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Prologue

Paris - 1785:

The young bride sat on the edge of the bed awaiting her groom. Exhausted, she yawned and fought to keep her eyes open. The long day had already taken its toll on her and she felt apprehensive about what was yet to come.

Oh, but she felt so tired! She'd sung lead in a three-act performance that morning, married in the afternoon--and then there was this evening's costumed reception.

The masked ball had been her husband's idea for the reception. The maestro lived his life as he did his music, always striving to be different. This quality had first attracted her to the mysterious older man. Too late did she discover this trait made life with him difficult.

Tonight, his dictatorial designs had reached new heights. The groom orchestrated the wedding, reception and wedding night as he would orchestrate acts in an opera. He'd chosen the costumes for each guest. At least five men were garbed in the same stag suit and mask as he, and an equal number of women were dressed exactly as she, in a flowing woodland fairy gown.

It didn't make sense that her individualistic husband wouldn't want them to stand out from their guests. She'd timidly tried to ask him about it, but he impatiently brushed her query aside, telling her not to impede the flow of his creative genius.

So now she waited like a lamb for slaughter, still masked, but now gowned in a diaphanous negligee of fairy green. She knew her part well as he'd drilled her on what he expected this night without cease for the last week.

To further prepare her, he had sent several of his more experienced female patrons to advise her on the loss of her virginity. These women had been embarrassingly frank, leaving little to the innocent girl's imagination. She knew what to expect all right and felt resentful about the manner in which the knowledge was imparted to her.

The door opened. She leapt to her feet to blow out the candle burning at the bedside. There, she had fulfilled the first condition of the evening. Now the room was lit by the celestial bodies of the heavens whose blessings the maestro said must be bestowed on their union.

Or some such rubbish like that--the bride had long since stopped trying to make sense out of her groom's ideas.

Indeed, she did not understand why this night had to be so staged. They were not to speak, they had to leave their masks on, and the room must be lit by starlight. Why?

She knew better than to ask and was too intimidated to try anyway. She had long since decided she would simply do her best to please him and hope for more rational evenings in their newlywed future.

A dark-horned silhouette entered the room. It loomed over her...large...misshapen...monstrous. She squeaked with fear as he roughly hauled her into his arms. His mouth lowered over hers with a hungry slap. This kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Indeed, her maestro had never given her more than a peck on the lips.

But this kiss seared, burned with passion. His hand went to her jaw and held her face in such a way her lips parted and allowed his tongue entrance to seek its plunder. Such roiling feeling his mouth induced--fear, heat, and a strange hungry need.

He let go with a growl and went to work at ridding her of her gown, shredding the thin material in his haste. Then he began doing things with his hands, lips and tongue. Her panic increased and she froze as he leisurely explored each inch of her body.

Without warning, he stopped and pushed her onto the bed, with an incoherent impatient sound. She lay with her fingers twisting into the bedspread, and watched as he shed his costume, save the mask and horns. His naked body gleamed in the starlight with bulges and hollows of musculature she had never dreamed her groom possessed.

As his shadow fell over her, like some demon come for her soul from the pits of hell, she averted her head and closed her eyes. His hand shot out and seized her wrists. Dragging her to the head of the bed, he covered her body with his.

She felt trapped--captured--for he did not let go of her arms as he began to scour the inside of her mouth again, his lips bruising hers with their rough urgency.

His bare skin felt hot and he tasted of heady brandy. She could feel her nipples harden as they rubbed against the mat of hair on his stone-hard chest. He still held her wrists prisoner with one hand, while the other deftly stroked her breasts, belly and hips.

She shuddered and quaked from the sensations his touch evoked. Her dazed mind could not decide if it was pleasure or fear that made her quiver so.

Without warning, his fingers parted the lips of her sex to mercilessly massage the slick center of her being. Her body arched and twisted in a futile attempt to escape. Her feeble resistance only served to enrage him. He forced her thighs apart with his knee and entered her with a brutal thrust. She screamed in a high arpeggio of pain and terror.

He stopped. The moment hung heavy, an agonizing pause in time without end. She moaned and began to cry.

She had known there would be pain involved this first time, true, but nothing had prepared her for this vicious stab. And his blade was still lodged inside her, pulsating with its hard, hot steel.

Then the maestro surprised her by breaking with his scenario. He reached up and removed her mask and veil, then spoke her name in a whisper of wonder. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. "I did not know."

He released her wrists and slowly withdrew from her. She covered her face with her hands, rolled over and continued to cry. She cried loud and long at the top of her operatic lungs, wailing all the while how sorry she was to have disappointed him. After a time without a comforting reply, she turned around and was stunned to discover he was gone.

She was alone. It was as if her husband had never been there....

Chapter One

Vienna - 1786:

Gwen held the last quivering note as long as possible, but had to let it tail away before the conductor cut her off. He glared at her and threw his baton down in disgust. The crowd rose to their feet in a thunderous ovation. "Diva! Diva!" they shouted. Her arms were outstretched, embracing the warmth of their applause.

For this brief moment, it did not matter that Werner scowled, that no joy awaited her in the wings. For this tiny space of time, Gwendoline Rhys Wilhelm was loved.

But as always, the moment flew by too quickly. Even as she accepted the flowers her admirers brought to the stage her elation began to fade.

Just before she left the boards, a footman rushed forward to shove a small box in her hand. This came as no surprise. She had known he was present this afternoon. She always knew. She could feel his eyes on her, watching every move, patient--and hungry, like a tiger stalking prey. The odd thing was she didn't have the slightest idea who her wealthy patron might be. He chose to remain anonymous, content to show his appreciation in expensive baubles and ardent poems of praise.

She treasured the words more than the trinkets although Werner was happy to accept the jewelry. She let out a disgusted snort. Most men would be insulted if their wives received such lavish gifts from strangers. Not Werner. He greedily took possession of each bauble to pawn it.

Juggling bouquets, Gwen tucked the box into her décolleté. Werner would not have this piece. It would join the last two, which were carefully hidden away. She'd decided she might have use for her admirer's gifts after all. "Gwendoline!" Werner growled. "Come here immediately!"

She sighed as she turned to face him. He was standing beside the sets for the next performance, a singspeil by Herr Mozart.

Ah, Herr Mozart! Now there was a man with some talent, although few of these daft, dull Viennese acknowledged it. If only Werner had one tenth of the man's inspiration, then maybe--she shrugged. What was the use? Werner was never going to change and that was that.

As she moved towards him, she said, "I take it my performance displeased you?"

His lips pinched into a thin, hard line. "You deliberately set out to sabotage me today. Did you not know the Emperor was here? Your voice was burred with flaws and I've seen better emoting from a statue."

She let out a dry laugh, "Then get yourself a statue, Werner. I vow the poor thing would shatter itself trying to please you."

"Dare you laugh at me, wife?" he snarled, seizing her wrist and sending her flowers tumbling to the floor.

Tears stung her eyes as she retorted, "So I am your wife now and not your diva? Since when, pray tell?"

A flicker of confusion lit his deep blue eyes. Good. It was high time this man had his conscience pricked. "Since we were married, my sweet," he said.

"Are we really married? You could have fooled me, meine Herr!"

He released her arm with a small shove. "I have no time for this nonsense. Count Pashenka is expecting me. You know how important his patronage--"

"Oh, of course. I should have known," she said. "Go! Fly to the side of your beloved patron. I swear, Werner, you'd think he was your wife since you spend more time with him than me."

He blanched and tried to grab her arm again, but she jerked it away. "Lower your voice," he hissed. "Haven't you humiliated me enough? What has gotten into you, Gwendoline? You've never dared speak to me like this before."

"Well, it's high time I did! I am tired of being played the fool. I want an end to all this dreary posturing between us."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

She stared at him a long time before she answered. Once, she had thought him handsome. His wild mane of curly blonde hair, his expressive sapphire eyes and slim, energetic frame had sent her senses reeling.

Now all she saw was a man as hard and cold as a glacier. His face was ever a mask of disapproval, and his talent--well, now that she was more able to be objective about his creations, she'd become firmly convinced his music would always be lifeless because the man had no soul. Her next words would prove if this was indeed true.

"I wish for an annulment," she announced, searching his face for a reaction.

No pain, no fury, nothing. All she saw in his eyes was a mild sort of irritation. "Why would you even think I would consent to such a thing?" he asked with an exasperated sigh.

Damn. She'd promised herself she would not cry, but now she was. "Because you do not love me, do not share a bed with me and have no use for my company," she sobbed. "There is no joy in our marriage. I beg you, please--please release me."

"Have you forgotten our work? You cannot tell me it means nothing to you."

"Not anymore, Werner. Music is not enough. Please, for both of our sakes, set me free."

He slapped her. Hard. The unexpected blow brought her to her knees. He grabbed her hair to force her to look up at him, but found himself holding the ridiculous powdered stage wig she wore instead.

With an oath, he threw the hairpiece down the hall, then bent to shout into her face. "There will be no annulment! Your voice belongs to me! Consign yourself to your fate because I will never set you free!"

He straightened, adjusting his brocaded waistcoat and took a deep calming breath. In a milder tone, he said, "I'm off to see the Count now. Would you care to join me?"

"I'd sooner die," she muttered.

"Fine. Then I shall see you in the morning." He started to walk away, but then paused, "We will not speak of this again. Do you understand, Gwendoline?"

"Yes, Werner."

He smiled smugly. "Good. Then I'll say good day to you, my dear." With that he was gone.

"Good-bye, Werner," she whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. She could not stop them. When she looked up, she realized several stagehands and performers were staring. She managed a trembling false smile for her impromptu audience. She needed to be alone to vent her utter misery. She wanted to scream. Lord, she wanted to howl! Slowly she climbed to her feet.

Mozart saved her. The opening strains of his overture caught the attention of the stage crew and they scurried to their positions. Gwendoline made her way through the backstage maze until she found a dusty abandoned carriage prop. She threw herself inside, buried her face in her hands and had a well-earned cry.

