"I should like to know you. I need to know you. From the moment I first saw you, I have been unable to think of anything else."

"There is no way."

"If I found the means, would you indulge me?"

She swallowed hard, knowing what her answer should be but unable to say it. "Your lust will pass," she managed.

Saint-Martin released her and backed away, his jaw taut. "This is not lust."

"What is it, then?"

"An obsession."

Marguerite watched the deliberation with which he pulled his glove back on, one finger at a time, as if he needed the delay to reclaim his control. Could she believe that he was as affected by the attraction between them as she was?

"I will find a way to have you," he rasped, then he bowed and left her.

She watched him move away, shaken and yearning.

Over the next few months he chipped away at her resistance in that intense, focused manner. Seeking out whatever stray moments he could. Asking a question or two about her life, tidbits that told her he followed her activities with avid interest.

Until her mother grew impatient and followed through with her threat to select the Vicomte de Grenier as Marguerite's husband-to-be. A few months earlier, Marguerite might have been pleased. The vicomte was young, handsome, and wealthy. Her sisters and friends exclaimed over her good fortune. But in her heart, she pined for Saint-Martin.

"Do you want de Grenier?" the marquis asked gruffly after following her to a retiring room.

"You should not ask me such questions."

He stood behind her in the mirror, his face hard and austere. "He is not for you, Marguerite. I know him well. We have spent more than one evening in the same questionable establishments."

"You seek to counsel me against a man who resembles you?" She sighed when he growled. "You know I have no choice."

"Belong to me instead."