The Prince of Pleasure (Notorious 5)

She had tried once. Two years after her mother's death she had taken a lover on her own terms-another actor. His sweet passion had satisfied her physically, but he had never aroused in her the kind of hot, intense, overwhelming hunger she'd known with Dare. And the intimacy was missing. She had hungered for the emotional closeness that went beyond sex, the tender fulfillment that transcended the corporeal.

She had eventually broken off the affair, unwilling to settle for less. Carnal love, she had discovered, couldn't relieve true loneliness of the soul or quench the need for real love, and she would no longer attempt to manufacture a substitute.

She had kept her heart and her bed empty ever since, and even found a measure of peace with her decision. Yet she had sworn that never again would she be compelled to endure a protector. That was why she was so determined to earn a substantial income from her acting: so she would never have to prostitute herself again. So she could have the independence that only wealth could provide. With enough money she would be free to make her own choices.

But now Dare had offered to pay her to whore for him. Pain lashed at her again at the memory.

Fiercely Julienne dashed away the streaks of wetness on her cheeks, reminding herself that Dare was nothing more than a self-serving, licentious rakehell. And in one respect, she was glad he had made his hurtful suggestion, for it helped her renew her resolve.

She intended to win their damned wager. If it took her last breath, she would have his heart on a platter.

Dare was so certain he would conquer her, but she would show him otherwise. If he wanted a war of wills, she would give him one.

She had to, simply to protect herself. She would summon all her powers of seduction to gain mastery over him… She would wait until he declared his love publicly and handed her the victory. Then she would crush his heart beneath her heel without a qualm.

Only then would their hurtful charade come to an end and she could put Dare out of her life forever.

She would finally be free of him. And that was what she desperately wanted.

Wasn't it?

Chapter Eight

Dare had never known such frustration. He'd returned to London three days ago, after his house party ended, not only lacking any further clues to Caliban's identity but having come no closer to winning his wager with Julienne. And game or no game, he wanted her in his bed.

Getting her there willingly, though, was proving an exercise in futility. Indeed, he'd clearly suffered a setback by suggesting that Julienne use her charms to ferret out Riddingham's secrets.

He hadn't intended to make such a misstep, but his possessive male instincts had interfered with his rational mind. Julienne had accused him of being jealous, and he was. Intensely so. His blood had boiled that day on the cliffs as he watched Riddingham entice a husky ripple of laughter from her. The tender scene had inflamed him, rousing bitter memories of seven years ago-of discovering Julienne and Ivers together, of learning they were lovers.

Momentarily blinded by rage, Dare found himself lashing out at her, offering her a financial incentive that most actresses would have been pleased to accept. Not Julienne, however. She had seemed taken aback and even offended by his proposition.

His relief at her refusal was overwhelming. He didn't want Riddingham or any other man touching her. And Dare knew he could never have forgiven himself if his reckless resentment had driven her into his rival's arms.

He couldn't deny, either, his vast feeling of relief that Julienne hadn't warned Riddingham of his investigation. Her forbearance didn't totally prove her innocence, of course, but it was looking less and less likely that she was the accomplice of a traitor.

After he'd proposed the viscount's seduction, the change in her had been noticeable. Since their return to London, Dare had kept up the steady crusade of his public wooing of Julienne-at the theater, during another of Madame Brogard's afternoon salons, as a member of a party that escorted Julienne to the British Museum to view an exhibit. But whereas before Dare had detected a hint of vulnerability, of softness, in her dark eyes whenever she was with him, now she was as cool and calculating as any courtesan.

When he'd handed her a bank draft for one thousand pounds-her earnings for attending his house party-she had tucked it in her bosom with a faintly brittle, beguiling smile that had given him an immediate arousal.

He'd never seen this side of her, never seen her behavior so deliberately, wantonly provocative. Julienne had flirted and teased him unmercifully while holding him at arm's length.

It was driving him wild.

He had only himself to blame, Dare knew. The Jewel had become the fashion among the fast set, in part because of his pursuit. He found it difficult to infiltrate her usual entourage long enough even to speak to her.

Thus, when he managed to persuade her to take a drive in the park with him the following afternoon, Dare felt as if he had scored a major victory.

He called on Julienne at her lodgings on Montague Street, but she kept him waiting for nearly twenty minutes before finally deigning to appear-another deliberate provocation, he didn't doubt.

His pulse quickened at the sight of her, she looked so fresh and lovely. Her carriage dress of pale yellow muslin and leaf green spencer were reminiscent of spring, though the April day was cool and overcast.

"Miss Laurent, you leave me breathless," he said as he handed her into his curricle.

She gave him an alluring smile. "That is certainly my intent, my lord."

"I thought we were beyond such formal terms of address. My name is Dare."

"I would never presume to be so familiar," she replied, lightly mocking.