She cried all through the overture, but after the curtain went up and she heard Cynthia begin to sing, she sat up and listened to the wonderful music. It was only then she realized she was not alone. Across from her sat a young boy, his brown eyes regarding her somberly. "Why are you crying, Lady Diva?" he asked.

"Because I am miserable," she sniffed, blotting at her face with a sleeve. "Have you been sitting here the entire time?" The boy nodded. "Why didn't you tell me?" He shrugged and looked away. She stared at him and after a moment, she had to smile.

Obviously, the boy was a nobleman's son. His elegant dress and proud manner were worthy of a prince, even though his dark brown hair had an inclination to curl and the knees of his velvet breeches were covered with dust. She guessed him to be about twelve years old, though his solemn demeanor made him seem older. "I'm miserable too," he suddenly confessed. "I'm running away to home."

"You mean you're running away from home," Gwen said.

"No, to home," he corrected firmly.

"I see," said Gwen. "From your accent, my guess is that would be England."

"Yes. How did you know? I'm told my German is flawless."

"Well, I'm Welsh myself, so it's easy--"

"You don't look Welsh," the boy contradicted in English.

"Oh, but I am."

"Humph! So much for Teutonic beauty." The child sounded disgruntled.

Gwen chuckled. "What an odd thing for a boy your age to say."

He only shrugged again in reply. Gwen eyed him, her lips twitching to hold back a giggle. So young, but so serious too! "What's your name?"

"Why do you want to know?" he countered warily.

She grinned and did an imitation of his shrug. This earned her his first smile.

"I will tell you, but only if you promise not to find my father. I'm trying to run away, remember?"

Gwen nodded. "I promise."

"All right then, I'm Mitchell Blackwood."

"Marquess Blackwood's son?"

The boy folded his arms and sighed. "Yes, curse it. I see that you know him."

"Well no, I know of him, Mitchell. He does travel in some of the same circles as I, but I don't believe we've ever met."

Mitchell brightened. "That's good. I'm glad to hear it."

"Why are you glad?"

He shrugged. "I just am, that's all."

"I see," Gwen said, even though she didn't.

"What's in the box?" Mitchell asked, confusing her more by changing the subject.

Gwen blinked. "Box?" she echoed.

He grinned. "Yes, the box. The one that fell out of your dress while you were crying. It's on the floor now."

Gwen looked down with a start and saw her gift was indeed on the floor. She reached down and picked it up. With a sigh, she opened it.

"Emeralds again," she muttered. Louder, she said, "It's an emerald necklace."

"Let me see," said Mitchell. She handed the box to him indifferently. "They're beautiful. They match your eyes." He snapped the lid closed and gave the box back to her.

Gwen giggled. "There you go again, Mitchell. You say the oddest things. Are you sure you're just a boy?"

"Father says we should be aware of the beauty that surrounds us and take note of it whenever we can," Mitchell replied smoothly.

"Your father sounds like a sensitive man."

"He's a monster!" the boy shouted. "I hate him!"

"Ssh! Lower your voice, Mitchell, someone might--"

"I don't care who hears me! I'll shout it out to the whole world!" He flung the carriage door wide and screamed, "My father is a monster! That's right! The right honorable Marquess Brandon Garrick Blackwood is a monster!"

"For God's sake, Mitchell, stop that! Get back in here!" Gwen grabbed him by his coat and yanked him back into the carriage.

* * *

Curse the boy! Brandon swore as he pushed his way past a pair of stagehands dragging a large backdrop. It would be sheer luck if he found his son in this jungle of props and scenery.

Brand stopped and ran his hand through his hair. All he really wanted to do was go home and drink his memories into oblivion. Not that it did any good. He would just remember what he wanted to forget in the morning, but at least he wouldn't have to think about it tonight.

He sighed as he glanced around the backstage area. Mitchell was a good lad, even if he was a bit willful. Brand felt a stab of guilt for dragging the boy about the continent like this, but he would be damned if he left him with--

"My father's a monster!"

Ah ha! There was his quarry now, not that the boy was hiding particularly. Indeed, he was screaming loud enough to drown out the tenor on stage. As Brandon passed by the curtain, he could see some of the chorus peering out and frowning. Mitchell's head popped up out of a false carriage and the boy yelled, "That's right! The right honorable Marquess Brandon Garrick Blackwood is a monster!"

Monster, was it? Brandon scowled and ran toward the prop. A swat on that boy's backside should teach him for pulling such a prank. Just as he reached the carriage, he heard a woman's rich voice exclaim, "For God's sake, Mitchell, stop that!"

Stunned, Brand halted. What was Mitchell doing in there with the Lady Diva? His mind warred with several confused emotions as he tried to decide what to do. For the moment, he crept forward to the carriage, then stood and listened. What he heard both fascinated and pained him.

* * *

"What in the world is the matter with you?" Gwen demanded as she forced Mitchell to sit. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I told you!" Mitchell yelled. "My father's a monster!"

"Yes, Mitchell, you've made your feelings about him abundantly clear. I believe probably Herr Mozart even heard you," Gwen said. "What could the man have possibly done to earn such hate?"

Mitchell folded his arms and glared defiantly. "Well?" Gwen prompted. "Are you going to tell me? Or are you just another spoiled child rebelling against his father for no good reason?"

"He hangs out in taverns all the time," Mitchell mumbled.

"What's wrong with that? I'll have you know, young man, I was born in a tavern."

"You mean you're a common innkeeper's daughter?"

Gwen waved a hand airily to dismiss the subject. "No, I didn't say that. Are you saying your father's a drunk? By his reputation as a peer I find that hard to believe."

"He didn't always drink. Only since mother died," Mitchell explained. "And he's a lecher. Why, he wenches all the time."

"Well then there you are," Gwen said. "He's obviously consoling himself with women and drink because he mourns your sweet mother's loss. Men are funny that way. You should be more charitable, Mitchell."

"He's not mourning Mother," Mitchell snapped. "My mother was a bitch and a slut and we're both glad she's gone!"

"Mitchell!" cried Gwen. "For shame! Shame on you for talking about your mother that way!"

"It's true," the boy insisted. "The scandal made the dailies in London. She was murdered in bed with her lover."

"How dreadful! Oh Mitchell, I'm so sorry."

"I'm not! She was positively evil." He started to cry. Gwen moved to sit beside him and put a comforting arm about his shoulders.

"There, there, Mitchell. Don't cry," she said. "I am sorry. We won't talk about your parents anymore since it upsets you so."

"I am not crying!" Mitchell wailed. "I'm an Earl for God's sake. Earl's don't cry."

"Yes, of course you're not crying. Only foolish women like me cry," Gwen agreed. She continued to pat his back until he finally calmed down.

"You dropped your emeralds again," Mitchell commented after a time. He picked up the box and gave it to her.

As Gwen tucked the box back into her bodice, she suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It was the same odd sensation she sometimes felt on stage. Her admirer was near, stalking her like a tiger. She was sure of it.

She stuck her head out the window and looked around, but no one was in sight. "What's wrong?" asked Mitchell.

"Nothing," Gwen muttered, sitting back down. "Werner says I have an over-active imagination."

"Who's Werner?"

Gwen sighed. "My husband."

"Is he the one who hit you in the face?"

"Oh dear, you saw that?"

Mitchell nodded. "Your eye is starting to swell a bit too."

Gwen touched a finger to the area and winced. Yes, it did feel a bit tender there. "If I were a man, I would call him out for doing that to you," the boy boasted.

"How kind of you to say, Mitchell. I've never had a gallant protector before."

"Why did he hit you?"

"Because I told him I didn't want to be married to him anymore," Gwen explained. "Now really, Mitchell, we should--"

"Do you have a lover like Mother did?"

"Certainly not!" she snapped. "Mitchell, I do believe you are the most--"

"Does he have a lover?"

"I don't know!" Gwen said. She started to cry again. "God, I wish I did."

Mitchell started patting her on the back, comforting her as she had comforted him. "There, there, Lady Diva. We won't talk about him since it upsets you so."

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. Crumbs from a sweet roll he'd eaten earlier fell into Gwen's lap as he offered it to her. She blew her nose in a thoroughly unladylike manner, then smiled.

"Ah, Mitchell, we are a sorry pair. What's to become of us?"

"I'm running away," he said. "Remember? What are you going to do?"

"I confess I've been thinking about running away as well," Gwen said. "Only unlike you, I don't have anywhere to go. Oh, why does life have to be so complicated?"

"We could run away together," Mitchell suggested enthusiastically. "You could come home and stay with me, Lady Diva."

"Well now that's a very kind offer, Mitchell, but really--" She stopped and frowned. "Why do you keep calling me 'Lady Diva'?"

"Because that's what Father--"

"Mitchell!" The sudden roar shook the carriage like a clap of thunder.

"Oh no! Father's found me!" Mitchell shouted, sounding more angry than frightened.

"Are you sure--" Gwen began. She was about to say it sounded more like a tiger than an angry Marquess, but then the door to the carriage prop opened with a force sufficient to pop it off its hinges.

A large hand reached inside and hauled Mitchell out by the collar of his coat. Gwen watched in stunned amazement as the boy was dragged out the doorway like a piece of wayward baggage. Letting out an indignant shriek, she quickly moved to follow.

As she went through the carriage door, her hair snagged on an errant nail. With a groan of vexation, she pulled her tight bun loose from the obstacle, spilling strands of golden hair to hang about her face. Then she stepped out of the prop, but swore as her skirt caught on a splintered hinge. She pulled hard and gained her freedom with a rip of satin. Her cheeks burned with rage as she looked up into the face of Mitchell's 'monster'.

"Guten tag, Frau Wilhelm," he said. She threw a hand over her heart and slumped against the side of the prop. Dear God, the Marquess of Blackwood was huge!

Oh, his smile was pleasant enough and his baritone voice rumbled with humor. However, the squirming boy tucked under his arm belied his pretense at good nature.

