Marguerite kept her gaze straight ahead, but every nerve ending tingled from his boldness. Her breath was short, her skin hot. Although she could not see him, she felt the weight of his regard and it affected her to an alarming degree. "You know of women more beautiful than I," she retorted.

"No." His husky, lowered voice stilled her heartbeat. Then, made it race. "I do not."

There was sincerity in his tone. Against better sense she believed in it, a faith she held close to her heart when summoned to her mother's parlor the next morning.

"Do not entertain girlish notions regarding Saint-Martin," the baroness ordered. "I was witness to the way he looked at you, and how you admired him in return."

"All the women present were admiring him, even you."

Her mother rested her arm along the back of the chaise she occupied. Despite the relative earliness of the hour, her face and wig were already liberally powdered, and her cheeks and lips were rouged a lush pink. In the soft silver and white decor of her private sitting room, the baroness's pale beauty was showcased to advantage, which was by design.

"You, my youngest daughter, are to be a wife. Since the marquis already enjoys the wedded state with another, you must set your aim elsewhere."

"How can you be certain Saint-Martin enjoys it? Their marriage was arranged."

"As yours will be if you do not heed me," the baroness continued with a note of steel in her voice. "Your sisters made fine matches, which frees me to give you more license. Use it wisely, or I will choose your spouse without consulting you. Perhaps the Vicomte de Grenier? He is rumored to be similarly randy, if that is your attraction, but he is younger and therefore more malleable."

"Maman!"

"You are not equipped to manage a man of Saint-Martin's ilk. He sweetens his tea with naive girls such as you and then gorges on less refined tarts."