Marguerite covered her mouth to stem a cry and he pulled her close.

"You ask too much," she whispered, studying his features for some hint of deception. "And you have nothing to offer in return."

"I have my heart," he said softly, stroking across her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "It may not be worth much. Still, it is yours and yours alone."

"Liar," she spat, striking out in self-defense, painfully wounded by the flare of fruitless hope his words evoked. "You are a consummate seducer and I have resisted you. Now an acquaintance of yours is about to best you. That is the driving force of your interest."

"You do not believe that."

"I do." Wrenching away, she fled the room.

For several nights after, Marguerite took great pains to avoid him, a vain and belated attempt to kill her growing fascination with a man who could never be hers. She claimed illness for as long as possible, but eventually, she could remain hidden no longer.

When next they met, she was shocked by his appearance. His handsome features were drawn, his mouth tight, his skin pale. Her heart ached at the sight of him. He stared at her a long taut moment, then jerked his gaze away.

Worried, she deliberately stood in an intimate corner and waited for him to approach her.

"Belong to me," he said hoarsely, coming up behind her. "Do not make me beg."

"Would you?" The question came out as no more than a whisper, her throat too constricted to allow volume. His nearness caused tingles to sweep over her skin in a prickling wave, creating a sharp contrast to the numbness she had felt the last week. That their minuscule interactions had come to mean so much was frightening. But the thought of not having them at all was even more terrifying.

"Yes. Come with me."

"When?"

"Now."

Abandoning everything she knew, Marguerite left with him. He took her to the residence he presently occupied, a small house in a respectable neighborhood.