Still, Gwen thought him dazzlingly handsome with his dark hair and tawny eyes. Odd, he wore an unfashionable full beard, neatly trimmed and very masculine. His hunter green trousers fit him like a second skin, revealing--oh dear Lord, she was blushing like a milkmaid now.

Drawing on her strength as an actress, she recovered quickly, settling her expression into one of outrage. "My lord Marquess, that is no way to treat a lord Earl," she scolded. "Kindly put him down."

"He's been a thorn in my side all day, dear lady. He's lucky I'm not pulling down his breeches to give his bare bottom a swat." To Mitchell, he added, "And if you don't simmer down, whelp, that's exactly what I'll do."

"Small wonder the boy wants to run away from the likes of you," Gwen said. She stepped forward and boldly thumped the Marquess on the chest. "Put him down now, I say!"

The Marquess sighed. "If I put him down, then he'll just be off again. I've chased him around this theater enough for one day."

Gwen considered this, then moved to the Marquess's side so she could look the boy in the face. "Mitchell, if you give your sworn word as a gentleman that you won't run away again, then I think he'll put you down."

"But Lady Diva," the boy protested, "I want to run away. You see? I was right! He is a monster."

"Mitchell--" growled his father, sounding very like a tiger.

Gwen peered up at the looming Marquess. "My lord, I know not what you have done to frighten this boy so, but I would suggest--"

"Frau Wilhelm, dare you tell me how to discipline my son?" He bent to scowl in her face. They now were nose-to-nose.

She glared back, willing herself not to flinch in the heat of the brute's intimidation. "Yes, my lord, I do. Since you are acting the part of a barbarian and since this boy has no one else present to speak for him, then yes, I do so dare."

To her surprise, he smiled. Then to further her shock, he reached out and touched her face with his free hand. "Shall we strike a bargain, Frau Wilhelm?" he asked softly. "Have dinner with me and the lad tonight and I will set my anger aside. Refuse, and he will get the punishment he so richly deserves."

Mitchell froze under his father's arm, obviously as astonished with this proposition as she.

His warm gaze mesmerized her. She felt her heart pound and her cheek burn as he brushed a strand of hair out of her face. No man had ever had such an effect on her before, not even Werner.

Good Lord, Werner! The thought of her snarling husband brought her back to her senses. She frowned and pushed his hand away. "You forget yourself, my lord. I am a married woman and could not possibly consent to dine with you."

He chuckled and a tiny shiver ran up her spine. "I am aware you are married, Frau Wilhelm. But is this not Vienna, an enlightened city? If you are so inclined, then by all means ask your husband to join us, though I vow our sup will be less dull without him."

"My husband has other plans this evening," she snapped without thinking.

"Ah, then I can deduce by your tone that his plans do not include you?"

"No," she admitted, "they don't. Still, it would not be proper--"

"Proper? Dear lady, you sound quite the prim Englishwoman."

"She's Welsh, Father, not English," Mitchell piped in.

"Quiet you," growled the Marquess, giving the boy an affectionate cuff on the ear. He turned his full attention back to Gwendoline.

"You don't look Welsh. You must have some Saxon blood in you." He sighed languidly. "Yes, to me you look like a glorious Teutonic princess. Golden hair, fine fair skin. Except for those eyes." And again he reached out with a bold caress of her cheek.

She involuntarily winced as his hand brushed against the tender area. "No, now those eyes of yours remind me of a cat's. All emerald green fire, shrouded with mystery. Hmm, a man could get scorched trying to delve into those secrets."

He was weaving a spell over her again with his voice and warm stare. She felt as if she were drugged for her limbs suddenly seemed heavy and her thoughts cluttered.

Werner's disapproving face flashed through her mind. Wickedly, her conscience grinned at her and said, Werner who?

"Well, Frau or since you're not a native, perhaps I should say Madam Wilhelm, I await your answer. Will you dine with Mitchell and me?"

"What?" she breathed. She then became aware that she was rubbing her cheek against his knuckles, much like the cat he'd just compared her to.

"Will you dine with Mitchell and me?" he repeated.

"Oh, bloody hell," she muttered aloud. She backed away, hoping to get some semblance of her faculties back with a little distance. It didn't help though, because he raised an eyebrow over her coarse language, then grinned, completely befuddling her.

"May I take that as a 'yes'?" he chuckled. "I hope so because I fear Mitchell is getting heavy--"

"And dizzy," the boy added.

"You see?" said the Marquess. "Both of us eagerly await your acceptance."

"Oh all right! I'll have dinner with you!" She hoped she sounded exasperated. "Put poor Mitchell down and tell me where we should meet for this meal."

True to his word, he set his son onto his feet. Mitchell looked more amused than angry now. "Do you have a carriage waiting?" asked the Marquess.

"No, my lord, but my house is not far. And I can hire a hack to take me wherever you choose." Her voice quivered a little as she spoke. Dear God, what was she doing?

He frowned. "Your husband gives you leave to wander the city without an escort?"

She shrugged. "I can take care of myself. Really, my lord, there's no need to be concerned."

He stared at her a moment, then abruptly caught her by the arm and started to propel her toward the door. "Do you have a cloak or any other things you need to collect before you leave?"

"No, nothing except--" they'd reached her wig and she pointed at it. Mitchell scooped it up and handed it to her.

"It looks like a dead sheep," said Mitchell with a grin.

"That is without a doubt the ugliest wig I've ever seen," announced the Marquess. "You'd do well to rid yourself of it."

Gwen giggled, "Perhaps so, my lord, but Werner would not be amused. He designed it, you see."

"And do you approve of everything Werner designs?" asked the Marquess.

"I'd be a disloyal wife if I said no, now, wouldn't I?" Gwen replied, her voice turning flat.

"What does loyalty have to do with it?" countered the Marquess.

"Everything."

Mitchell nudged his father. "It upsets her to talk about her husband," he said in a loud whisper.

"So I see," agreed the Marquess. They had reached the back stage exit. The trio steered their way through a garbage-strewn alley to reach the Grand Boulevard.

The tall gothic tower of St. Stephen's eclipsed the late afternoon sun, casting a shadowy finger over the street. To their left was the Hofburg palace, a monolithic building which represented the power that resided in it well.

Oh, but Vienna was so grand! From the chandeliered opera house to its palaces and manors. Though the Boulevard was crowded with a crush of carriages, horses and people right now, the Marquess had little trouble in locating his own vehicle.

"You will ride home in our carriage," said the Marquess, waving his coachman over. "There, we will wait until you change your clothes and--"

"Oh no, my lord, you mustn't!" Gwen cried. "What if you are seen?"

"Am I to understand you are worried that having a boy and his father wait in your parlor might soil your reputation, madam?"

"Frankly, yes. I don't understand why you are so hell-bent on escorting me. Couldn't you please let me walk home? You could pick me up later if you like." As she spoke the carriage drew up beside them. A footman jumped down to open the door. Mitchell clambered inside immediately.

Marquess Blackwood let out an exasperated sigh. "Madam Wilhelm, do you realize you've done nothing but dictate terms to me in this brief time I have known you?"

"I could say the same for you, my lord, and you have won every round. To be honest, sir, I think you are the most insufferably arrogant man I have ever met."

"And yet--" he put his hands around her waist and lifted her into the carriage, "you've consented to have dinner with me."

"With you and your son," she corrected, scooting next to Mitchell in a satin rustle. "And as to my consent, did I ever have a choice?"

He swung up into the cab, grinning as he stretched out on the bench across from them. "No, Lady Diva, I suppose you didn't. Now do be a good girl and tell the coachman your address so we can be on our way. I, for one, am anticipating a delightful evening."

Her face flushed over the way his voice caressed her ears. As she gave his man her address, she felt a bit reckless, daring maybe. This was the first time in years she'd done anything spontaneous. May God forgive her, but she too was anticipating a thoroughly delightful evening.

Chapter Two

Brandon prowled the parlor, eager to be on his way. He was so pleased about the turn of today's events he could hug Mitch. Well, almost. He settled for ruffling the boy's hair instead. Mitchell stared in surprise. Brandon smiled and winked, which only served to confuse the lad further. "Father?" Mitchell began. "Are you all--"

A sudden piercing shriek from upstairs interrupted him. Brandon raced for the stairs, readying himself for anything. Anything, that is, except the enraged woman who threw open her bedroom door to shout, "Bloody hell, I look absolutely horrid. Why didn't you silly men tell me?"

Relieved that nothing worse than her vanity threatened her, Brandon halted at the base of the stairs and replied, "Dear lady, I have no idea what you are screeching about. You looked perfectly fine to me."

She appeared on the landing, clutching the folds of her silk wrapper together. "Oh really, my lord?" she said. "I suppose it's perfectly normal for you to go about escorting a woman with torn clothes, a blackened eye, ruined stage make-up and hair that looks like a rat's nest?"

He laughed. "No, madam, I assure you it isn't, but then I'm willing to make an exception in your case."

"Humph!" she snorted. "My lord, I do believe I must renege on our agreement. With this eye, I am not fit to be seen."

"Then we can dine at my manor," he said. "I can't believe you would allow your vanity to leave poor Mitchell the subject of my angry whims."

"Oh, you are impossible," she huffed. "Using your son as a bargaining chip like that. Fine then, I will honor our deal, but mind you, I would prefer some place public and also I fear it will take some time to repair the damage. Perhaps it would be best if you left--"

"We will wait, Madam Wilhelm, if only to witness your transformation!"

She let out a loud laugh over his jest. The sound of her rich voice erupting in merriment warmed Brand's insides like sunshine bursting through clouds.

"Suit yourself, my lord," she said. "But I warn you, Mitchell might have grown a full beard by the time I am finished!" With that ridiculous threat, she went back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Brandon shook his head and chuckled as he walked back into the parlor. Gwendoline was nothing like he'd expected. Most performers by nature were a bit full of themselves, the ladies especially. They could be remote and cool or bawdy and loud, but still whatever pose they struck was just that--a pose.

Gwendoline though, her reactions were refreshingly direct and honest. Lord, but he was becoming obsessed with her all over again. Only this time--he grinned sheepishly to himself--this time he was infatuated with the actual woman.

