had ridden the course the previous year in record time.

  “Did your horses get in yet?”

  “Came down yesterday from Louisville.”

  “Where you won the Oxmoor.”

  “A bit of luck, actually.”

  Juliana had heard otherwise. On a treacherous course where only four of the original twenty riders finished, the count had ridden so aggressively in mud left over from two days of rain that bets had been taken on which hurdle would account for his broken neck. “I hear you may decide to settle in America,” Juliana went on hurriedly, for Bernadotte's glance was beginning to stray.

  “I may,” he said absently, his attention drawn to a spectacular redhead in cream lace and diamonds who was bearing down on him.

  “There's an estate for sale next to ours. If you'd like, I'll show it to you Wednesday.”

  “Thank you. I'll let you know,” he politely replied and turned to greet his old friend Mrs. Percy-Wilson.

  The day after the Hunt Cup race, Bernadotte's manservant woke him after the all-night celebration of his win and informed him that Miss Carrville was waiting in the parlor downstairs. She'd come to show him a nearby house on the market.

  “Give her my excuses, Anders… politely.”

  “Miss Carrville already advised me she isn't leaving until she sees you.” Anders coughed discreetly, but didn't so much as glance at the lady sleeping next to his master. “She's prepared to join you up here, sir.” Anders had considerable experience forestalling women and was paid handsomely for this important skill. He was very good in a standoff, but Miss Carrville was better. It had taken all his persuasion to keep her from following him upstairs. “I think you'll have to speak to her personally, sir.”

  Bernadotte groaned softly, cast a swift look at the drowsy Mrs. Percy-Wilson lying beside him, and decided she was not sufficiently awake to require an explanation. Quickly throwing on some clothes, he went downstairs to give his excuses to Miss Carrville personally.

  CHAPTER 6

  J uliana had decided to give her virginity to Count Fersten that day. The romantic notion was the first sexual goal for a girl normally consumed with her passion for riding. Perhaps this unusual stirring of emotion was related to the fact that Count Fersten was considered the finest amateur horseman in the world-a godlike figure, as far as Juliana was concerned.

  A less polite man may have succeeded in putting Miss Carrville out of his parlor, but Bernadotte had a natural courtesy that contributed in large part to his enduring charm. And, after all, Miss Carrville was divinely motivated.

  So while Mrs. Percy-Wilson slept off the fatigue of her champagne intoxication and sexual enthusiasms alone, Count Fersten accompanied Miss Carrville on a tour of Spring Green Manor. Everything had been arranged with a wealthy young woman's eye to sybaritic detail. Juliana wore yellow and white piquй, fresh and youthful against the golden glow of her Palm Beach tan. The sleeveless dress accentuated her slender arms, its neckline titillating yet still in good taste. She wore no underclothes, sure that they would only get in the way.

  Servants had been sent ahead to the empty country home. Juliana preferred using her own staff, although the present owners, who had moved to a larger estate to accommodate their expanding stable yard and nursery, had generously offered theirs.

  Juliana had gone to great lengths to discover the count's favorite country food and wines. He was astonished and said so when they rested on the south terrace after a tour of the house and grounds. Seated at a small, glass-topped table shielded from the slight breeze, they enjoyed an alfresco breakfast. After a night of drinking, the food piqued his appetite, and Bernadotte ate seriously until each taste was satisfied.

  “How did you know?” he asked when he finished, his tanned hand sweeping over the table. “Everything's perfect.”

  “Mental telepathy?” Juliana smiled, and her face took on an appealing softness.

  The count raised his brows skeptically and said, “A charming asset. Does it extend to my brand of cigarettes?” After a night of overindulgence, his urge for nicotine was reaching withdrawal proportions. Having hurriedly dressed to forestall Miss Carrville coming upstairs and meeting Mrs. Percy-Wilson without her makeup, he'd forgotten his cigarette case.

  “Northern Turkey, handled by Dunhill in London and Jasper in New York,” Juliana said with a studied carelessness.

