Excerpt of Fire Inside by Kat Martin

Chapter One

London,England - 1805

Reckless — that's what she is. The girl is simply too wild
and reckless for any respectable young man to marry." Thin
gray eyebrows lifted in disapproval, Lady Dempsey peered
through her jeweled lorgnette to examine the red-haired
girl standing next to the punch bowl. "There was a time,
you know, she was the darling of the ton. Her father must
be terribly disappointed."

"Indeed," Lady Sarah agreed. "Why, the rumors I've
heard..." She shook her head. "It's a good thing her
mother — poor dear woman — isn't alive to see."

Over the top of a potted palm in the Earl of Winston's
ornate Mayfair town house, Clayton Harcourt studied the
object of the women's scorn. He knew Kassandra Wentworth,
had met her four years ago when she was first introduced
into the marriage mart. Now, well on her way to one-and-
twenty, Kitt had been on the shelf far too long to be
fashionable, and her father, the Viscount Stockton, was
determined to bring the matter to an end.

Clay watched her as he had a dozen times in the past few
months, with frank male interest and a faint, mildly
disturbing heaviness in his groin. She was an incredible
mix of woman and girl, innocently seductive with her lush
breasts, big green eyes, and glorious red hair. When she
laughed, there was nothing missish about it. The sound
rang with a husky note that spoke of blossoming womanhood
and a candor he somehow found refreshing.

Not that he would ever let her know. From the moment they
had met, the two of them had been oil and water. As Lady
Dempsey said, the girl was far too reckless, too
stubbornly independent. Whatshe needed was a man strong
enough to take her in hand.

Unfortunately, since he was definitely not in the market
for a wife, he wouldn't be that man.

"She is quite something, isn't she?"

Clay recognized the timbre of his father's voice but his
eyes remained on the girl. "She's something, all right.
Stubborn and willful. Too bloody outspoken for her own
good."

"Yes, she is. Perhaps that is the reason I liked her from
the first moment I met her."

Clay looked over at the man who had sired him, Alexander
Barclay, sixth Duke of Rathmore. The father who had been
generous in his financial support, in some ways even his
affections, but refused to grant him the legitimacy of his
name.

"You've always had an eye for beauty, Your Grace. The girl
is certainly that."

"That and more," the duke agreed. He took a drink of
brandy from the snifter he cradled in a still-strong
hand. "Stockton wishes to see her wed."

"I believe you've mentioned that."

"I suppose I may have done so."

"And seeing as how you and the viscount are in business
together, as well as politically aligned in the House of
Lords, you would like very much to please him."

"I presume you are referring to the fact I suggested you
make an offer for her."

A corner of Clay's mouth curved up. "You may presume that,
yes."

"I like the girl, blast it! For the right man, Kassandra
Wentworth would make a very fine wife."

"I believe you mentioned that as well."

"Since you are so bloody good at remembering what I
mentioned, do you also remember the proposal I made you
some months back — the very lucrative proposal —
concerning the matter of a marriage between the two of
you?"

"How could I forget?" Clay lifted a glass of champagne
from a passing silver tray. The servant, in blue and
silver livery, disappeared in the crush around them. "You
and Stockton are that eager to see her settled?"

"Dammit, just once, is it possible you might believe I
simply have your welfare in mind? You need a wife.
Kassandra needs a husband. I believe the two of you would
suit very well."

Clay scoffed. "You're not serious? We can't be alone in
the same room without wanting to kill each other."

The duke's features softened and a look of fond
remembrance crept into his eyes. "Your mother and I were
that way. We loathed each other on sight — or tried to
convince ourselves we did. We battled the attraction, the
incredible pull between us. We wouldn't even admit it to
ourselves." He sighed and shook his head. "God, I miss
that woman. I've missed her every day since the day she
died."

Clay studied his father's face, still handsome, though the
man was over sixty. The duke rarely spoke of Rachael
Harcourt, Clay's mother, the woman who was his mistress
for more than twenty years. She had died sixteen years
ago, when Clay was just fourteen. The memory of the lonely
years that followed still lingered, though he kept them
neatly locked away.

His thoughts drifted back to his father and Rachael
Harcourt. Was it possible to love a woman that much? If it
was, Clay had certainly never experienced the feeling,
though he was surely no stranger to lust. He returned his
gaze to Kassandra Wentworth and felt the same pull of
attraction, the soft tug of desire that she always seemed
to stir.

Rathmore's gaze followed his. "She has spirit, that girl.
She would give you strong, intelligent sons."

"She's wild and headstrong. Someone needs to take her in
hand."

The duke cocked a silver-brown eyebrow. "Are you saying
that you, a man of your vast experience with women, aren't
up to the challenge?"

Clay laughed. "Oh, I'm up to it. If she weren't an
innocent — and your friend Stockton's daughter — she would
likely find herself in my bed."

Rathmore chuckled softly. "So you do find her attractive."
He was nearly as tall as Clay with the same wide shoulders
and dark brown hair, though the duke's was now dashed with
gray.

"I'm not blind, Your Grace." Clay looked so much like the
duke there was no denying his parentage, yet Rathmore had
never openly acknowledged him or publicly called him son.
As a boy, he'd been resentful. As a man, he understood. Or
at least told himself he did. "With all that curly red
hair, and skin like fresh cream, the girl is quite lovely.
If she only had a disposition to match."

Rathmore's gaze flicked toward the punch table, where
Kassandra stood talking to their host, the stout little
Earl of Winston. He laughed at something she said.

"She's full of fire, I'll grant you that."

Kitt smiled, her lush mouth parting, showing a row of
small white teeth, and a soft lick of heat curled low in
Clay's belly.

"Personally," the duke went on, "I've always rather liked
a little fire in a woman."

Clay made no reply. He liked that, too. Perhaps it was the
reason he found Kitt so attractive. But dammit, he wasn't
willing to marry the girl just to satisfy his itch to have
her.

Across the way, Kassandra accepted the arm the earl
offered and gave him another of her warm, sunny smiles.
Turning, she let him lead her away.

"They're headed for the gaming room," his father said,
watching their progress across the crowded floor. "Girl
loves to gamble. Your mother did, too. Would have broken a
less wealthy man, though she finally learned to play well
enough not to lose."

Clay watched Kitt Wentworth disappear down the hall to
Winston's gaming room. Unlike his mother, Kitt had a
natural aptitude for cards. She was a damned good player;
not as good as he was, of course, but better than most of
the men he gamed with at the club. He set his glass down
on an ornate silver tray.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I think I feel the urge
to play a few hands myself."

This time his father frowned. "May I remind you — as you,
yourself, so cleverly pointed out — the girl is yet
untried. If you have any notion of seducing her, you had
better bear that in mind."

Clay just smiled. He wasn't completely convinced Kitt was
as innocent as his father believed. He remembered the
night he had stumbled across her at a boxing match in
Covent Garden. At first he hadn't realized the young lad
staring into the ring with such fascination was a girl.
Then he had heard her laughter, noticed the feminine
curves outlined by a pair of snug men's breeches, looked
behind the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a
very small, slightly freckled nose, and recognized
Kassandra Wentworth.

He had hauled her and her young companion, Lady Glynis
Marston, out of there as fast as he could, though Kitt
argued all the way, and ushered them safely back home.

That was three years ago, but she was still just as
daring, and a woman who took those sorts of chances —
well, who knew what else she might be willing to do.
Unfortunately, whether or not she was a virgin, Kitt was
the daughter of a viscount and unwed, which, without
marriage, put her well out of his reach.

And yet Clay kept walking, striding across the noisy salon
toward the room down the hall, anticipating a game of
cards that was certain to keep him entertained.