Perhaps that would make all the difference.

"So Father," said Mitchell from the safety of his couch, "are you planning on making Lady Diva your mistress?"

Brand sighed. "Mitchell, when are you going to stop making such outrageous--"

"You did invite her to dine with us," the boy pointed out. "You've never asked a lady to do that before. At least not in front of me."

He shrugged as he met his father's glare. "Oh, I'm not trying to offend you, Father, really I'm not. I'm just curious, that's all. From what I've seen, you usually just bed your wenches, then send them on their way. Whores they were, just like Moth--"

"Mitchell!" Brand roared. He took a menacing step toward his son and the boy winced. Brandon paused. For the love of God, he really did need to control his temper better. A son shouldn't go around thinking his father was indeed a monster.

But the boy was so damn brash and rude and; Brand closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened them, he felt a little calmer. "Mitchell, " he tried again, "I realize I have not been setting the best example as a father--"

"On the contrary, Father, you've taught me all I need to know about how to drink, gamble and wench like a perfect rake."

Brandon clenched and unclenched his fists. He turned away and started pacing. "Perhaps," he said softly, " I made a grave mistake exposing you to the decadence here on the continent. I confess it was part selfishness that motivated me. I didn't want to be without you and I didn't want to leave you in the care of your Aunt Edna or Jennifer's family--"

"Thank God for that," Mitchell snorted.

Brand threw up his hands. "What you fail to see, Son, is that there was no other choice!"

"Yes, there was. You could have stayed home, or failing that, left me in the care of the servants."

Brandon shook his head and didn't answer. How could he explain to his son the doubts that plagued him every day? He couldn't. He had to keep the demons he wrestled with to himself.

Mitchell's sudden return to the subject jarred him from his brooding. "She's married, you know," the boy said. "Although she confessed she didn't want to be. I judge her to be a prime plum for the picking, wouldn't you agree, Father?"

Brandon groaned and collapsed into a wing chair, putting his head in his hands. The boy was deliberately baiting him. Again.

"The problem is," Brand mumbled, "you are too damn smart for your own good. I swear it's your brains that will be the death of me."

"I like her," Mitchell said with a shrug. "I really wouldn't mind if you did make her your mistress. I bet she'd mind though. She doesn't seem to be the type." He sighed. "Too bad, I could use a mother figure."

"Mitchell," Brand growled from behind his hands, "shut up."

Mitchell continued blithely. "I've known for some time you were interested in her. For a while, I was convinced she was the sole reason we came to Europe. You have to admit it does seem like we've been following her around. I mean it's so obvious, her husband's compositions are the worst dreck to grace the stage and yet you've never missed a chance to watch her perform. Not that I blame you, her voice is incomparable. Still, even she can't make her husband's music any better than the rubbish it is."

Brand only grunted in reply and Mitchell smiled. "Yes, I think Lady Diva would make you a right good mistress."

Brandon did glare at him then. "Get this through your warped mind, boy! I merely invited the lady to dinner out of gratitude for her so generously putting up with the likes of you. I do not have any lewd intentions or designs on the woman and I would appreciate it if you would keep your depraved speculations to yourself. Is that clear?"

Mitchell nodded gravely. "Perfectly clear, sir."

"Good!"

They were silent for a time. Then Mitchell said, "You know, she's pretty, too. Even with all that gook on her face and with a swollen eye, she still looked pretty. I bet once she's cleaned up, she'll be downright gorgeous. What do you think, Father?"

"I think," gritted Brandon, "that you are trying my patience more than anyone could possibly endure."

"Her husband hasn't been bedding her either," Mitchell added. "I heard her yelling at him about it. That's why she doesn't want to be married--"

"Mitchell, for the love of God, will you please just shut up!"

Mitchell laughed like the irrepressible lad he was. Brand scowled at him, but he had to admit, inside he was smiling.

* * *

Upstairs, Gwen had washed her face and taken her hair down. She stood before her closet, tapping her foot. What to wear? What to wear? She pulled out gowns one by one and rejected them, tossing the dresses into a huge pile on the bed.

One thing was certain, she had a myriad of choices. A musician had to be prepared for any occasion--a day spent at court might be followed by a night in a thoroughly disreputable salon. And appearances had always meant more to Werner than anything else.

She snorted. Yes, Werner would have wasted no time pointing out her sorry state this afternoon. Strange the Marquess hadn't noticed. She sighed. Well, maybe the man was just being kind although he didn't seem a kind sort of fellow.

So what did a woman bent on causing scandal wear? The thought made her giggle. Oh, for goodness sakes, she was having an innocent dinner with a Marquess and his son. No scandal could come from a thing like that. Maybe, just maybe though, Werner wouldn't see it that way. Maybe he'd be insanely jealous and then--

Oh, but she knew better than that, now didn't she? Because she was somewhat flighty and emotional by nature, people often didn't notice her intelligence. Still, it didn't take a genius to figure out what Werner's problem was--he wasn't attracted to her. In fact, if the whispers and rumors about Werner were true, then the man's tastes ran more toward his own gender.

She smiled to herself. Five years ago, the very notion of such a thing would have shocked her to the core of her Methodist upbringing. Now though, she accepted the idea easily enough for some of her dearest friends in the Theater made no bones about having such leanings. Indeed, some of these pairings were stronger and more loving than most marriages--hers, for instance.

So, she concluded, as she held up a gold silk gown for inspection, getting Werner jealous was a fruitless task. That is of course, if what she suspected about him was true.

She leaned against the bedpost and closed her eyes. The only reason she couldn't be sure was because of her wedding night. If her information about the marital act was correct, and Werner had made sure of that, she thought wryly, then he did not complete what he started. Perhaps it was a loathing for the female form that had driven him away.

But the way he had kissed her, touched her before he'd taken that plunge into her soul, those kisses had been hot with hungry need. At the time, she'd thought herself being ravished in the hands of a master. Surely, such savage kisses and caresses could not have come from a man who did not have true desire. Yet, if that were really true, then in God's name why had he stopped with his passionate play? And why, oh why, had he never sought out her favors again?

She rubbed her temples. These questions made her head ache and she was thoroughly sick of them anyway. The time had come for her to stop wondering and worrying and start doing something about it instead. But what? What should she do? She opened her eyes and began to get dressed, all the while debating her options.

She couldn't go home. Father had made that quite clear. It would be hard to manage on her own since Werner had control of what little funds they had. She was virtually penniless. Well, except for her emeralds. She gave the box on her dresser a fond pat. She glanced at all the gowns lying on the bed. Well, she could sell those too, she supposed.

As for work, was she not a professional singer? The only problem with that was she would be forced to travel in the same circles as Werner and the man would certainly catch up with her sooner or later. Besides, running away wasn't a real solution: she'd still be married.

Oh, why couldn't Werner just give her an annulment? All she wanted was to be happy. Was that too much to ask?

Now gowned in the gold, she set to work on her hair, attacking the tangles with vicious strokes of the brush. Well, the devil take him then. If Werner didn't want to give her an annulment and didn't want to treat her as a wife, then who would blame her if she took a lover?

She was a woman, damn it! Not some cold marble statue! She wanted warmth and passion and yes, love! She wanted children and a real home. She was tired of living with an empty heart and bed, she needed...

She stopped and stared in the mirror. Had she sunk this low? Was she so desperate for love that she would forsake her vows and embrace sin? Her father's voice seemed to bellow a denial from somewhere inside her mind even as the reflection in the mirror also shook her head.

There really was no chance for her to find happiness unless Werner set her free.

Listlessly, she pinned up her hair. Her eyes fell on the jewelry box and she paused. Dare she wear the emeralds? Well, why not? They were hers weren't they?

Besides, if she left them here then Werner might find them. She picked up the box and rummaged through her lingerie drawer until she found the matching pieces. Her hands shook as she put them on. She had to admit when she looked into the mirror, the green gems did enhance the color of the eyes. Her secret admirer would have been pleased. Still, she felt uneasy wearing his gifts.

She made a wry face at the glass. "Oh cheer up, Gwen," she said. "Maybe dinner with this Marquess will give you something to dream about later." Her reflection nodded in agreement. She picked up her cloak and folded it over her arm. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and called out, "Well, my lords, I tried! I can only hope that wherever we dine this eve, the lighting will be poor."

When she reached the top of the stairs, she looked down and saw Brandon and Mitchell ready and waiting at the bottom. She schooled herself to eye them coolly as she began to step down, though the thought came into her mind that perhaps she could coax the handsome Marquess to take her dancing after dinner.

She'd like that. Taking a turn at a waltz with such a virile partner. Oh, what she wouldn't give to feel a strong arm around her waist and...

With her mind on the handsome face below and not on her footing, she caught her heel on the carpet runner and stumbled. She screamed as she started to fall, making a desperate grab for the banister. The smooth wood evaded her fingers and she continued to tumble.

The third step was inches from her face when Brand's arms closed about her waist. Her momentum carried them backwards. They ended up in a heap at the foot of the stairs with Gwendoline sprawled across the Marquess's lap.

Horrified, her eyes met his. Heavens! She'd nearly killed them both! "Oh, my goodness!" she breathed. "Are you all right?"

Brand couldn't find his voice. His hands were clasped around her trim waist and a mass of gold curls spilled over his arm. More incapacitating were the womanly curves pressed against his chest and her rounded bottom crushing his groin.

Her scent was all cinnamon and spice, a delicate yet powerful scent that made his senses reel. And that face! With those sweet pink lips ever so slightly parted, the same gentle blush on her cheeks and those green, green eyes. Darker than emeralds, he decided, they were the color of wild moors on a misty morning. He knew he was gaping like an idiot, but couldn't help himself.

"Father? I believe the lady wishes to know if you are all right."

Mitch's voice broke the spell. Brand shook his head to clear his mind. Gwendoline gasped, "Oh, you poor man, have you broken something?"

"No, madam," he managed to wheeze. "I only had the wind knocked out of me."