  His brows rose again, this time in appreciation. “And you have some.”

  “Of course.” She reached over to a square Meissen box set next to the small vase of yellow roses and lifted the cover.

  “Have you forgotten anything?” he asked, reaching for a cigarette. His mouth curved into a smile. It was all very flattering, and she was pretty in a fresh, healthy schoolgirl way.

  “Champagne's chilling upstairs.”

  “Are you always so forward?” Although he was familiar with aggressive females, she somehow eluded the stereotype. They rarely came this young.

  “Never.” She pointed out the lighter.

  Never, he thought and immediately asked the obvious question. “How old are you?” He lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

  “Seventeen.”

  He exhaled the smoke slowly before he said, “I'm forty.”

  “I know.”

  “Seventeen's too young.”

  “Too young for what?” Juliana retorted.

  “Too young for chilled champagne upstairs.”

  “What if I was nineteen?”

  Bernadotte paused for a moment, considering.

  “See, you wouldn't say ‘no' right off if I was nineteen.”

  “I still would.”

  “No you wouldn't.”

  “I should.” His brows came together above his fine bridged nose. “That's damn young.”

  “Pretend I'm twenty.”

  “Where the hell are your parents?”

  “Dead.”

  “Guardian, then.”

  “My brother's sleeping off his hangover with someone else's wife. Don't ask me who. His social secretary has trouble keeping up.”

  “So you're on your own, keeping your own social secretary busy with musical beds.”

  “I've never slept with a man.”

  “Good Lord,” he said softly, but an ungovernable sensuality stirred at her admission. “Why me?” he asked, aware that he shouldn't be asking any more questions. He should be saying a polite good-bye.

  “You're beautiful,” Juliana said, staring at him.

  “No I'm not, but thank you.” Bernadotte was realistic about his looks. They were unconventional, severe in their modeling, slightly oriental across his cheekbones and eyes, sensual at times, but never beautiful.

  “And your body's perfection,” Juliana added, secure in her own assessment of Bernadotte despite his demur. Bernadotte had the physical presence of a natural athlete: broad-shouldered and muscular, with a leanness through his torso and hips, a classical symmetry personified. “You're one of the few men who can tower over me. Your size is unusual for an amateur rider.”

  “My family's bred the Fersten hunters for generations to accommodate the Fersten males,” he modestly replied. The Turkish leaf was soothing, like an old addiction, and Bernadotte relaxed against the wrought-iron chairback.

  “What does your horse carry?” she asked.

  “Ninety-three kilos.”

  “The course was wicked yesterday. You didn't make one mistake.”

  He smiled at her breathless flattery. “I've been riding competitively since I was eight.”

  “I ride at least four hours a day,” she responded, proud of her interest.

  “You hunt, then?”

  “All season.”

  “With the Grendale Valley?”

  “No, the Worthington. You're astonishing over
the jumps,” Juliana went on in a breathy voice. “Your balance is superb.”

  “My father's trainer taught me to walk a high wire. It makes balance in the saddle second-nature,” Bernadotte replied, more comfortable now that the conversation had returned to horses.

  “Would you go riding with me, someday?” The question was naked, her voice pleading, her eyes asking for more.

  The mood had altered suddenly. “I don't know how long I'll be staying,” he answered evasively, putting out his cigarette, thinking it was time to go.

  In her enthusiasm Juliana leaned forward, and her full breasts rose slightly above the shallow scooped neckline of her dress. “If you stay?” she persisted.

  “I'd like to, then,” he quietly replied, his dark eyes drawn to the soft, ivory curve of her breasts.

  “I could show you the river and Alder's Bluff and Crane's Nest and-” While she swiftly recited the points of interest in the Worthington Valley, Bernadotte's libido, at variance with his mind's commands, envisioned Miss Carrville's large breasts unclothed. “It would be fun to ride together,” Juliana blithely declared.

  Indeed, his carnal urges agreed. She was tall for a woman… and slender, except for those enormous breasts. Indeed, it would be a pleasure to ride her.

