Death faced them head-on.

Hilton hauled on his reins.

Dermott smiled and shot past.

An hour later the earl dropped into a sprawl at one of the gaming tables in Molly Crocker's opulent brothel, said "Hilton just lost ten thousand on our race from Crawley," and accepted the congratulations of his friends. He was soaked to the skin, his dark hair falling in damp, windswept curls to the limp linen of his shirt collar, his powerful body blatantly obvious beneath his wet, clinging clothing, his broad smile evidence of his high good spirits.

"So Hilton owes you ten thousand," a young man drawled.

"He does indeed." Dermott's grin was infectious. "He pulled off."

Another man looked up from perusing his cards. "He never did have your nerve."

Dermott shrugged. "Danner Curve changed his mind."

"You could have been killed!" one of the lovely ladies surrounding the gaming table cried out. The earl was a great favorite at Molly's, and the dangers of that section of road were well known.

"Now, why would I take a chance on being killed with you to come back to, darling Kate," Dermott replied with a smile. Catching a servant's eye, he signaled for a drink.

"Hilton's going to want a rematch." Everyone knew of the rivalry between the two men.

"As long as he pays, I'm willing."

"He don't like to pay."

"Too bad." Dermott had a habit of seducing the ladies Hilton fancied, although their dislike of each other had begun long before at Eton. "His papa left him plenty."

Kate had moved to Dermott's side. "You're going to be wanting a bath." Her voice had taken on a huskiness and, leaning over, she brushed his cheek with a kiss.

Lazily lifting his arm, Dermott gently cupped the back of her head and, turning his face, kissed her back. "Give me a half hour, darling, to drink some of Molly's fine brandy," he murmured a moment later, his breath warm against her mouth.