Gwendoline motioned to Mitch to help her rise. "I am so sorry, my lord. I just seem to be terribly clumsy today." Between Mitch's pull and Brand's push, she regained her feet.

"So I've noticed," said Brand as he slowly stood up. "You do seem a bit accident-prone."

"Perhaps then we should call a halt to this evening before it even begins, my lord. If only for safety's sake."

"No!" cried Mitchell. "I won't hear of it!" Both adults turned to him with raised eyebrows even as they each sought to right their appearance. "Lady Diva, please! Don't leave me to the whims of my father's foul temper!"

Brand swore under his breath while Gwen chuckled. "Mitchell," she said, "I begin to see you have quite the flair for the dramatic. I really don't think your father is the ogre you make him out to be."

"Oh, but Lady Diva--"

She held up a hand imperiously to silence him and to Brand's surprise, the boy immediately obeyed. "Now Mitchell, let me finish," she said. "The man has just saved my life and I am now forever in his debt. If he wishes to beg off, I completely understand. Lord knows, I'm having a bad day and it might prove dangerous for you to stay in my proximity."

She turned to Brand, making the breath catch in his throat. "So, what say you, my lord? Shall we say well met and call it a day?"

In answer, Brand retrieved her cloak from the steps, shook it out and held it out invitingly.

She stared up at him, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip. Then she shrugged and smiled. "You're a brave man, my lord, I'll give you that."

As he draped her cloak about her shoulders, she lifted her hair out of the way, inadvertently slapping him in the face with it. "I hope before this night is through, you do not have further cause to regret your decision." When she turned to face him, her fingers were working to close the frogs at her chest.

"My lady, I've a feeling anything may happen this eve, yet I am certain when it is through the only regret I'll have is that the night is over."

She grinned, "For your health's sake, my lord, I hope your prediction proves accurate." She gestured toward the door. "Well, avanti then, my good men! Let us boldly face whatever cruel fate awaits us!"

Mitchell chuckled. "Marvelous exit line, Lady Diva."

As Brand opened the door, she sighed. "Perhaps, but I fear it can't top my entrance, wouldn't you agree, Marquess Blackwood?"

"Indeed, madam. I know I won't soon forget it."

* * *

The Marquess's house was oppressive and to Gwen's dismay, she lost no time in telling him so. She didn't mean to be rude, but she felt so rattled she blurted it out without thinking. What a relief it was when the Marquess agreed with her. The manor was a rental, he explained, and the owner obviously had rather gloomy tastes.

Well, who wouldn't be rattled? First she falls on the man and then he brings her here unexpectedly. Or maybe she should have expected it. After all, the men needed to change into their evening attire too.

Still, it didn't help that the house was so dark and dreary. Every room reeked of ebony, crimson and gilt. Hunting portraits, antlers and old weapons covered the walls. Very masculine she supposed, but also unrelentingly gloomy.

She found refuge at the harpsichord in the drawing room and now sat idly toying with the keys. The soft, cheery lilt of the instrument felt like a balm to her ragged nerves. Dear God, she prayed, if she could get through this evening without further disgracing herself, she'd work harder on eliminating her swearing. It was the best deal she could think of at the moment to give her Maker and she had a feeling she was going to need His help.

The Marquess made her feel--unsure, she supposed was the word. The strength she'd felt in his arms, his scent like rain in a forest, his sudden smile, oh everything about him made her positively giddy. No doubt this was a man who lured women to his bed with a mere crook of a finger.

She was certainly susceptible to his charm and she'd be hard pressed to resist him. No naive minx was she! She knew from the way he looked at her that the thought was on the man's mind. And she shamelessly had to admit, she found the idea most--exciting.

"You're a married woman!" she scolded out loud and began attacking the poor harpsichord to vent her frustration. She started with an allegro exercise, but gradually wound down to play an uncomplicated folk tune. She smiled as the music took her back to the days she had spent at Owen's inn. It felt as natural as breathing for her to sing.

Brandon, impeccably dressed in black with the pleats of his starched white cravat folded just so, entered the downstairs hall and was greeted by Gwen's wild burst of music. He went to the drawing room and cracked the door open.

There she sat at the keyboard with her back to him, displaying the sweet curve at the base of her spine. Her gown, a rich gold, overflowed the bench and spilled all about her in voluminous folds to the floor. Her blonde hair gleamed in the light of the nearby candelabra. She'd gathered it in Greek fashion with her golden ringlets dangling from a crowning braid at the back of her head.

Ah, but to free those tresses from their constricting pins and see them fanned out beneath her! The image made him sigh as he opened the door without a sound, then leaned against the frame to listen.

As he watched, the style of her playing became less frenetic until at last she picked out the strains of a sweet, haunting melody. She muttered the words of the song, her voice gradually gaining strength as she went along. By the time she reached the second verse, she was singing out loud. Alas, he could not understand the Welsh lyrics; nevertheless, the sweet phrasing and emotion in her voice wove a magical spell that held him captivated.

Gwen suddenly felt the familiar chill on the back of her neck. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. "Oh! You startled me, my lord."

"And you have bewitched me, madam. Might I ask what you were singing?"

"Just a little ditty my godfather taught me. Nothing of merit really." She looked away and let her eyes drop to her fingers. She began another piece, this one a quiet nocturne.

"You play well," Brandon said, coming to stand behind her.

His nearness made her skip a note. "For a woman, you mean." She sounded bitter.

"No, I simply meant you play well. What song are you're doing now?"

"I don't know. I heard Herr Mozart playing it last week at Count Pashenka's. It's nice, isn't it?"

"You've only heard the tune once and can perform it? Very impressive, madam."

She dismissed his compliment with a wave of her hand, not missing a beat. "Oh, it's no great trick that. Wolfgang did several variations for Pashenka's pleasure and it is a rather memorable theme. I fear my version is but a pale imitation."

"Still, you must have studied hard to gain such proficiency."

"For all the good it ever did," she muttered. She noticed his frown and gave him a tight smile. "I'm sorry. I realize you're trying to be polite, but believe me, my lord, I'm painfully aware of my limitations."

"I've yet to see any."

Her fingers suddenly faltered on the keys and she struck a crude discord. Wincing at the sound, she shifted around on the bench to peer up at him. "I've--I mean, that is--um, have you decided where we are to have this feast? I confess I'm beginning to feel hungry."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out several invitations. "Where would you like to go? As you can see, I have offers from all over Vienna. Or perhaps you would prefer a simple hostel?"

"Hmm, you know, maybe we should just stay here after all," she said, tearing her eyes away from him. "Do you have a good cook?"

"Yes, but I've already given him leave for the night. You did say you wanted to go some place public."

"I did, didn't I?" she sounded forlorn. "I'm sorry for being so changeable. It's a flaw Werner often reminds me of."

His stomach tightened at the mention of her husband's name. To cover his own sudden shift of mood, he offered her a glass of wine. She readily accepted it, so he went over to the breakfront to pour them each a glass.

"Does Herr Wilhelm--" he stopped himself and tried again, "I mean, do you think Herr Wilhelm will mind you dining with Mitchell and me?"

"To be honest, my lord, I have no idea what Werner will think. I've never gone anywhere on my own since we've been married."

He smiled to himself over that. As he moved to hand her the glass, he said, "All my friends call me Brand or Brandon. I would think it an honor if you would do the same, Madam Wilhelm."

Her hand trembled slightly as she took the glass. "The honor is mine, my--I mean, Brandon. You may call me Gwen or Gwendoline if you wish."

"Gwen, then." He moved away to take a seat nearby. They sipped their wine in silence for a minute, and then he said, "Why did you change your mind, Gwen? About dining out, I mean."

She sighed. "I don't suppose it really matters. Wherever you choose will be fine, I'm sure--except Count Pashenka's," she added in a rush. "My husband will be there and I would not like to borrow trouble."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued in the same breathless manner. "Not that this engagement this evening is improper. I'm sure Werner wouldn't mind. It's just--well, to be honest we quarreled today, you see. He might react unpredictably because of that."

"You are worried he might think you're trying to get even by having dinner with us, is that what you're trying to say?" He frowned from over the rim of his glass.

"Heavens, no. Werner knows I'm not the vengeful sort. I've never been one to stay mad for long."

"If I might ask, what were you fighting about? Perhaps I could help."

She averted her head. "I would prefer not to discuss it, sir. It is a private matter, you see."

Mitchell strolled into the room, his hair damp and his hands jammed into the pockets of his elegant silver brocade coat. "Father, I am ready," he announced. "Where do we eat?"

Brand sighed over the interruption, then picked up the invitations again. "We have yet to choose. Here's one for a dinner at Count Grunwald's--"

"The man's a boor and sets an atrocious table."

Brand raised an eyebrow over Gwen's objection, then tried again. "As you wish. What about Count Horst?"

Gwen jerked her head meaningfully at Mitchell. "His affairs can be--er--quite indiscreet."

"I see," grinned Brand. "You seem to know the habits of the local nobility well."

"Too well, my lord." Her voice held a brittle tone.

Brand cleared his throat. "All right. Here we have the dowager Duchess Mablong. What is her horrible secret?"

Gwen smiled. "Oh, Martha is a dear. I was invited to her ball tonight anyway, but Werner--well never mind that. I should be happy to pay her a visit. Perhaps I might even be able to coax Mitchell into having a dance with me. What say you, my dear Lord Earl?"

"I should be proud to dance with you, Lady Diva. You will undoubtedly be the most beautiful woman there."

Gwen rose to her feet, clucking her tongue. "Don't think you can make me forget about this eye with your silver-tongued flattery. And please, will you stop calling me, 'Lady Diva'? It's silly like calling your manservant, 'Sir Butler'. Call me--well you know tonight I think I should like to be called Lady Rhys. It's my maiden name."

"Lady Rhys?" Mitchell's eyes widened. "But that's--" Brandon gave Mitchell a stern shake of the head and the boy immediately bit back his words. Gwen blithely took no notice.