  “Say you will,” she urged a moment later.

  “I'd like that,” he said, and was startled out of his musing when she instantly stood, put out her hand to him, and invited, “Come, then.” Momentarily bewildered, he decided he must have missed something, but he took her small hand in his and asked, “Where?”

  “Upstairs.”

  He inhaled slowly, feeling the heat of her hand in his, feeling the silky smoothness of her skin against his calloused palm. “No,” he replied on a soft exhalation of breath, and let her hand drop. In the aftermath of a long night's drinking, every nerve, all sensation seemed acute and close to the surface. He could practically feel the damp heat of her body closing around him.

  “I don't have any underclothes on,” she said, coming over to stand beside him. He felt his erection rising. “See.” She lifted the yellow and white pique skirt, and suddenly he was inches away from smooth, tanned thighs and pale, satiny hair growing in a faint iridescence pathway up the sleek curve of her stomach.

  He should have said, “Put your skirt down,” but instead he murmured, “The servants-”

  “Sent home.”

  His hand delicately brushed against the pale silky hair. If she wasn't seventeen he wouldn't have asked again, “We're alone?” His dark eyes lifted to hers, and she nodded.

  His flaxen head bent to kiss the glossy golden thighs and silvery hair, and she moaned, a low, luxurious sound. Of their own accord his hands came up, and he grasped her gently by the hips.

  His palms felt rough on her skin; she'd noticed he'd ridden without gloves. Bare hands on the reins suited his style-no pretense. His touch was light, though, the barest pressure on her slim hips. But heated. She could feel his warmth. And she pressed into that warmth, wanted to be engulfed by the fire of this man whose reputation was torridly wild, whose daring skill as a rider balanced precariously between commanding his fate and plunging into the fires of hell. There were fires burning inside this man, and she wanted to dance in the flames.

  Feeling her move into his caress, his tongue slid deeper into her ready wetness. For an untried virgin, she was anything but timid. He tasted her sweetness, tightened his grip on the soft flare of her hips, and felt an unfamiliar impatience. He usually played at love with a jaded man's composure. Maybe it was the fresh air today or the fresh young girl; maybe it was the last of the champagne bubbles colliding in his bloodstream. Maybe she smelled like long lost innocence and artless desire. It didn't matter. The playboy of the leisured society of western Europe wanted this sweet, lush, horse-mad young woman, and he'd denied himself nothing in the last five years.

  His head lifted abruptly, leaving a coolness between her thighs. “Does this come off?” he asked, his lean fingers flicking lightly over the millefiori buttons gleaming on her bodice. It wasn't a question, but an order, and she let her skirt fall while she reached to undo the buttons.

  He didn't move to help but passively watched, sprawled back against the ornate, wrought-iron chair. Well, perhaps not altogether passively. Juliana glanced once at the elegant line where his casually splayed legs converged, and the enormous rise in the soft, dove gray flannels heightened the desire pulsing through her senses.

  The dress slipped off from her shoulders first, and Bernadotte felt himself quicken when her jutting breasts were exposed. Her nipples were erect, as though sculpted in pink marble. “Hurry,” he said. And she pushed the fabric over her hips, obedient to his urgent tone. Her obedience was a loving pleasure though, for she'd wanted him far longer than he'd felt the need for her. Count Bernadotte Fersten had been her hero for as long as she could remember.

  As her dress fell in jonquil folds about her feet, she stepped out of her sandals.

  Rising from the chair, Bernadotte took her hand, leading her the few scant feet to where the flagstone terrace met the lush, green lawn. Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her on the mouth for the first time.

  While the warm sun bathed her nude body and the count's powerful embrace held her tightly, she felt a delicious dizziness. Juliana had to lift her face to meet his mouth, arching her graceful throat. With shameless eagerness she opened her mouth to his demands, laced her arms tightly around his neck, and brushed her hips against his rigid arousal.