"Oh, but it is indeed my name, Mitchell. Well, my old one anyway. I just don't want to think about Werner--"

"Because it upsets you?"

"Exactly. I knew you would understand." She turned to the Marquess and was surprised by his black scowl. "Is something amiss, Brandon?" she asked. "Why, you are glaring like an angry tiger?"

Brandon quickly blanked his expression. "Pray forgive me, madam. I was thinking of something else." He forced himself to smile, but knew it to be a lame attempt. "I trust you will also consent to sharing a dance with me?"

Her emerald gaze looked cool, but the high flush in her cheeks told a different story. "Perhaps," she said, "perhaps, I might take the floor with you, provided your ill temper improves. I do not think it's wise to dance with angry tigers."

It was such a ridiculous statement he had to laugh. He reached for her cloak and as he draped it over her, he whispered in her ear, "For now I'm just a hungry tiger. I'm sure I'll be more agreeable once I'm fed. Hmm--but I have to wonder if mere food will sate me. We'll see, won't we, Gwen?"

His implication was obvious and she glanced back at him with wide green eyes. He chuckled. She certainly was an easy woman to fluster. Yet, she recovered quickly to take his arm and allow him to lead her from the room.

* * *

As far as Gwen was concerned, Duchess Mablong's affairs rivaled, no, outshone the Emperor's parties for style and elegance. Her large palladium townhouse was light and airy, with glittering chandeliers and the most breathtaking murals on the ceilings and walls. Every room of the manor was like something out of a fairy tale.

The dinner was superb, though Gwen noticed the Marquess ate very little. She ended the conversation she was having with Papa Hadyn and turned her attention back to Brand. "Does the squab disagree with you, my lord?" she asked. "I'm sure Martha won't mind if you want to send for something else."

"No, the food is excellent," he murmured.

"Yet you toy with your food more like a finicky cat than a hungry tiger," she teased.

He smiled. "Madam, why do you insist on comparing me with a jungle animal?"

"Because you remind me of one." She laughed. "I mean no offense, sir, I happen to like tigers."

"So it would seem, though I confess I'm beginning to believe your affection for the animal borders on obsession."

She shrugged. "Everyone has their little obsessions, do they not? For some, it's music, for others power or revenge. In most cases I would suppose it's harmless unless the person allows their obsession to start ruling their every action. Then he or she might become twisted in their soul. A sad thing that, wouldn't you agree?"

The smoky gaze he turned on her made her shiver. "Such a deep thinker you are. Tell me, Gwendoline, what else besides tigers rules you?"

She felt herself blush and looked away. "I don't know. I suppose I just want to be happy. Doesn't everyone?"

"You are not happy now?" his voice husky. "I would guess you have all a woman could desire. Fame--"

"Is fleeting and therefore of no consequence," she interrupted with a frown.

"All right then, there's fortune--"

"You obviously have no idea what the average musician earns. Besides, money does not buy happiness, no matter what some people may think."

He reached out to flick one of her earrings. "You say you don't care about wealth and yet you wear these pretty baubles easily enough."

She sighed. "Ah, now that brings us back to obsession, I fear. You see, I must confess it was not Werner who gave me these trinkets. I have a secret admirer who sends me gifts now and then."

"You don't exactly sound grateful."

Her eyes flashed. "Indeed I'm not! If I knew who the rogue was I would give them back."

"But why? They look lovely on you."

"Perhaps so," she said through gritted teeth. "Still, such gifts are inappropriate and I am uncomfortable being forced to accept them. I keep expecting the man to show up on my doorstep any day, demanding I repay him for his investment."

"Oh Gwen, surely the man merely wants to show his appreciation for your lovely voice. No gentleman would demand--"

"In my opinion he's no gentleman, although I confess his notes to me do betray a sensitive nature. Still, it's disturbing to be scrutinized so thoroughly from afar. Rather like being eaten alive by a tiger I should think."

He chuckled. "And so it's back to tigers. I must say, Gwen, I think you worry about this admirer too much. The baubles are yours. Why not just enjoy them?"

"I enjoy his letters far more than his jewels," she retorted. "At least Werner can't sell those and leave me to bear the guilt."

"Do you mean to tell me Werner sells your things?" He sounded appalled by the notion.

"Yes, he does. I suppose I shouldn't be angry with him for it. We do have to eat."

Brandon shook his head. "Maybe so, but those are yours," he insisted.

Gwen crinkled her nose. "Well, Werner doesn't see it that way and since he has so few patrons and I am his wife, I can't deny him."

She touched a finger to the pendant on her chest, inadvertently directing Brand's attention there. "Do you know, my lord, the first time he took my gift from me, I thought it was because he was jealous? I soon found out that wasn't the case when he returned home with new clothes and a full purse. No, he's very pleased I have a generous admirer. The more boring emeralds I get, the better."

His expression now appeared somewhat glazed. She patted his arm and broke his trance. "I've been rambling like a shrew, haven't I? I'm sorry, I shouldn't burden you with my personal problems."

"You, my dear, could never be a shrew," he said. "I'm curious though, why didn't you hand over these pieces with all the rest?"

"I have need for them," she answered shortly. "Please, let's not talk about this anymore. We should hurry and finish this lovely meal. I do believe I hear the orchestra tuning up and I did promise your son a dance." She giggled as she glanced at Mitchell. The boy had stuffed an entire dinner roll in his mouth and his cheeks now bulged like a chipmunk's.

"You promised me a dance as well," reminded Brand. "I've been behaving myself, haven't I?"

She studied him carefully. Lord, he was such a handsome man! Her eyes lingered on his firm, smiling mouth. What would it feel like to kiss his lips? She felt an overpowering urge to know.

Such thoughts sent her mind spinning into confusion. The attraction she felt for him grew with every passing minute she spent in his company. It was an odd feeling, pleasant and yet terrifying at the same time. Never had she felt like this with Werner. She'd never felt like this about anyone before.

Brandon returned her stare with fascination. Her lovely face reflected her warring emotions. She wanted him. He could see it in her eyes for all she might deny it. And Lord, did he want her! Like a sudden storm, he felt the urge to snatch her into his lap and kiss her. Yes, he wanted to kiss her, taste her, feel her tremble in his arms.

To his dismay, he felt himself harden. He casually dropped a hand over his lap to conceal this, for he knew his tight breeches left nothing to the imagination.

"Yes, Brandon," she said, her voice sounding strained, "I suppose you have been behaving yourself at that." She laid a hand on his arm and that mere touch doubled his misery. "Come, my lord, let's dance."

"Uh, no," Brand murmured. "You should give Mitch a turn first. It's only fair since he was the first you promised."

She let go of him with a curt nod. "Very well, Brandon. I guess you might say I'll save the best for last." With that she excused herself.

Brand immediately called for more wine. It took three glasses before he felt it was safe to get up from the table.

Chapter Three

If he'd only known she literally meant the last dance, he'd have drunk more wine. Brand watched irritably as Gwen glided about the floor, this time on the arm of the elderly composer Hadyn. Her tall trim form moved with effortless grace even though she and Hadyn were having an animated discussion. He wondered what the old man said that made her smile so. Most of all he wondered how long until it would be his turn to hold Gwen in his arms.

"Father, I believe I'm feeling fatigued."

Brand glanced down and saw his son peering up with a devilish grin. The boy didn't appear tired in the least. "Are you really?" Brand asked, his tone dry. "Do you think your weary body can last for a while longer? I have yet to claim a dance from Madam Wilhelm."

"Lady Rhys," Mitchell corrected, blithely ignoring his father's sudden scowl. "No, I am completely done in. Keeping pace with Lady Rhys is a draining experience for a lad of my tender years."

"Tender years, my arse," Brand muttered. Louder, he growled, "Just stand there and be drained then, Mitchell. I'm not leaving until I've had a dance with the lady and that, my boy, is that."

"Oh, you misunderstand me. I wouldn't dream of denying you the pleasure. What I would suggest is that you send me home and then have the coach come back for you. What do you think of that idea?"

"I think," said Brand, nodding at a passing noble, "that this is a blatant ploy of yours to get me and Madam Wilhelm alone."

Mitchell laughed. "You just can't say the name Rhys can you, Father? Oh, don't look at me like that; do you think I blame you? And as for this all being a plot on my part, so what if it is? Can you honestly tell me you object to the idea?"

"No, I suppose I can't. Maybe I should thank God for devious sons instead."

"And?"

"And as a good parent, it's my duty to send my sleepy son off to bed. Do try to look the part when you confess your exhausted state to Madam Wilhelm though."

"Rhys, and she's coming this way now." Mitchell slumped against his father's side then, his head dropping in a convincing, albeit practiced manner.

"Why Mitchell, whatever is the matter?" Gwen exclaimed as she drew near. "Are you ill?" She reached out a hand to check his brow for fever.

"No," Mitchell moaned. "I'm just so sleepy. I've been begging Father to send me home, but he most cruelly refuses." Brand rolled his eyes. Gwen was right. The boy definitely had a flair for the dramatic.

"For shame, my lord," Gwen scolded. "It's obvious this poor child is exhausted."

"We've yet had our dance, madam. You did promise me one, you know."

"Well, yes, I suppose I did, but--"

"A promise is a promise, madam."

"I want to go home now," Mitchell whined. "I can't stand on my feet for another second."

"Brandon really! Perhaps it were best if we made it some other time, the boy--"

"I might never get another chance again since your husband keeps you under lock and key."

"He does no such thing, my lord."

"The devil take you both!" Mitchell wailed. "Father, for the love of God, just send me home and have the coachman come back for you. I shall collapse with weariness waiting for the pair of you to sort this out."

"Oh all right!" Brand made himself sound most pressed upon. "Go home, but mind you make sure the carriage is sent straight back here. I'm sure Madam Wilhelm--"

"Lady Rhys," corrected both Mitchell and Gwen in unison.

"Whatever," Brand said with a grimace. "I'm sure madam won't feel comfortable staying without you as a chaperone. I hope you are satisfied with ruining her evening."

"I'm sorry," Mitch sniffled. He sounded so contrite Brand had to stifle a laugh. "I didn't mean to spoil your night, Lady Rhys."

Gwen gave Brand a hard green glare as she put a comforting hand on Mitchell's shoulder. "There, there, Mitchell, you've done no such thing. Truly, I've had a lovely time."

"But it's early yet!" Mitchell protested. "And I heard the duchess will be having fireworks at ten. I feel absolutely terrible for making you miss that. I'll never be able to make it up to you. Never!"

Brand discreetly pinched Mitch's arm to let him know he was overdoing it. However, the boy's play acting worked because Gwen said, "Oh, Mitchell, please don't fret so. I'll tell you what, I promise your father and I won't leave until after the fireworks. Is that all right?"

Mitchell wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, "You mean it? You'll stay?"

"Yes, for you, Mitchell, I'll stay."

Mitchell then pushed himself away from his father with more energy than such a tired boy should possess. He seized Gwen's hand and kissed it. "Good, I'll be off then. Goodnight, Lady Rhys. It's been a pleasure." He gave Brand a scowl. "I suppose I'll see you later, Father, curse the luck."

"Mitchell--" Brand growled. The boy chuckled and hurried on his way before Gwen could change her mind.

She put her hands on her hips as she watched him go. "The poor boy must be exhausted, Brandon. Why, he didn't even give me a chance to say good-bye."

Brand took her firmly by the arm and led her out to the dance floor. "He's a rude, impossible boy, Gwendoline. Surely you've noticed that by now."

"I would say you are the rude and impossible one," Gwen snapped. "Imagine, making Mitchell feel guilty about being tired. And for what? For a mere dance with me. Really, my lord, I hate to criticize, but you should show more concern for the welfare of your son."

Brand snorted. "Ha! Believe me, Gwendoline; Mitchell got exactly what he was asking for. And as for this being a mere dance--" He let the sentence dangle as he wrapped an arm about her waist and began to propel them on their way.

At first, she was so angry she refused to look him in the face. But her eyes grew dizzy and dazzled by the swirl of light and gilt glitter as they swept around the ballroom. The floor was no better; its gold-veined surface was polished like a mirror, reflecting more bright light into her eyes. She held herself stiff in his arms and focused on the folds of his cravat instead.

Little by little, the haunting strains of the waltz filtered into her consciousness. Almost against her will, she began to relax as the music worked its magic on her. It was so much easier to let the music take her, to let herself float into her partner's strong lead. Brand took the floor with a breath-taking boldness, twirling her into a grand sweep around the room. Not for him the mincing, smallish steps some men, notably Werner, favored.

He drew her closer or was it she who moved closer to him? She wasn't sure, but whatever the case, she was now acutely aware of his scent again. His fresh, clean smell was like a forest after a spring rain. It reminded her of Wales and her happier days there.

She couldn't help but notice the strength of the arm that held her and the warmth of his hand in contrast with hers. No, she didn't feel angry anymore as she raised her eyes to finally look him in the face.

"You have the eyes of a tiger."

Oh, for heaven's sake! Whatever made her blurt such a ridiculous comment out loud? Since all he did was return her stare, she hoped he hadn't really heard her. Still, it was true all the same. His expression was intense, not angry. It was something else, something--oh, she didn't quite recognize it, but whatever it was made her feel both wary and warm.

All because of those eyes of his. They were the lightest shade of brown, so light as to seem golden and gleaming like topaz. Yes, that was it, like smoky topaz cut into an endless rainbow of facets.

Topaz eyes, tiger eyes. Behind them lurked certain danger and dare she even think it? Desire. Dangerous desire.

She realized suddenly that now her body was but a hair's breadth from his. She thought maybe she trembled, but her mind was too jangled to be sure. She needed to recover her scattered wits, so she moved her attention from his eyes to his mouth. Immediately, she realized her mistake. His lips looked so firm and well defined, like something cut from marble. What was it like to kiss a man with a beard? Did it scratch or tickle? Would it feel...

Oh what the devil was she doing? Tying herself in knots just because she was dancing with a wildly handsome man? How could she be so immature? After all, she was a married woman and these were impure thoughts. She'd die if the Marquess knew--and then she saw the corner of his mouth tilt slightly upward.

Her heart leapt in a surprised flutter. He did know! She gulped and peered up into those dangerous eyes. They were sparkling right merrily now.

"Gwen?" he murmured.

"Yes, my lord?" she breathed.

"The music has stopped. You can let go of me now."

"Oh, bloody hell," she muttered, absolutely mortified. She dropped her arm and gently pushed away from him. Several people nearby were staring, making her feel even more of an idiot.

"Perhaps you'd like a stroll in the garden," he suggested. "You seem a bit flushed."

"You mean I'm blushing like a twit, my lord," she said. "I am sorry to have disgraced you so. I fear sometimes my mind gets a bit distracted."

"You needn't apologize, Gwen." His voice was so husky it gave her shivers. "I thank you for the dance. You are a most exquisite partner. Shall we take another turn about the floor? The music is beginning again."

"Uh, no. Not right now, thank you. I do believe I would prefer a nice walk outside after all. I feel the need to regain my composure."

His sudden grin dazzled her as he took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. "As you wish, my lady. Come, I think the night air will do us both a world of good."

As they stepped off the terrace, Gwen took one look at the ridiculously romantic setting and inwardly groaned. The gravel path of the garden coiled about a large pond and was lined with sweet scented flowers. Lanterns were hung at varying intervals, casting a mellow orange glow across the water.

She could hear ducks and swans gadding about and from time to time a fat fowl would skim into sight. Add a bright waning moon, the glittering canopy of stars and such a handsome companion and the stage was set for any woman's romantic fantasy.

Brandon, however, seemed quite unaffected by it all. If it wasn't for the sound of the gravel scrunching under his feet, Gwen might as well be out walking alone. He kept his head averted from her and while she found his profile pleasant to look at, his attitude did not invite conversation. She felt far too nervous to think of any comment worth speaking, so they walked the garden path in silence.

Gwen noticed a few of the other party guests sitting on the many benches that surrounded the pond. Some were set far from the path, easily concealing the identities and activities of the occupants. Her speculations made her blush and she stumbled over an errant pebble. Brand steadied her with quick hands, then immediately released her and continued on his way.

As she fell back in step beside him, she chided herself over her fanciful notions and resolved to concentrate on the beauty of the garden at night instead. She could hear the wind in the trees, but the rustling leaves sounded like lovers' sighs. She could smell the rich fragrance of the flowers, but she thought the sweet aroma paled beside Brand's fresh clean scent. The stars glittered, but not as brightly as Brand's eyes.

Oh for the love of God, Gwen, she almost shouted out loud, stop it! It's obvious the man is not interested in you and besides, you are a married woman! Stop all this mooning at once and act like one!

They were now at the darkest and most distant point of the path. From here it curved back around the pond to return to the house. Gwen sighed in relief. Good, she would make it back without embarrassing herself or the Marquess.

"Look, here's a bench. Let's take a seat and rest for a moment." Brand pulled her down beside him before she had a chance to protest. Now thoroughly rattled by this sudden development, she jerked her hand from his and set about smoothing her skirts to cover her anxiety.

She glanced about her and felt even more anxious. A tall shrubbery almost fenced in this bench; it was a wonder Brand had noticed the thing at all. There were no lanterns about, adding to the sense of privacy. It was a perfect trysting place and Gwen knew it.

She also knew she had no business sitting in the dark with the man, yet she felt a wicked thrill just the same. I should just stand up and tell him to take me back to the house, she thought. But curiosity consumed her. What would Brandon do next? Surely, he must want to kiss her. Why else would he have all but demanded they stop here?

Yet, as the minutes ticked by without a word or attempt from the man, she began to doubt her instincts. Oh, what did she know about men anyway? She should be ashamed of herself. It was lucky it was so dark that the Marquess couldn't see the hot flush on her cheeks. What would he think if he knew about her girlish fantasies?

She leaned back against the bench and closed her eyes with a sigh. Yes, it was a good thing the man couldn't read minds or else she'd really have something to be embarrassed about.

It was a good thing this woman couldn't read minds, thought Brand as he stared up at the stars. If Gwen had the slightest idea how much he wanted her, she'd probably be screaming her head off and running back to the house.

It didn't help his conscience any to know she was just as attracted to him. He grinned. Yes, she'd made that fairly obvious out on the dance floor. Gwen was such an odd contradiction, a woman capable of exuding worldliness and innocence at the same time. When she had trembled in his arms as they danced, he couldn't help wondering how it would feel to have her shudder in sweet release as he made love to her.

Something Mitchell had said then popped into his mind. He'd claimed that Werner wasn't bedding her. Brand inwardly snorted. Well that would figure wouldn't it? He had to admit that the situation pleased him well, but on the other hand, without any explanation from Werner, Gwen must be going through hell.

She let out a soft sigh, drawing his attention. She was leaning back with her eyes closed, arms folded defensively in front of her. Her emerald pendant dangled in her cleavage and sparkled greenly in the meager starlight.

Now that was an entrancing sight! But then, her beauty had put him under her spell from the first moment he saw her. Right now her expression was calm and serene as if sitting next to him in the dark was the most normal thing in the world. Yet, he'd sensed her nervousness from the moment they'd first stepped outside.

He wasn't certain how to go about setting her fears at ease, indeed at this moment he didn't feel very sure about anything, except that he wanted her more than any woman he'd ever met. This indecision on his part was very annoying.

What was the matter with him anyway? He was a grown man, not some untried wet behind the ears youth! And she--well, what was she but just another woman? Hadn't he always been able to bed any woman he'd ever wanted? Why should he feel any different about trying to seduce her? Lord, he wanted her more than any other, so what was stopping him?

He smiled at himself. Gwen would never be an ordinary woman. She was unique and deep down he knew he would not be content until she was truly his--body, mind, and soul.

But how to go about it? He almost chuckled aloud. Well, body was first on the list, wasn't it? And it certainly was the most pleasurable hurdle. Every instinct had told him that she wanted him too, but he had to make the first move. So, he gathered up his courage and his scattered wits and set about to do just that.

Gwen's eyes flew open as she felt the warm brush of Brand's lips against hers. He was poised but a hand's breadth from her face, his dark features shrouded in shadow. Only the glitter of his topaz eyes was visible and they seemed to smolder with inner flames.

She stared, afraid to speak, unable to move. Here was heat; here was the passion she'd yearned for so long. It was wrong for her to want it, but she did. It was wrong for him to offer it, but he was. She could tell he was waiting, wordlessly waiting for her to either accept or deny him.

How odd it is, she thought, that she could know what he wanted without any gesture save this kiss as light as a butterfly's wing and his heated gaze. This knowledge excited her as nothing ever had before. Unconsciously, she wet her lips as she prepared to speak, but this tiny flick of her tongue was all the invitation Brand needed. His mouth lowered over hers in a seductively possessive kiss.

It began gentle, his tongue questing about her closed lips, willing her to open for him. The sensation made her gasp, gaining him the access that he sought. Liquid fire, it felt like liquid fire as his tongue touched hers and the pressure against her mouth gradually increased.

She wasn't sure how to respond, but knew she didn't want him to stop either.

His hands moved behind her head, fisting in her hair, pulling her closer even as his kiss grew hotter. Too hot? She reached up to push against his chest, to push him away, yet somehow found she'd put her hands behind his neck instead, returning his embrace instead of rejecting it.

She doesn't know how to kiss, thought Brand. His instincts about her were right; the woman was an innocent, thanks to Werner's continued neglect. It was hard to suppress the smug exultation that soared through him.

Ah, yes, innocent maybe, but hot-blooded as well! Despite any reservations she might have, she wanted him. He could tell from her sexy little moans against his mouth and from the way her fingers now stroked the nape of his neck.

Once again, Gwen was going to be his. Only this time, she would be willing and fully aware of all that passed between them.

He let go of her hair to wrap an arm about her waist and haul her up full against him. His free hand gentled his abrupt embrace by caressing the side of her cheek, then moving on to stroke the side of her neck.

Oh, but his mouth was so hungry to taste her sweetness! When her tongue began to timidly move in a delicate imitation of his, Brand felt a smile deep inside. Ah, sweet Gwen, he thought, you are like a flower bursting into bloom in my arms. Please don't deny me now.

Gwen's will began to crumple under the crescendo of his onslaught. Just when she thought his kiss had reached its peak, it grew hotter, more urgent in its demand. His tongue slid in and out, advancing and retreating with the sureness of a general marshaling his forces.

She felt the soft scrape of his beard against her cheek and it thrilled her. She felt his hand slide down the side of her breast and it excited her. Wifely honor and morals were fast becoming outdated notions. She wanted this. No! She needed this! Like a starving man needs food, like a drowning man needs air, she needed this.

Brandon hooked his thumb into the top of her décolleté, allowing a perfect pink-hued nipple to spill free from its silk bondage. He felt the breath catch in her throat as he teased the pert little bud with his fingers. It grew hard instantly.

Oh, yes, he had to taste her there too. He eased his lips away from hers to blaze a scalding trail down her neck and chest to reach that excited peak. He flicked her nipple with his tongue and she shivered. He nibbled lightly at it with his teeth and she gasped. Ready now to feast, he began to suckle her.

She threw back her head and moaned his name. His eyes never left her face. Oh, sweet, sweet, Diva, he thought. After all this time without you, please don't deny me now.

His mouth was a scorching brand, a hot iron burning at her breast. She reveled, savored the burn. Without thinking, her hands tangled into his hair, holding him close, holding him there. When he moved away, she thought she might have cried out, but she wasn't sure.

For the first time, he spoke, "Tell me you want me, Gwen." His voice was soft and yet it sounded like a command. For a long moment, she didn't answer. This had to stop. Now. Before it was too late.

"I want you, Brandon," she began, "but--"

"No, no, Gwen. Tell me you want me, only that."

Another soft command, made all the more impossible to deny because of his wandering hand. His fingers were under her skirt, caressing the bare skin of her thighs. All so new, all so thrilling and yet she knew also very wrong. "Oh yes! I mean, no. No, Brand, this is wrong."

"Oh, Gwen, nothing has ever felt so right, has it? Tell me, tell me you want me."

"Brand, I do! But I can't! We can't! Don't you see? I am--oh God, Brand what are you doing?"

He was parting her thighs and slipping a finger into the folds of her sex. Her wetness flowed over his hand like warm honey. "What you are is hot," he growled. "Hot for me, wet for me. You want me, Gwen. Say it. Say it now."

"Brand, I just don't know, this is--oh!"

His finger now slid in and out of her slick channel. "So sweet, you like that, don't you, Gwen? You want more, don't you? Like this." His thumb massaged the little bump that was the very center of her pleasure.

"Brandon!"

Her hips were arching against his hand, urging him on. "Ah, Gwen, you are so beautiful like this. Give in to your feelings. Trust me, this is what you need. This is what you've waited for. It's been so long, hasn't it? Oh, yes, you've wanted and needed this for so long, haven't you, sweet?"

His words shattered her. He did know. He knew exactly what she needed. How, she could not say, but yes, these sensations and feelings were what she'd yearned for and had been so long denied. She felt like she was floating. "Oh, God, Brand. Please don't stop!" she moaned. "Don't ever stop."

His mouth moved over hers. "I won't stop, Gwen. I won't stop until you've taken from me all that you need. Say it, sweetheart. Say the words to me now."

"I want you, Brand."

Somehow, he now knelt in front of her. He gave her a hard kiss, his mouth slanting over hers with a hunger, a need that she knew so well and she returned it with a like heat. She barely noticed him pulling her skirt higher, parting her legs farther apart.

Suddenly everything stopped and she peered up at him, through the drugged haze of passion. His golden eyes were like flames as he said, "Tonight, Gwen, tonight you are mine. As it was always meant to be, you are mine." And then he thrust into her, claiming her mouth to silence her astonished scream.

Oh God, he was inside her. The panic of her wedding night returned, the tightness in her stomach, the fear. Yet, there was no cruel stab of pain this time. He was withdrawing, slowly withdrawing, then advancing again. His tongue inside her mouth imitated the motion. It felt so strange, it felt--wonderful.

She wanted, no, she needed all of him and her hips rose to take him deep inside. "Yes," he murmured as he stopped his kiss, "yes, my beautiful Gwen. Take it all. Take all you want and I will give you more."

His words made no sense, but she was too overwhelmed by sensation to care. He was coming at her faster now and she eagerly met each thrust. Floating, oh, she was floating--until unexpectedly starbursts exploded in front of her eyes. Her whole body shuddered and her mouth formed a wordless oh.

"Beautiful, Gwen. Clever, Gwen, yes, you've found it," he groaned. "Now take me there too. Take me there with all your golden heat. Fly me to the sun." He wrapped her legs around his waist and buried himself inside her. She was so sweetly tight, so damn wet and warm. Never had a woman made him feel this way before. When at last his hot seed spilled out, the spasm shook him to the core. He wanted to shout--no, roar with joy.

He did. There was no way he could contain it.

He collapsed against her, panting and dazed and he could hear the rapid beat of her heart against his ear. And then Gwen said, "Bloody hell, Brandon, you even sound like a tiger!"

He peered into her face, then threw back his head and laughed. She frantically tried to shush him. "I'm serious, Brandon. Someone is bound to have heard you. Lord, they probably heard you in Prague. Get off me now and let me repair the damage."

He did slide away from her then, a bit peeved by her lack of awe for what had been a soul-shattering event for him. Still, he felt too damn good to get angry about it. "I'm not sorry for a thing, Gwen." He grinned as he fastened his breeches. "Are you?"

She was fussing with her bodice. "Well, good Lord, man! Of course I am. Thanks to my reckless behavior this eve, I am now an adulteress."

Her words had the effect of a bucket of ice water dumped over him. "You are not an adulteress!" he half-shouted.

"Will you please lower your voice?" she hissed. "I don't want all of Vienna to know."

"Gwendoline--" he groaned.

"Now Brandon, don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming you. It's my own fault for being weak."

He felt like shaking her until her teeth rattled. "You wanted me, Gwen. Admit it. How can you talk like this? What we just shared was--"

"Glorious!" she finished for him. "Yes, Brand, I must say this encounter was the most glorious thing that's ever happened to me." He relaxed, but her next words made him furious all over again. "I shall treasure the memory of this night always, since of course nothing like this can ever happen again."

"The deuce you say, woman! I've a mind--"

"Brand, you're shouting again." She dropped a hand over his and looked deep into his eyes. "Now Brand, let me make this very clear. I'm a married woman and God forgive me, I've just committed a most grievous sin. It pains me deeply to tell you this, but we must never, ever see each other again. Maybe God will have mercy on me and only stick me in Purgatory for this lapse in morals."

"Is that all you're worried about right now? The disposition of your soul?" He sounded incredulous.

"Well, that's not a trifling worry, Brandon. At least not to me." He let out an inarticulate groan in reply. "Oh, really, Blackwood," she scolded, "you can cease playing the gallant gentleman. I realize that to you this was merely an interesting diversion."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. "Even if that is not true, I am well aware of the limits imposed by polite society on a man of your station. A lord Marquess could have his reputation ruined by a close, continued association with the likes of me."

She stood, then bent to kiss him on the cheek. "I do appreciate your attempt to assuage my tender feelings. Truly, you are a very kind man. Good night, my lord. I shall never forget you." With that she turned and skittered around the hedge, leaving him sitting in stunned amazement.

"Gwendoline!" he roared. "Damn you, come back here!" He scrambled to his feet and made to chase after her, but when he reached the path, she was nowhere in sight. It was as if she had never been there.

Heedless of who might overhear, he shouted, "This is not over, Gwen! Gwen! Do you hear me? This is not over! I won't stop looking until I find you again!"

And when I do, he told himself, I'm never going to let you go.

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