  She only did that once before she found herself beneath him on the lawn, her legs nudged wide while Bernadotte swiftly opened his trousers. With a craving that matched his own, she wanted him deeply inside her. It was all she'd thought of for years. His erection free, he entered her immediately, lacking his normal finesse, only murmuring “I'm sorry,” into the softness of her hair. Then, in the next instant, he buried himself with a low moan into her tight virgin passage.

  What a strange thing to say, she thought, smiling her welcome, luring and surrounding him with a natural instinct, capturing, at last, the lover of her adolescent dreams.

  He was moving inside her slowly, his eyes closed, his strong arms holding his weight lightly above her, his white silk shirt gathering grass stains at the elbows, his light-colored flannels ruined with green knees. The second strong thrust of his hips forced him so deeply inside her, she felt her toes tingle with pleasure. His rhythm was slow and instrusive, as though he had all day, as though the lady beneath him expected her pleasure to be prolonged. He'd learned of dalliance young, in both discreet and flamboyant boudoirs; to him, making love was like superb riding-a natural bent.

  Moving up, he pressed exactly where Juliana most felt the ripples of ecstasy. As her breathing changed, when the exhilaration of her senses forced her breath into small, quiet gasps and the first orgasmic quivers began, she breathlessly whispered, “I want your child.”

  He almost stopped midthrust, but his own pulsing tide was already racing toward a shattering climax and the threat of hell itself couldn't have stopped it. Buried deep inside her, he poured himself into her trembling warmth, and while she sighed in abandoned pleasure, he whispered, “No.”

  Juliana was infinitely more persuasive than a novice courtesan had any right to be and, before long, Bernadotte found himself upstairs in bed, sipping chilled champagne. She had a natural proclivity for pleasure, and since it was too late to retract the first offering of his lust, he decided you can only hang once.

  They spent the afternoon in bed, the evening as well, and he said, “Enough,” before she did. “I'm not seventeen, puss, and that's all I can do for you today.”

  Her warm tongue and soft lips put the lie to that pronouncement, several times more… but it was the phone that put an end to the hours of lovemaking. Her brother, it seemed, needed her to negotiate with one of his overwrought mistresses. When a crashing noise and a few heated comments vibrated across the wires, she agreed to come home and soothe the d
istraught woman.

  Her driver was asleep in the car, but he came awake amiably. She had Bernadotte driven home first. “Call me,” she said when they arrived at his lodgings. She kissed him lightly on his lean, tanned cheek.

  “If I stay,” he replied, brushing his fingertip gently across her bruised mouth.

  “I'm going to have your baby, so you really should call.”

  There was no suitable answer to her startlingly cheerful statement, so he simply said, “Thank you for a lovely day, Juliana.” Then he opened the door and walked away.

  He didn't call, of course. He very sensibly left Baltimore the following day.

  CHAPTER 7

  T hat summer, Bernadotte found a place like home. A landscape so similar to his ancestral country that he bought five thousand acres outright. He took Kirsti's picture with him the day after the purchase was completed, lifted it to the pine and birch forests and the rocky granite hills, and said, “We're home, sweetheart. At last.”

  His workmen had finished the masonry of the small country house and were beginning the interior plastering when Juliana called in August.

  “Your child is due in January.” Her voice was sunny, just as he remembered it.

  After a grimace of astonishment there was a short silence while he weighed his wishes against his obligations. “Where would you like the wedding?” he asked.

  “Baltimore,” she said. “Do you mind if it's large?”

  There was an infinitesimal pause this time, and then he answered, “No, of course not. Whatever suits you.”

  “Do you have a guest list?” she inquired.

  “No,” he said.

  “Is Friday next all right?”

  He briefly looked at the calendar on his desk near the phone, glanced around the unfinished room, thought something like this couldn't possibly be happening to him when he'd found peace at last, and quietly answered, “Friday next is fine.”

  They were married on a sultry August day before every friend and relative Juliana's family had ever known. Everyone at the reception agreed that: