Sir Percy Blakeney was once again returning to France . On 19 November he�d gone with the Prince of Wales and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes to Drury Lane to see �The Comical Revenge� and somewhere between acts three and four he�d come to the conclusion that his life had narrowed into two basic facts; one, that he was bored beyond endurance with his life and all it contained, and, two, that everything he needed and desired was in Paris.

"Come with me," Percy had begged his friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. But Andrew shook his head, no. "Christmas is my favourite time of year, you know that. I can�t miss Northumberland�s rout, and I�m expected at Lady Ossory�s next weekend. And what about Handel�s Messiah? I *always* attend!"

Despite Ffoulkes�s refusal to join him, Percy was not travelling to Paris alone. He had wired ahead to his banker; arrangements had been made for a house, and Percy was driving through the light snow, leading a coach full of servants. Following that was a wagon of supplies � shopping in Paris not being what it used to be.

The house that had been rented was on rue Madeleine, within walking distance of the Louvre, and contained two large reception halls. Sir Percy was of a mind to do some entertaining once he was settled.

It was December the 4th on an afternoon nearly black with threatening clouds.

"There will be three feet of snow before morning," Percy�s valet, Frank said as he came up the steps. He was carrying a mahogany case in which were stowed the tools of his trade, silver-backed brushes, combs, and all the gear necessary for maintaining a gentleman of fashion.

"Of course there will!" Percy was cheerful as he hadn�t been in three months.

Four footmen were man-handling trunks into the house, cursing the cold and the Frenchies who were gathering at the gate and muttering in their foreign language as they pointed and jeered.

"You�ll take my advice," George Dickinson said, "and have a locksmith ensure all the doors are secured." George Dickinson was under-butler at Blakeney manor, raised to the position of senior butler for this visit to France and taking himself very seriously.

"Certainly," Percy agreed, and went inside to write the necessary instructions. He paused in the foyer, gazing all around. "Well, I guess we�ll find the study together, eh Dickinson?"

"No need, sir. I�ll have Davies bring in your portable secretary and set it up wherever Henshaw is lighting the first fire."

But once the fire was going and the secretary set up with paper and pens, Percy�s first letter wasn�t sent to a locksmith, but to the Comedie Francaise.

Frank worked diligently, as per his instructions from Sir Percy: "I want a roaring fire in the bedroom, and my bath." � Frank had rolled his eyes at that. "Where d�you suppose I might find water at this hour?" he asked, knowing his question would be ignored, and it was.

"Did you pack the items separately as I asked?" Percy waited for Frank�s nod before he continued. "Good! Unpack that bag and press my shirt." Frank sank further back into the chair, seeing the hours unravelling before him. "There had better be dry wood available," Frank muttered, "that�s all I can say."

"You have my jewelry? And the box I entrusted to you?" Frank patted the mahogany chest he carried. "I secured it all beneath the velvet wrapping your brushes, Sir Percy. My gratitude that you limited yourself to three sets of shoe buckles and only nine rings, else it wouldn�t have all fit in this portable dresser." The large case sat across Frank�s knees.

Percy cried, "My cravat pins!" Frank reached out a hand, "Taken care of. I have them here," Frank pointed at his leather case resting next to his feet, "pinned securely to my best coat."

Percy sighed. "I thought I�d forgotten to mention it." Frank shook his head. "We went over the list twice, sir, yesterday alone. And three times as I was packing."

"Good! Now, as for my clothes � I have decided I will wear my blue suit." Percy grinned, well pleased with the choice it had taken him the entire crossing of the channel to make.

Frank rolled his eyes. "Which blue suit, Sir Percy? The navy with red stripes or the royal with white stripes, or that indescribable greeny-blue with the odd . . ."

"Robin�s egg blue, Frank. You know, the one that matches my eyes."

Frank gazed up into Sir Percy�s eyes as if he�d never noticed them before. "I�ll see if I can find one that precise colour; the lord knows we have something in every other blue in God�s creation � all happily stowed in one of these four trunks."

"And pressed, Frank! I have to look perfect tonight!"

"You can�t be meeting the king; it would be less trouble . . ." Frank rambled, getting to his feet and picking up the leather travelling bag. "Frank, who did you entrust with my shoes?"

"Henshaw, Sir Percy. He has the trunk at his side. I will pack them at once."

"My white shoes, Frank. They�ll need a special polishing . . ."

"I polished them before packing, Sir Percy."

"Polish them again. I want to see my face in the toes."

"Yes sir, especially the colour of your eyes, I suppose."

Sir Percy slid his feet into white shoes of the finest kidskin. His coat bore buttons set with sapphires. He was altogether a brilliant looking figure. His valet, Frank, was painstakingly curling Percy�s hair with heated tongs; a scent of orange water and burnt powder pervaded the room. Percy wrinkled his nose, "Are you nearly finished, Frank?"

"I am, sir. Try to hold still, if you can." Frank sounded as exasperated as any mother with a fidgety five-year-old on her hands. "It *does* require time for the curls to take, sir."

Percy was regretting his impulse to have his hair curled, to wear it loose about his shoulders instead of tied back as he usually did. The only thing that kept him sitting securely in the chair was the box sitting snug in his lap in which rested a pearl necklace that would make the queen of England gape. Four strands of matched pearls from Japan � an heirloom from Blakeney�s grandmother. For long years the Blakeneys had owned ships that plied the American and Indian oceans; for nearly a century their captains had returned to England with the most exotic of treasures. Pearls such as these were more than rare � they were a miracle of nature.

As a betrothal gift Marguerite could not throw them in his face as she had so many other gifts. Exotic lilies. A diamond pendant. The deed to a house on rue Royal. A shiny cabriolet and team. The woman wanted nothing! Forever she taunted him with "I will not be bought!" Bought? Why must she see every gift as a compromise of her honour? The love he felt for her was not measured by these gifts; they were a manifestation of his tenderness for her. He would offer her anything that might please her be it a comfortable house or a fashionable carriage. Diamonds? Wouldn�t they set off her incomparable cleavage as displayed in her emerald gown? Yet, all milady Saint-Just could say was, "I will *not* be bought!"

"I dare you to say that to me tonight," Percy whispered as he sealed the jewel case. "Frank, aren�t you finished yet?"

While Percy awaited his carriage�s appearance at the front door, he penned a quick note demanding the maitre d� hold a table for two. But where to send it? What about Palmier�s? The name sprung instantly to his mind � Palmier�s was the newest place to be seen, the place where one saw the spiffed revolutionaries trying out their slip-shod manners. Marguerite would enjoy that; perhaps she would see Danton with his ladies, or Brissot with his long nose buried in a sheaf of letters.

"Take this to Palmiers," Percy ordered, adding a couple of livres to the note as incentive to the maitre. Either he�d arrive to a table in the window complete with flowers and a bottle of the finest wine, or else he�d face a strained face and an upturned nose . . . and a line leading from the door around the block.

"People are hungry in Paris. And poor," Percy told the footman, who looked surprised to hear it. "Everything will go as I wish it!"

The jingle of harness alerted him that his carriage had arrive. "Ah, Frank!" Percy called up the stairs, "you will wait up for me, won�t you? I�ll need assistance out of these tight shoes after an evening of dancing." He slammed the door without waiting for a response.

Sir Percy leapt from the carriage, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. Two urchins rushed forward to hold his horses for "a sous, monsieur. A sou!" Percy had Henshaw riding on the back to watch his carriage and turned the youngsters away. A dark-clad figure fled into the theatre as if he were pursued by ghosts, the door flinging open just as a burst of laughter erupted. The door waved slowly closed; one moment the music from within was loud, the next it was muted.

Pausing at the door, Percy pulled out his watch: nearly half past seven . He was late. Of course. For some reason he could never be ready on time. Perhaps he needed an additional valet � Frank was so slow with buttons and shaving, brushes and polishing. A good thing Marguerite wasn�t waiting for him in the box where she could judge how late he was. He held out his ticket to the doorman, who opened the door and pointed him toward the stairs. Percy ran up the stairs, then read off the numbers of each door before finding the box he�d reserved for the evening. It wasn�t the best location, unfortunately, but he did have a decent view of the audience. He used his quizzing glass to examine the rows beneath him, seeking familiar faces, while behind him, on the stage, someone began to sing in a passable tenor.

Percy had only begun to list the people he knew in the audience when Marguerite took the stage. She was wearing green that did much to highlight her hair and her tone was deep and rich as she faced down a lad who skittered and danced across the stage. He scamp drew a laugh and scattered applause as he exited, then the lights dimmed � this was Marguerite�s big scene. Percy watched through his quizzing glass, noting her expressions and the way her eyes flashed. God, she was more beautiful than he remembered. Amazing how she could convince an audience that she was someone else. There were moments when he couldn�t believe he�d really kissed her.

He was held spellbound until the end of the scene, but once Marguerite had bowed and left the stage (to thunderous applause) Percy rang the bell and for a page. A youngster of about nine appeared, knocking politely at the door before entering. "This note," Percy proffered a slip of paper from his pocket as if he�d just written it, "take it to Mademoiselle Saint-Just�s dressing room." Three silver coins tinkled into the lad�s hand.

"Oui, monsieur!" The boy was away. Percy congratulated himself on writing the note to his beloved while he was dressing...

Percy observed the Comtesse d'Ossun with her sister and the Comtesse de Maille with her husband in the box opposite, all chattering together, ignoring Simone as she cavorted on the stage. The box directly to the left of the stage was crowded with colours as half a dozen gowns spilled together in the confined space. There was a man with the group wearing cranberry serge � whose regiment was that? Percy eyed the man's square hat critically, noting the tall white plume. The face beneath the hat was powdered and rouged � the man was obviously a courtier and brazen enough to look the role in one of the more dangerous gathering places in Paris to be marked as a royalist � fool! Percy moved on to inspect the faces of the women, and halted at the first one. "My word," he muttered aloud, "if it isn't the Marquise de Saint-Cyr!"

Of all the stupidity, being seen with a rampant royalist was among the greatest errors a woman of quality could make. Abruptly Percy dropped his quizzing glass and exited his box, making his way quickly around the back stairs to Saint-Cyr's box. His knock at their door brought a riot of chatter and the clatter of moving chairs, then the door opened a crack.

"Sir Percy Blakeney, your grace," Percy called into the box. The door opened wider and a few raucous shouts drowned out the music from the orchestra below. "Percy! Percy! Percy!" One after another of the young ladies cried and Blakeney occupied himself in kissing hand after hand as it was thrust up to his face. He grinned with delight when he spotted a certain young woman dressed in bright pink. "My word, if it ain't Angel�. You've grown ever so pretty, my dear!"

The woman in pink stood, making space for him to move forward. "Come sit with me, Sir Percy," she said, dragging him closer. "Move over, Sylvie!" The child was shoved aside so Percy could sit next to Angel�.

"I spied you from . . ." he began.

"Angel� li-ikes bo-oys!" Sylvie sang, then stuck her thumb into her mouth, carefully dodging the slap directed at her by Angele.

"Allow me to introduce Angel�'s fianc�, Sir Percy," the marquise said. "This is the Duke de Mercoeur, from Provence." Percy received a minuscule nod of the regal head, a cursory glance from a pair of weary-looking black eyes.

"You're to be married? Felicitations, my dear!" Percy's heart sank. There was no way he could warn the marquise against the spectacle she was making of her family without embarrassing a duke (who was probably a general) and the fianc� of Saint-Cyr's daughter. Lord the man was forty if he was a day. Jaded. Obviously thoroughly debauched. Had probably sired thirty bastards across southern France. No doubt he brought money and prestige to Saint-Cyr, but what would he bring to lovely Angele?

"The La Fayette's are giving a soiree in honour of our engagement, Percy. Do say you'll come," Angel� insisted. "I want you to dance with me."

Angel� was not pretty in the usual sense, rather she had a vivacity that won hearts. Men who met Angele couldn't say what was so irresistible about her - all they knew was that they were hooked by her charm. Percy, sitting back, wondered anew at why he'd always felt drawn to the little hoyden; it was true, she'd ensnared him while still a flat-chested chit of fourteen. Now she was more appealing than any French brunette in pink satin had a right to be. "I will try to attend, but..."

"Don't you dare say you'll try, Percy; you *will* attend. Mercoeur knows almost no one in the city, but his regiment was in America with la Fayette, surely you know..."

Angel�'s diatribe was interrupted by the marquise, who leaned forward to exclaim, "Percy Blakeney, I am astonished at you! When one is invited to attend a soiree at la Fayette's, one goes! It is an imperative. He is married into the de Noailles family, even you must know what that signifies!"

The Marquise de Saint-Cyr, kindly, grandmotherly, had delivered a stinging rebuke the like of which Percy hadn't received from anyone except his uncle, the Duke of Exeter. He felt thorough chastened, made small as a puppy.

"Of course, madame," he said in a scarcely audible tone, "it shall be as you command." At once he was on his feet and shoving his way back to the exit, breathless with the need to escape.

As Percy shut the door to the box and stood once more in the narrow hallway facing the stairs he breathed a sigh of relief. Extraordinary it was how he could face down a blood-thirsty cretin like Chauvelin with equanimity, but a woman like Saint-Cyr chilled him to the bone. Perhaps it was because he'd never been reconciled to losing his mother as a boy.

Percy reached his box just as the scene ended to thunderous applause and the curtain sailed down. Below him all was chaos as people tried to leave their seats during the intermission; he leaned over the side of the box to watch the confusion. It was pointless for him to attempt to see Marguerite at this time; the dressing rooms were bustling with women frantically changing costumes and a throng of admirers clogging the doorways. One thing that drove him quite mad if he thought of it was the forward way the aggressive rakes barged in as the actresses were preparing for the next act, forced to repel this bartering for their favours while repairing their rouge and having their hair straightened. Percy turned livid thinking of Marguerite in stockings and petticoat, ogled by all manner of admirers. He would marry her and take her away from the stage where her beauty was displayed for all to see. She would perform only for him. No one else would ever see her in enticing disarray ever again.

When the curtain went up once more and the audience was back in their places, Percy rang the bell and the same page he'd seen before strode into his box. Percy held out a small box wrapped in silver paper. "For Mademoiselle Saint-Just," he said. "Give it to no one else." As he dropped a few coins into the lad's hand the page grinned. "Right away, sir!"

Marguerite wouldn't refuse a trifling gift of white gloves; an essential to every woman's wardrobe. She would open the box and see them neatly folded, toss the box onto her dressing table and think no more of them until he arrived to take her to supper. Only when she slipped her hand inside them would she understand what she'd accepted: there was a little something else hiding in one of the insignificant gloves. Percy imagined her tugging at the finger of the glove she'd partially donned, the white fabric sliding away to reveal the treasure in her palm. Her eyes would sparkle with delight before she rounded on him in anger: "I will not be bought!" she would say - again. He would drop the treasure into his pocket and Marguerite would keep the gloves. He would win - a tiny success, but he would win at last.

Scanning the audience as the audience began to take their seats once more, Percy noted how the majority of the boxes, previously reserved by aristocrats dripping heirloom jewellery, were now filled by ambitious revolutionaries, their wives and mistresses covered in forfeited diamonds. Women who laughed too loud and drank too liberally in public; men who couldn�t understand that a green cravat did not go with a green coat. Percy tsk tsked at the sight. Monsieur Danton had never even heard of the kind of polish a nobleman learned along with table manners and the art of conversation.

Who was that? Percy�s quizzing glass paused at a soberly clad figure hunched in a seat near the aisle. God in heaven, he *knew* that face � it was Armand, Marguerite�s young sprout of a brother. The candlelight burnished the lad�s bronzy hair to flaming copper. He�d be breaking hearts before Margot knew it! Percy grinned to himself, imagining the jealousy there; Marguerite was fiercely protective of the boy. Any girl who set her sights on Armand would have to fight Marguerite.

And there she was, emerging from the wings, wearing a towering feather headdress. The play was forced to halt while the audience leapt to their feet to applaud their favourite and Marguerite curtseyed deeply, accepting their love graciously before resuming the script. Percy leaned both elbows on the sill, cupping his chin in his hands as he watched Marguerite portray a fairy princess with magical powers. Oh she had those all right! Everyone in the audience was in love with her, but *he* was the one she�d kiss.

Percy watched as Simone, clever little minx, mimicked Marguerite�s stately walk, imitating the sway of her feather headdress with a hand held over her head. Then she made a suggestive gesture that brought a storm of laughter. The comedy had been building; they were reaching the climax of the play and Percy could imagine the conclusion would leave the audience screaming for more.

When the play was as successful as this, it could take another hour for Marguerite to sign autographs, to receive congratulations and try to get out of her costume. Percy gazed at the audience wishing he�d found other people he knew who might fill in the time, but there was no one save the Saint-Cyr ladies. No point in venturing back there; not after his hesitation in accepting an invitation to the Marquis de la Fayette�s Christmas party. Percy sighed. Some things never changed; Saint-Cyr�s snobbish social climbing annoyed him. Didn�t Saint-Cyr understand that Lafayette was part of the problem in France ? That he inspired the likes of Robespierre to greater outrages? Now Percy was going to have to visit the man�s house, kiss his wife�s hand and pretend to be impressed by his derring-do. The only thing that might work to advantage was that Marguerite might enjoy meeting the marquis. She so enjoyed sparring with a man over his politics! And she would want a new gown for the party � far grander than anything she as a bourgeoisie was likely to have experienced. Tulle and taffeta were simply not done at a soiree of that calibre . . . and she would have need of a certain pearl necklace. Percy grinned as the audience leapt to their feet to thunder a standing ovation for the players as the curtain was lowered.

�You don�t want to be bought,� he muttered. �When will you understand that the pleasure is mine, not yours? I *will* see you wearing my pearls; probably sooner than you imagine.�

People stared at Percy as he walked by; he was used to that. It came with the territory � dress to be noticed, and you will be. Percy felt like a golden god in his blue suit (blue that matched his eyes) with sapphires set into the buttons. His hair was freshly washed and floated about his shoulders in a cloud of glossy curls. He heard the gasps, felt the stares. He was taller than any man there and floating along in white kidskin shoes. He was going to propose to the most beautiful woman in all of France tonight and he felt invincible.

He was adored by the most ravishing creature on God�s earth; she would kiss him like he�d been drenched in chocolate. Her body heated in his arms until she melted into acquiescence. He would watch her feast on the finest meal in all of Paris and then she would smother him with her love until the sun beckoned them from her bed. She was his. She was his. Her love was all for him. And she would marry him, he knew it. She would wear four strands of the most perfect pearls ever created against her rose and peach skin and she would be his woman. His. His wife.

He passed them all on his way to her dressing room, a crowd of chattering, ugly people. There were women wearing too much rouge and men whose debauchery showed on their faces. Sagging faces, jaded glances, petulant lips. A woman whose gown was cut too low, a man whose coat stretched across his belly, a fop who was puking in a corner from too much wine. None of the vulgarity of life could touch him, not tonight. Tonight even revolutionary Paris was an enchanted garden.

There was a sentry outside Marguerite�s door. Good lord, it was her fire-breathing dresser! "Hullo, sweet Angela," Percy said in his thick, drawling English. "I hav-ay come ee-see to view Mam-zelle Sayn Joost, if you please, dear-heart." He grabbed the woman�s work-reddened hand and brushed the knuckles with dry lips. She looked agog as if no one had ever treated her like a lady before.

"Ah, if it ain�t the little madam." Percy eyed the maid, taking the time to gaze straight into her eyes the way women adored. "Hullo missus."

"I say there Angela; go par-lay at the mam-zelle if Sir Percy Blakeney might march-ay chay-zelle, yes?" Filipa nodded, opened the door a crack and Angele vanished inside. Percy grinned, enjoying his little game. Amazing how, treated correctly, these women would struggle with his broken French to be accommodating and smile as if he were caviar on toast. He winked at Filipa and watched her purse her lips.

"Entrez, monsieur." The words were spoken and Percy's night of nights began. It felt as if the brightest light in all the world had hit him full in the face. God, he was hot! His palms were suddenly damp - he resisted wiping them on his breeches where the sweat would show. With utmost casualness he pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket, patted them dry, then returned it and entered *the sanctuary*.

The vision - oh, perfection! The branched candelabra on Marguerite's dressing table cast its light into the mirror so that Percy's first impression was of Margot glowing in an aura of white light reflected back at her from the mirror she stood before. He saw her facing the mirror, patting a curl against the swell of a breast, the sweep of her back and flowing skirts in shadow. She had her back to him, glanced over her shoulder at him, and turned with a slow sweep that gave volume to her skirts, which flared as she moved to face him. She took his breath away!

She was more beautiful each time he saw her, more ravishing, more perfect. At one time he'd convinced himself it was her wondrous hair that drew his attention, then he decided that her sensuous lips were her best feature, but now he was certain it was her eyes. No, it was the slender, graceful hands she held out to him as he walked into her embrace.

"My darling, how I've missed you!" He had to concentrate on breathing. He might forget to breathe. He needed to kiss her, but his breathing was out of kilter. "My darling. My love," he said. It was all he could think of to say. His arms had gone around her waist and the touch of her hand against his shoulder shot a tremour down his spine. She was in his embrace filling his head with her perfume and he felt more alive than he ever had felt before. And then his lips covered hers and he pulled her closer. His skin was on fire beneath his clothes, especially where Marguerite's hands burned their way through his coat on their way up, up and into his hair. Her full breasts pressed into his chest and Percy was certain his heart was melting. His mouth was full of the taste of her and he knew he was going to die of pleasure. Reluctantly he pulled away, his breathing ragged. "I'd forgotten. I mean, I remembered how wonderful it was, but I'd forgotten how..." Insistently Marguerite tugged at his hair and she silenced his foolishness with another kiss.

What magic! She had the power to overcome any resistance he might dare to apply. Resist? What madman wished to resist the seduction of Marguerite Saint-Just? There was a reason why he must not allow her to overwhelm him - what was it? He leaned forward to kiss her again and a curl fell into his eyes - his. It stopped him. ". . .I've undone all of Frank's hard work."

He grinned at that. Warmed as he was by her suggestive tone that she could see how much he'd missed her - her observation coloured his cheeks - and her squirming in his lap only aggravated the situation. "I recall my last thought before entering this room was that I would not allow you to take advantage of me," he teased. "My papa warned me about women like you, who turn a man's best intentions into gravy for the feast." He kissed her lightly. "How glad I am that I've been a disappointment to him in that field as well as so many others!"

He remembered his intention as Marguerite's eyelids fluttered closed and she moved in to render him more useless than a rusted bucket . . . but only a fool would turn aside Margot's kiss and Blakeney was not quite so big a fool as that! There was the taste of surrender in her kiss, the heat of hunger long denied. Pity that she drained his strength with her honeyed kiss, turning his bones to jelly. How could he be her hero when she reduced him to a stammering fool? He wanted only to spend his life sitting at her feet, gazing up into her eyes as her supplicant, hers to command. Whatever plans he may have made - his life was hers to dictate, he could only perform at her whim. Her kiss filled his mind with coloured fog, but somewhere deep inside he understood that she loved him - he knew it! He knew, too, the passion she would arouse in him once he had her alone later this night.

"I have arranged supper for us - if I have the strength to stand - and I pray you will spent the time telling me about every hour we've spent apart. I want to hear about Armand and his studies, about Marie or Madeleine or whatever that fool cook's name is you employ and her fight with your neighbour's cat. Has it won the cream, yet? And you shall tell me all about which actress has stolen whose lover and which is wearing the latest fashion. Perhaps you'll say you've missed a certain foolish suitor of yours who doesn't deserve your attention for all he craves it with all his heart." As he spoke Percy shifted Marguerite off his lap and did find his legs could support him. He tugged his waistcoat back into place, smoothed the creases from his coat, turned automatically towards the mirror and blinked at his disordered hair. "Lord madam! I look as if we've already been abed . . ." and then he blushed at his errant remark. "Uh, the box. Did you receive it? A trifle. Nothing. A woman always needs gloves, I thought. For some reason the thought of your tiny hands always fills my mind." - and her perfect feet. But a lover could not give a woman shoes; only a husband might buy her shoes.

Marguerite seemed to be struggling not to laugh at him; he was acting as if he'd never spent an afternoon kissing her over and over, as if he had never before experienced the confusion of burning arousal. She raised her head, the chin at an angle, her mutely parted lips a signal. "No!" Percy raised his hands. "Kiss me again and I shall die of it!"

The disorder Marguerite had brought to his hair upset Percy more than anyone could know. He took a pride in his appearance that bordered on obsession. Watching her comb him back into order settled him in a way nothing else could have and his breathing became more relaxed. He felt able once again to accept her humourous jibe in the spirit in which it had been untended: 'I wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation.'

"I should be thrilled to have you compromise me, lovely," he murmured, grabbing her hand and kissing it. "But tonight I have something altogether more mundane planned. Supper, the joy of your company, and a few weeks at least that I'm able to spend in Paris while a couple of business ventures unfold and one particular nasty situation is resolved."

Percy got up from the chair. "Supper is the first consideration. I must feed my working woman. I must care for this precious jewel or all of Paris will be at my door to complain. I have to commend you, dearest on your performance. I really can't comprehend the way the magic works - all I know is that it is magic in fact when you appear on the stage."

Percy escorted Marguerite to the door, then, turned back toward the box dropped into a chair where gloves spilled onto the seat. He riffled through them until he felt the one that bulged conspicuously, grabbed the pair and, handed them to her.

"Do me the honour, my love." Percy wore a calculating look, as he passed them to her. "I so adore your pretty hands." He watched her, not taking his eyes from hers. Marguerite was disconcerted, grabbing the new gloves, but not putting them on. She made a show of minding her hems, swishing her skirts, setting up a ruckus when she walked. The chorus of rustling silk and crumpling lace! His intense scrutiny was upsetting her; she sensed he was anxious, but didn't understand why - Percy read her confusion as a positive sign. He would have told her not to fret, but his voice faltered and all he could do was clear his throat. God-in-heaven, he was going to get down on his knees before her tonight! He would be wax in her hands; his life hers to make or destroy at her whim.

When he pushed open the stage door, he was gratified to discover his footman at his helpful best. The carriage was parked in the lane, his driver on the box. Impressive! He wore his pride on his sleeve as he handed Marguerite into the coach, seating himself close by her side.

"I've never had the opportunity to take you any place like this," he said, "where I can show you off.� It was as if Marguerite knew this night would be special. Never had he seen her looking more lovely. He wanted to say so, but he couldn't marshall the words.

Percy was becoming more nervous by the minute. He was no longer 25, no longer able to absorb a blow to his ego that might destroy him. Proposals of marriage were serious affairs and hearing no a difficult undertaking. He had proposed before: young women had made a mockery of him. He needed to try again - but he needed to succeed, desperately! The streets were brightly lit - oh Paris ! City of light. City of magic. Would he be lucky this time? He could see nothing of the passing scene - walls, walks, trees, people. He saw nothing, knew nothing. He focussed all his attention on Marguerite who had become the centre of his universe. Her gown was a creamy silk that matched her perfect skin; its volume puffed around her, spilling over into his lap. She rested her head against his shoulder; it took all his effort to control himself. How easy to reach down and turn her chin upwards. How simple to keep on kissing her until he was unable to think at all. He struggled to remember he intended honourable marriage; she looked up at him with such languid glances that he suspected she was all in favour of his making love to her now. Here. Now.

Lights flickered, and Marguerite's eyes glowed with love and mystery. The carriage lurched to a stop. Henshaw yanked open the door and stood staring for a long moment - as if he'd expected to find them sprawled on the seat - then he set the steps in order and Percy slid off the seat. He held out his arms to Marguerite. "Come, my love." Let me make you happy tonight - he wanted to say. Listen to me promise you every perfection in life...

She filled his arms for a moment, she and her masses of golden hair - she and her voluminous silk skirts. If you refuse me, I shall shoot myself for certain!

"Uh...the matter? Why, uh, yes." Percy was trembling so violently, it made no sense to lie - so he decided to try a novel approach when it came to women and to tell the God's honest truth. "I'm overwhelmed with my passion for you; the inappropriate dreams I have, versus the reality of a simple dinner in a restaurant. I want everything in the world to work out in my favour when I know it can't. So, I'm worried over which things won't go right. Which things will fall against me and make me more miserable than they should."

It was like unleashing an unruly dog, this telling of the truth. The more he said, the more he wished to confess. He wanted to stand up and shout, *Love me, damn it! Surely you must love me - because I love you. Because I couldn't bear it if you didn't.* But, of course, no one could be so gauche. Not even Margot's dear friend the dark, frowning Chauvelin would be so uncouth as to say such things.

Percy batted his eyelids, pretending to be discomfitted that he had said quite enough when he'd scarcely begun to tell the truth about how undone he was by the incomparable Marguerite Saint-Just. Instead, he looked pointedly at her bare hands and the gloves she carried - carried! It was going to be a difficult proposal, he could tell. Women were put on earth to torment men, everyone knew that. Sarah Dunstable, pretty thing, made every man she looked at feel inferior. Tony's so-eligible younger sister, acerbic of tongue and impeccable in bearing, made every man feel like a partially tamed chimpanzee. Marguerite Saint-Just stripped bare a man's inner workings and left him naked before her.

"Supper, my darling. I wish tonight will be the most splendid you've ever spent across the table from a man dying - dying! Unable to find the correct words to tell the most beautiful actress in Paris how unworthy he is." The lady walked before him like an angel, scarcely touching the ground. Should he dare to lift her skirts and check her shoes - oh daring thought! - he would find the soles unscratched by the stones of the walkway. She was unworldly, this goddess from heaven. That was the mystery and the torment of her.

"I must insist, my darling, because the choice is mine whether I give you the gift or not." Percy expected to lose this argument, yet he was determined to make his point. "I understand that you want nothing except my love. It's the fact that I love you that compels me to give you these things. Why can't you see that to me the things are worth nothing unless they bring some joy along with themselves." It took an effort to keep his tone firm and level; did she sense his strain? The ring was a bauble; he had a houseful of such things for his grandmother, as a rare beauty in her day had collected jewels, while his mother had worn virtually none. He dropped it into his pocket once more, concentrating instead on the gloves. "These are an innocent pleasure; can you not accept something so impossibly ordinary? Less than ten livres for a dozen; why, you could charge more than that for one kiss - wait! That was a joke. I swear it was said in jest!"

There was something in Marguerite's startled look that made him laugh. Why did she take everything so seriously? Perhaps it was because of her too-serious friends.

"Ah, bonjour," Percy spoke to the bowing maitre who offered his best table, "for a young man, you've understood my request perfectly." A bouquet of white flowers graced the table and a bottle of the best wine was already breathing next to silver goblets that sparkled in the candlelight.

"I? Argue? Why I would hardly know how. You who are the mistress of words and meanings and all things eruditional - is that a word? Of an erudite nature is what I mean. You are the mistress of logic and power and sorcery. I bow to you in all things, my dearest." Before Marguerite could rebut, Percy buried his nose in the menu, determined to have his words stand while she might splutter or imagine. He cared nothing so long as she heard his intent was benign.

"Look at this - they have a roast lamb of all things. Tony always says the only thing safe to eat in France is the fish; I wonder if we dare?"

When he glanced up, Marguerite seemed to be staring pointedly at the gloves. Had be guessed wrong? Were they a major issue rather than a minor point? His optimism faded a little with the worrisome thought.

As Marguerite pulled on one glove and then the other, Percy noted the ironic smile playing at the corners of her lips. Did she know what he was thinking? She did seem to read him with an inexplicable female perception that defied description. The bow of her top lip intrigued him; the fullness of her lower lip begged to be kissed. The white marble of her brow, the warm peach of her cheeks, the contour her perfect shoulders, the velvet of her perfect skin swelling above the tight bodice of her gown. Stays, glorious stays that hugged her ribs and moulded her flesh into something so profoundly beautiful - his hands itched to cup that flesh. She was his. Her love was his. His hands were beginning to shake as he held the menu and his eyes had glazed over as the vision of his lover, her skin painted gold by firelight, filled his mind.

"You humble me with your gesture," he said at last, his voice cracking on the words. Did she know how profoundly she affected him, how completely she overwhelmed him? "I wish I could explain to you that purchasing your love was never in my plans. I don't deserve your love - I know that; but that you are willing to give it to me despite my unworthiness urges me to reciprocate. I want to give you love, the sparkles that dance on windblown water, the sun, all of England , every star in the sky. I can't give you any of the things I believe most beautiful on earth, like the colours in a candle flame or a blanket or rose petals. I try to give you things you might find useful, or that you might like, or that will simply be pretty when worn against your perfect beauty." Percy hated trying to explain things like this. Words; he was inadequate to the task of explaining how he felt with words. He needed moonlight where his stroking hands and the sighs set free by emotion and ardour would speak on his behalf.

A wine steward approached, filling their glasses and bowing low as Percy praised his choice. Brutally expensive it was - Percy recognised the name. What better choice for the night when he proposed to Marguerite Saint-Just? No marquis in France could show her more deference or provide her with more riches than he. No flesh and blood man could adore her more completely than he.

"I for one intend to risk my life on this lamb cassoulet. What would you like, my darling?"

How he loved her daring, her humour! How he adored her winsome expression when she said that all she wanted was his heart - even set against a gift as paltry as gloves. Lord Tony had a mistress who had cost nearly a king's ransom in sapphires, her gem of choice; Percy wondered how it was that he had managed to side-step the conniving women of the street and fall - literally - into the arms of the most perfect woman in all the world.

How could he have found a woman so perfect? A woman who was adored by her fans, yet still humble. A woman who was more beautiful than any of nature's glories and yet ignorant of this fact. It was beyond conception - until one considered the flaw . . . a fatal flaw in the mix. Marguerite Saint-Just saw herself as stepping into the shoes of those who hosted the great salons. Politics consumed her the way perfume and jewels held every other women Percy knew in thrall. What was it about Marguerite that made her care more, want more, and be more than any other woman Percy had ever encountered?

"I hope this will be a night to remember and not because of bad lamb!" He hoisted his glass and clicked it against hers. "You and I, my love, against all of Paris !" He downed the contents of his glass in a single swallow as Marguerite watched him, her lips softly parted. He read her heart in her eyes, the conflict over his gift forgotten, and for a moment it seemed as if he felt her heart beating in rhythm with his. He closed his eyes, pretending to savour the wine. Yes, he felt the connexion between them - so perfect were they together - just as he'd felt it last when she'd lain in his arms, heart to heart in fact.

Percy gave the order to the maitre, then leaned forward in his chair so that he could take both his beloved's hands in his. " Paris has never been my favourite city, especially now, save that it holds you." His heart was beating faster, so quickly it seemed to affect his breathing. "With so much death and fear stalking every plain citizen, can you imagine yourself well away from such a place?"

Her hands twisted in his - was she pulling away? Or was she tugging him nearer? Percy was strangling at his boldness. He gasped for air and grinned awkwardly.

"Have you ever visited Rome or Venice ? Florence is my favourite Italian city, but they say Venice is for lovers; perhaps you'd allow me to take you there. It's a world far different from what you suffer here, my love."

No sooner had he begun this new train of thought than Marguerite responded with, 'You worry about me! It is true I fear what Paris has become, but it will be better in time, my darling.' She looked as if she believed her words.

"D'you think so? I fear otherwise," he said sadly. "I fear that I shall lose you to these rebels. Perhaps worse, I dread the idea that we might lose your young brother - idealist that he is. Isn't he exactly the type to get into scrapes and difficulties?"

Unfair! No sooner were the words said, than Percy wished them away. What a thing to remind her of! "Uh, I hadn't meant to cause you anguish, dearest - I'm sure young Armand is safe for the present. I was only considering that it is so often the young and idealistic who are impressed by incomplete arguments and Armand - he's been exposed to every sort of idea and vision thanks to your salon. Don't you worry about him? I have to admit that I do."

Percy did. In too many ways the idealistic young Armand reminded him of the equally idealistic Tony Dewhurst as a lad, still in school, mirroring every cause and plan that gloated across a room. It hadn't taken long for Dewhurst to learn to think, to become cynical. But cynicism also spelled safety and Armand wasn't yet at that stage. Percy's heart reached out to the teenager and he ached with Marguerite's concern for the lad. Nothing could hurt her more than any pain inflicted on Armand - hadn't Saint-Cyr proven that?

"When I mention Italy," he said haltingly, "I include Armand in the invitation." He hadn't - not at first. He'd forgotten the boy existed, so lost was he in Marguerite's bright, sparkling eyes. Allowances could be made for the lad; anything. Anything, as long as Marguerite agreed to be his!

The rebuff was gentle, possibly unintentional, but Percy heard it. Armand would not come with them to Venice , which meant Marguerite would not go either. What could he do? There had to be some way to convince her to marry him! All the usual avenues were closed to him: Marguerite could not benefit from his title, refused his wealth, didn't want any of the advantages an alliance with him may offer. There was little chance that she would accept his proposal. He couldn't even flog himself with the idea that she had some other lover she desired more - she would refuse him and still go lonely to her bed - on principle.

Suddenly Percy loathed principles. He was enraged over the very word. "I am finding it deuced difficult to live within the confines of your principles, my dear." The words spilled out, unplanned. "That I can get you to accept a pair of simple gloves is an improvement in our situation, but that you won't accept a ruby ring hurts me. You think I want to buy you; I have to ask how you can think such a thing? Have I ever tried to purchase your favours? I have not! You have given me everything any man could dream of for nothing more than my devotion, why can you not see that I give you everything I have as a man in return? I am devoted to you. I adore you. In your world rubies come are rare, can you imagine a world where such things are commonplace? In my world, there is a basket of gems passed from my grandmother that I may give to whomever I please. If I give them to the char who polishes andirons, do you think she would toss them back into my face? I can assure you she would not, but likewise, she would not expect to move into my bed in payment - nor would I want her to. I wonder what it would be like if I were to marry you Marguerite. Would you be too proud to accept my ring then? Or my house? Would you come to England and live with me? Would you allow me to send Armand to Oxford ? Or would you stubbornly say, ' Paris is our home,' and toss one of these fine cotton gloves in my face?"

He could tell by the change in her expression that he'd startled her with his talk of marriage. And, of course, he'd done everything wrong. What had happened to the man who could recite romantic poetry? He had intended to tell her that her eyes enchanted him and that she had cast a spell on him. Percy cleared his throat and asked in a much softer tone, "Have you ever thought of marriage? Surely others have proposed marriage to you."

The sounds in the restaurant grew louder as Percy was greeted by silence across the table. Somewhere someone was laughing as if they'd heard the first joke they understood, a rolling belly laugh without end. Closer by there was a buzz in the air, an expectant hummmm - perhaps it was inside his head. He had drank most of the bottle of wine accompanied by a bite of salad. Something in the brightness of Marguerite's eyes seemed wrong.

Of course it was wrong. He hadn't used any tender, romantic words; he'd stabbed across the table at her as if she were tied to the chair, not asking her to consider marrying him and making him the happiest man on earth, but petulantly demanding that she think it. Whining. Acting the boorish child who hasn't gotten his way. He was behaving as badly as her aggressive friend, Monsieur Chauvelin.

So, Blakeney, how do you back yourself out of this mess? He eyed the shredded lettuce, desperately seeking an answer hidden in the leaves. He wanted to swear. Pound the table. From somewhere, a vision of Tony's sardonic grin stopped him. Dewhurst would be laughing fit to die right about now, but then Dewhurst would have considered himself satisfied to have the lady and then walk away. None of the stately rules that organized a man's life could be called to play when one decided to break the rules and fall hopelessly, insanely in love with an actress - that was the telling point.

Marguerite. So wonderful. So perfect in every way. If she wasn't an actress she could step into his life without causing a ripple, but that one thing . . . one tiny thing and the unrippled sea turned into a hurricane-tossed scene of destruction. 'And you are the boat!'

Percy set his glass at the side of the table; lord save him, he was hearing things! Tony's voice, as if he were sitting with them. His palms were damp. He wiped them on the edge of the tablecloth and wondered what he could say to winnow out of the disaster he'd caused.

'Kiss her goodbye, Blakeney. She could have anyone; why would she choose you?' She said she had never thought to accept a proposal, and of course she'd had many. She floated through life gathering praise and adoration, bouquets handed to her by her worshippers.

"Perhaps I've started at the wrong end of the subject," Percy said, clearing his throat bravely. "Adoration is yours by right. Your reputation is of international standing; did you know the Prince of Wales asked me if I'd seen you play and I told him I knew you personally. The man was ready to swoon. 'Tell me everything,' he said and sat with me for nearly an hour so he could hear. So, uh . . . you have no, uh, plans to leave the theatre for the usual roles in a woman's life of wife and mother. Will you keep those of us who are your devoted slaves chained to your feet forever?"

The maitre brought the main course and another bottle of wine. Percy smiled his thanks, a little crookedly, slipping his palm over his glass as the man poured. With a little bit of patience, he could do this properly. Keep a clear head. Steer a steady course.

His fork clanked heavily onto the plate. This was not the first time Marguerite had shown herself so intuitive he'd begun to imagine her sorcery was not all seduction, but fact. Once more she'd read his intent - as she had that afternoon when he'd kissed her over and over, stroking her knees and wishing there was some way to ask her to lift her feet into his lap. How could he ask that? When a man paid for the favour he might command - but Marguerite Saint-Just? She'd sensed something of the urgency he felt and in a spontaneous movement had kicked off her shoes. He'd nearly swooned with delight. Wasn't she the only woman anywhere on earth who could enchant him completely?

"I do speak of marriage; surprisin' it is that you say you'd reject any proposal. While I've never known an actress before, my cousin - yes, he's back in our conversation - he has known many. Marriage is their ultimate goal, so Tony says. Perhaps he means those dancers who one sees in a show and never encounters again. You, I suppose, will grace the stage forever and I will come every season to Paris to applaud your latest triumph."

There! He'd backed away from the fire without getting his fingers burned. Should he begin again, working slowly toward the subject? No! Best to let the issue die down for now. He'd nearly made an unholy mess of it. He daren't make his proposal tonight, but that was all for the best. He could spend the time recouping whatever ground he may have lost with his earlier peevishness.

"This particular comedy you're playing is most unusual. I watched your friend Simone's death scene and thought it most unconvincing - but then, not all actresses have your skill. You see, I fell right into the trap - oh, she's dead and a botch she's made of the job, too - so when you collapsed in tears I began to feel genuinely sorry for the poor thing. Nearly fell out of the box when she stood up. Thought she'd risen from the dead! Simone's death was staged - I'd known it, but talked myself out of what I'd seen." Percy had easily turned the conversation back to Marguerite. His appetite returned. He began to hope once more that this wouldn't be the last time she allowed him to escort her. "Do you see any of the other girls in the cast as your rivals? None of them come close to your skill - I know it. Someday there will be a gawky young girl who shows genuine promise; would you take a protege and tutor her?

From his position in the room, Percy could see figures entering at the door, his attention drawn to them by a young girl who giggled and shrieked drunkenly. Two men with four young women - he was sure he recognised one of them as a dancer from Margot's play. The taller man spoke hurriedly to the maitre, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant. The maitre abruptly shook his head. The man removed his hat and tried again. He had red hair. That face...

"I've never seen the Marquis de la Fayette, save in paintings. Is that he?" Percy asked, motioning toward the door. "My uncle has a print of la Fayette with his horse painted in honour of the battle of Yorktown . Of course he's painted in a wig, but Exeter said these days the man wears his own hair as the revolutionaries do, and it's red. Copper. D'you suppose that's him?"

La Fayette! And the other man - seen clearly now - was the Marquis de Saint-Cyr. It all made perfect sense; the marquise suddenly so eager to associate with la Fayette, Paris 's most popular man, a respectable revolutionary. Marguerite halted his thoughts with a touch. Her look stabbed through him. God, her eyes! She turned his insides to jelly. He wanted to hold her - if only they were alone! When she was his they would have intimate dinners served in her boudoir (dust would collect in dining room's tall portieres). He adored her throaty giggle when he kissed her feet, from toes to instep . . . he bit his lip against the power of the thought.

The raucous group was ushered to a location at the other end of the restaurant from where he sat; Percy turned all his attention back to Marguerite. 'My English is so poor that...you misunderstood. I did not say I would reject any proposal...it leaves more time for us.'

What was she trying to tell him? Did she think that he intended to carry on as her lover after she was married to someone else? He decided that he needed more wine if he was to make sense of the matrimonial dance as it was played in France . "Or, write our own dance," he said, as if that settled everything. Sir Percy Blakeney liked to chart his own course, so he did - which reminded him...

"Oh, and allow me, I beg of you, to ask about a certain letter you sent me. Twas nearly a month ago now when I received this missive which stated - and I quote:" Hand over heart Percy recited: "'Pray do not write me anymore. I have been undone! My reputation is in shreds and all on account of your letter to me. You sent me a most flirtatious note, something that was meant to be utterly private, but I did not know and what do you suppose?'" Percy cocked his head. "What could I think? I sent you my sweetest love and a tender poem for your eyes only, and what do I read in return? You said, 'I received your letter before a thousand people, in my drawing room, and opened it, saying, 'Tis a letter from my English gentleman; he who has the delicious sense of humour! Everyone sits impatiently, holding their breath and what do I read - nonsense! Oh, it was full of your sweet, private nonsense meant for my eyes only! I weep for embarrassment.' So you should." Percy wagged a finger at her, pretending to be cross, although the laughter running through his words spoiled the effect. "To think you would read my letters to all your friends as if I were the Ambassador to Persia or some such!" He could just imagine the too-serious band of hot-heads staring stupidly as their sober hostess read his nonsense pages complimenting her saucy cat-eyes and steal-his-heart-away smile. "After that I was afraid to write anything save, 'come have supper with me,' for fear of seeing it printed and posted on one of the posts outside the Louvre!"

Percy was grateful that the atmosphere had cleared between them; he must strive to keep everything lovely. How easy it was to fall into misunderstandings when the lady was sharply intelligent and keen to exercise her intellect on him. He was a peaceful man, a homely soul who liked nothing better than aged brandy and a cheerful sing-along; why must there be so many dagger-edged comments, so much razor-honed thinking? It was true that the French were mad for ideas, for analysing everything from soup to the sea. They wanted to recreate manners and grace, to dissect God and religion. Wasn't life beautiful already? How could anyone live in the same city as Marguerite Saint-Just and not be pleased with life? There was something about the way she looked at him - a harmless look across the table - and he was helpless to resist her.

"I forgive you for reading my letter to your friends." He wasn't certain that was the truth, but he was powerless to maintain the pique he'd felt at the time. He'd pictured the salon on rue Richelieu full of Marguerite's revolutionary chums laughing at him, while he furiously rifled through his desk trying to locate one of the many draughts of the piece he'd sent her. Oh, surely it had been better than this! He bit his thumb as he read, envisioning the scowling face of Margot's friend, Chauvelin, absorbing this silliness. Percy had begun by attempting to rhyme as many words to "hair" as he could, but the piece had deteriorated into an ode to Marguerite's perfection.

On the afternoon it had been freshly written, as he sealed it and sent it on its way, Percy had dreamed she would read it alone, at night, with her hair streaming down her back. She would be curled up in the centre of her bed, scarcely able to make out the lines seated so far from her candles, but that wouldn't matter because she'd have memorised his words. He imagined her with trembling shoulders and heaving breasts yearning for the kisses he'd scored onto the page. She would wish that he was there with her. Her cheeks would be as pink as rose petals - they always glowed when he kissed her.

His fantasies were destroyed - pop! Sardonic Chauvelin and stuttering Desmoulins had been allowed to gaze into the passion that stirred Sir Percy Blakeney. He wouldn't tell Marguerite how that knowledge hurt him. It was true he hadn't warned her that he would send her letters meant for her eyes only. How many afternoons had he spent visiting friends to know that it was common practice for ladies to read aloud a friend's message to everyone present? The fault was his. His sense of betrayal was unreasonable. The only thing that appeased him was the thought of those same men seeing Marguerite wearing the sapphire ring he intended to give her. He was the only friend she had who could give her such a gift, and everyone would know that she loved him despite - or perhaps because of - his silly letters.

The ring weighed in his pocket; she'd refused it. Despite that, he felt lighter than air. 'I adore your sweet nonsense... and your dear lips which I have missed so desperately.' With such persuasion, he could forgive her anything. For all of his failure with the proposal and the ring, Percy felt triumphant and absurdly pleased with himself.

"Is this not the worst lamb ever served? Perhaps we should progress to the cake," he suggested.

Oh his wicked, filthy, lecherous mind! Percy forced himself to look away, to examine the faces of people seated at tables far away. 'I think I am most anxious for desert,' Marguerite said, the words coloured with meaning - and he had interpreted them most provocatively. The vision that filled his mind was utterly inappropriate in a public dining room - damnation, the woman had him blushing!

"I have been away far too long," he said, his voice croaking on the words. The cake was as dry as ashes in his mouth, and he gave up trying to eat it.

A buzz had begun in his head, filling him from hair to toes with a mad buzz-buzzing that shoved aside every rational thought in its wake, leaving the hot, spiky awareness of a woman who wanted him. Wanted him desperately. He was trying to eat cake while a desirable woman was making come-on eyes at him across the table. The fork slid from between his fingers and he impulsively stood up. He tried pulling his waistcoat into place, but it felt too tight. His frock coat was tight across the shoulders and his breeches were tight from...

A heavy thunk at his side - his purse weighing his pocket down - reminded him that he had to pay the bill. What bill? He fingered a couple of coins, added a third for good measure and tossed them onto the table. The buzzing in his head was taking over all of his thought processes, even his breathing was impaired. He pulled neat gloves over sweat slicked palms and hoped his knees would carry him to his carriage.

Marguerite's eyes were dark and smoky and for a moment he wondered if he couldn't just propel her into the shadows and... no, silly thought. He had to maintain some measure of control. It wouldn't do for her to imagine he was so hopelessly, meltingly in love with her that he couldn't think beyond the idea of kissing her, of undressing her, of bedding her. She was a swirl of silk at his side, a cloud of perfumed hair and a smile that promised him every step on the road to paradise was paved in gold.

Words of love fluttered around in his skull, none of them taking root, for Marguerite - the little minx! - had scarcely waited for the footman to shut the door before she was in his arms. Only a man as bold as Sir Percy (and he fancied himself bold tonight) could appease the sweet angel. One of her hands was playing with his hair and the other was fooling with his cravat, probably ruining the mathematically tied knot. But what could he do when her hot breath tickled his ear - ooh, sharp little teeth!

"You are the most impossible angel, darling!" he moaned. "If we start this here in the carriage, neither of us will be decent enough to walk from the street to the door."

"You want me to stop?" Marguerite asked in that tone of voice that made little shivers run up Percy's spine. What could he say? He'd be a madman to ask for that - just as they would both be ruined if they continued!

Marguerite kissed him; he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and tried to hold himself in check. They had all night, he told himself. All night. He had only to restrain himself for another half an hour and then...

Marguerite pulled free of his embrace, getting to her feet unsteadily, fidgeting with her skirts. When she returned to him she straddled him, offering him the most deliciously wicked grin. 'You know I bought this gown with you in mind...I had not expected to wear it so long.'

It was his second last coherent thought as Percy struggled to grasp his gold-knobbed walking stick and pound on the roof of the coach. He pushed open the window and called, "Drive out to the Luxembourg . Park there and await my further orders." Then he pulled the window closed, drew the shade and kissed the lady. She was the most impulsive and fascinating woman he'd ever known. Rather than suppress the heat of sudden desire and avoid any response to questioning glances, Marguerite acted on her impulses. He wanted to cup her breasts with his hands but didn't dare - if he didn't hold her, she would tumble off his lap as the carriage jounced along. His big hands skimmed her boned stays, then inspiration struck him and he tugged the end of her sash, untying it. Muslin gauze floated free. Percy worked to find the hem, then thrust his hands inside the gown, struggling toward the bottom knot tying her stays.

The same instant he found it, he felt Marguerite's hot hand inside his breeches. He leaned back so she could set him free, pulling the knotted lace so he could undress his lovely rose. "You are an enchant . . ." She wouldn't let him speak; she covering his mouth with hers and stole his breath away. He used all his force to loosen the stays while Marguerite did impossibly wonderful things with her hands . . . and then everything was accomplished as if by magic. Her arms circled his neck and he felt her moan "ooooh" at the same moment as she slid fully into his lap and a burst of starlight went off in Percy's mind. His mouth crushed bruisingly against Marguerite's. Rich colours filled his head and an exotic perfume stilled his thoughts. He couldn't think. Everything was feeling. The kisses went on and on blending into one, punctuated only with his sighs and her moans.

Richard Henshaw is Sir Percy Blakeney's personal footman. It's a prestigious job that entails his travelling all around London with his master and when he travels abroad, Henshaw is the man. The man. The man who opens doors, who clings to the back of a coach, who serves at meals, who collects and carries letters, who is *there* in whatever capacity the day's activities require. The job of footman is difficult - very difficult. It starts early in the morning with a good wash and donning the flamboyant uniform of the Blakeney House - pale blue breeches and matching coat with broad yellow facings down the front and neatly garnished with gold braid at the small of the back and at the broad cuffs. It leaves Henshaw open to whatever is thrown his way and over the years Mr. Henshaw has become adept at dealing with the mercurial personality of his master. The man likes boxing matches - Henshaw holds Blakeney's coat while he has his nose bloodied in the arena. Sir Percy adores the theatre - Henshaw runs to Drury Lane to book a box, then flies home to prepare. When Sir Percy leaves the house, Henshaw, wig neatly repowdered, is on the back of the carriage, confident that the cook has stowed champagne and finger nibblies for the master and his guests in the boot. Henshaw will serve these delectables during intermission. Oh, it's a grand life! Richard Henshaw has taken tea in some of the most prestigious kitchens in all of London and, now, in Paris , he has to admit that the parlour maids are seriously lovely. Seriously!

Sad to say that Mademoiselle de Saint-Just (Henshaw can't fathom the actress is not a lady - the woman smiled at him and he is her slave for life!) does not have a single comely maid in her employ, but Henshaw suspects this is because her young brother is at that hormonal age where all women look approachable and good help is hard to keep with young men making calf's eyes at them. Too bad! Henshaw looks good in his breeches and coat and would welcome the attention of any maid who crossed his path. The lady herself gets a rise out of him whenever she appears and in his opinion Sir Percy is more man than anyone could imagine to have not only captivated the woman but...

Here it is, past midnight, Henshaw is sure (although he doesn't own a watch, there hasn't been a single church bell for hours!) and the coach is still throbbing with life. The coach. Clinging to the back of the carriage when Sir Percy went to the Comedie, Henshaw stood just inside the door and listened to the noise of the audience cheering and applauding. He heard the swell of the orchestra, but made out not a single word of the performance. At the moment the doors opened and the audience flowed into the twin lobbies, Henshaw commanded Perry, the driver, to help him carry the baskets up to Sir Percy's box. No one was there, but they set an elaborate table for four anyway, just in case their master was delayed in bringing guests. Twenty minutes later, they cleared away everything untouched. (Percy had been visiting St. Cyr. He missed his snack! Henshaw had a few battered shrimp and a chicken leg before he and Perry repacked the food back into the boot.) Their stoic patience was rewarded by an interval of Marguerite Saint-Just's company, her shimmering gown partially covered by a shawl, as she exited the theatre on Sir Percy's arm and he personally helped her into the coach. The directions were to take them to rue Richelieu (Henshaw remembered; he'd been there before). Suddenly, the direction was changed and before long Henshaw found himself parked beneath the elms in the Luxenbourg garden while the coach jolted and swayed and finally, seasick, he'd been forced to find a seat in the grass beneath a tree. God! What were they about in there? Well, not as if he didn't know but . . . wow! Such stamina! How long had they been parked here? Perry, on the box, was snoring, rocked to sleep by the rhythmic sway. The movement was worse at the rear and Henshaw had eaten more of the shrimps and chicken than Perry - he was feeling frankly nauseous. Drank a bit of the champagne too (don't tell the master!)

What a dog Sir Percy was! Lady Marguerite would do anything for him - anything! Henshaw had seen the sweet look in her eyes and dreamed for a moment that he might know a woman such as she. Oh, the glory! Sir Percy seemed oblivious of the honour bestowed on him by a woman who couldn't wait to get home - no, she had to show the man her ardour before the front door was reached. Finally, long after the stars had winked out of existence, an imperious knock on the roof of the carriage alerted Henshaw and he dragged himself out of the grass to speak to the window. "Yes sir?"

"Rue Richelieu!"

"Right sir!" Henshaw went to wake and advise Perry of the directions.

Inside the carriage, Percy pulled on a few basic garments, sliding free of his lover's tender embrace. She moaned a little as he did so. "We should go home, dearest. You need a few hours of good sleep." He kissed her forehead and her perfect cheekbones. "Let me help you with your stays, darling."

As he reached for his coat, something fell out onto the floor with a heavy thud. It was the sapphire ring buried in the pocket of his coat. The one he'd hidden in Marguerite's glove that she had returned to him. Thoughtfully, he picked it up. "This has been a night to remember," Percy said. "I have never conceived of a love such as ours. Would you consider this a special enough night to accept this ring as a token of remembrance of the night when you made me the happiest man on earth?" Percy held out the ring to Marguerite, who was pulling her gown up over her perfect rose-tipped breasts.

"I can't tell you how completely I love you. I could say you fulfill every wish, or that you satisfy my ever desire, but those are shallow platitudes compared to my feelings. How can I tell you all the ways I love you when there are not words to describe the feelings? No one has been here before us. You, angel of my heart, have moved beyond where poetry has gone. I can say only that I love you and hope that you recall that moment that set the sky afire! Do you?" He slipped the ring onto her finger as he spoke, hoping that she might understand that it meant feelings and tenderness, not possession. Would she allow him to give it to her? For a moment her eyes lit the carriage, then he turned away to tie his cravat, afraid of what he might see in her incomparable eyes.

His breath escaped with a loud sigh that sounded like 'thank god!' Percy plucked Marguerite's right hand, (the ring was on her left) and kissed first the back and then the palm. "My darling; I hope to show you how very much this means to me." The words faltered. His eyes, glowing like coals, filmed with tears. He looked away. Shook himself. Began to dress. How could he tell her when he couldn't articulate the thought in his own mind? All Percy understood is that he was another step closer to asking Marguerite Saint-Just to be his wife. At last he'd gotten her to accept a gift from him - something valuable. She was not so completely the revolutionary that the value of a jewelled ring meant nothing to her. Percy knew his title was of no importance and his fortune worth scarcely more than a word to dear Margot. She would accept or reject him on a whim.

Without a word, he tugged her stay laces taut, so that he could hook the back of her gown. There was no answer for either her hair or his - anyone who looked could tell what sort of night's sport they'd shared. Percy didn't care at all. Hang his reputation! Hang every censorious noblewoman in all Paris ! Hang Robespierre in the bargain. Now - if only he dared give voice to any of these sentiments...

Marguerite threw her arms around his neck and tugged his face down to hers. She dropped a kiss on his forehead and said, 'Stay with me tonight, so that I won't miss them too soon.' She was comparing the large sapphire on her finger to his eyes.

"How could I not stay with you when you ask me? How could I not do anything you desire?" Percy was breathing as if air had been invented fifteen minutes ago. It was good! He was alive. His skin felt different. His life had changed. He wanted to pull Marguerite into his arms, but in his changed state he was afraid he might break her. Instead, he reached for her hand and squeezed it very gently.

"Whoa!" Perry was pulling the carriage to a stop. Had they reached rue Richelieu already?

"See that the horses are attended to," Percy told Henshaw by way of reprimand. The footman glared a little before lowering his eyes. At this hour of the night and after the hours in the Luxembourg garden, it was more than apparent to both footman and driver that they must fend for themselves if they to get any sleep.

Percy yawned loudly, making his point, but no one paid him the least bit of attention. Henshaw glanced over at the driver. Well, hadn't they spent more than one night kipped out in someone's stable while Sir Percy gambled the fate of Blakeney manor on a game of cards? Gambling and wenching were bachelor sins, although, to look at the lady, she had sunk her claws into the master and good. Percy didn't let go of her hand, escorting her to the door and shoving it open for her before stepping back so that she might enter first. Click; the door closed on them - Henshaw and the driver. "Ho, Perry; we'd best make our way to the stable and see what's what."

Inside the Saint-Just hallway, Marguerite lifted her skirts to slip off her shoes. In a flash, Percy was on his knees before her. She had only to rest her hands on his shoulders and lift her little feet, one then the other, and he would remove her shoes with tender loving care. The very devil played in her smile as she leaned forward so that Percy could remove the first shoe. Her hair cascaded all around him - a golden curtain. He was enveloped in her scent and overwhelmed afresh by her femininity. By the light of a guttering candle, Percy removed a cream coloured shoe.

With Marguerite's shoes removed, Percy scooped her up into his arms and carried her down the hall to her bedroom - the room at the end where the open door was outlined by the faint light of a candle burning inside. Her bed stood in the corner beneath the window, the fireplace opposite. Next to the door was a high-backed armchair on which Marguerite's maid was curled, asleep. "Forgive us, madam," Percy said. "You're mistress won't need you tonight. You may find your bed."

The woman leapt up, eyes widening as she took in the sight of Marguerite in the man's arms. Two steps backward took her out of the room and before she could say a word, Percy kicked the door closed in her face.

Percy deposited his treasure on the bed, then sat down and removed his boots, dropping them on the colourful rug. In three moves he'd jerked out of his coat and that landed on top of the boots. Then he turned around to face Marguerite who wordlessly held out her arms to him. The air was cool on skin as it was bared through the progressing caresses, then warmed with kisses and the touch of exploring hands. Finally the candle died, but eyes accustomed to the grey of dawn marked the familiar beauty of his love so perfectly that he even made out the blush that suffused her whole body as she thrashed beneath him, pulling his hair, clawing his back.

"You are the most remarkable woman ever created," he whispered against her cheek. He was consumed by his love for her. He pulled her tight into his embrace to keep her warm as they slept . . . if the morning birdsong would allow it . . . his hands moving languorously over her hips. Cupping her breasts. Spooned as they were, it took her only the tiniest of movements to wake him once more.

"You will kill me with so much loving," he sighed, too tired to argue and too aroused to refuse her invitation. He was unaware when sleep finally stole over him, rendering him an exhausted lump partially concealed in the crumpled linen of his shirt, his feet warmed in the silk of Marguerite's discarded gown.

Percy stretched luxuriantly, feeling as sleek and beautiful as a lion. He was a lion. Tony had once bragged that he had made love to some wench five times in a night - Percy had never believed it could be done, but now . . . he had performed the stuff of legends. He blinked, taking in this marvellous idea along with the liquid sunshine turning Marguerite's perfect skin to gold.

�This has been the most marvellous night of my life . . ." Of all his catalogue of amazing experiences, this was the best. ". . . how might we sustain it into this new day?" Percy sat up and the shirt he huddled beneath slid to the floor. Marguerite bestowed on him a look of winsome wickedness - how did she do that? "Oh no! Once more and I shall be dead in fact. What I was thinking of is some way to mark this as the singular day when..."

...when my life changes forever. He couldn't say that. It would be the beginning of the proposal and he'd be damned if he meant to propose without his breeches and shoes on. It may be quite remarkable to propose to a gloriously naked woman - but the man must be clothed.

"D'you think your maid would be in favour of serving us breakfast here so we don't have to parade past Armand's door?" Another glance toward the window didn't give Percy any indication of the time, but he imagined it to be quite early. God, they'd hardly slept at all. Percy grabbed his breeches and shook them out. A rolled-up stocking bounced on the floor and rolled under a dresser.

Marguerite stood up in the daylight, facing the window, her flank and back burnished with the sunlight until she appeared more a statue than alive. Her beauty took his breath away.

Percy grinned in uncontrolled delight. "Wonderful! I'd love the opportunity to scandalise Simone. As I recall, she didn't think much of me, which is a tremendous insult since she so admired my young friend Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Everyone at home knows I'm the better man!"

In the hours since they'd left the theatre, Percy's world had narrowed until all he could see, all he knew, was Marguerite. Her love was equal to the air he breathed and everything in his life revolved around her - a dangerous position. He intended to propose that she marry him and for that he needed to be cool-headed and rational. How might he phrase such a proposition to a woman who didn't desire marriage?

He watched her flutter about the room, her nakedness scarcely concealed by a transparent shift, her fabulous hair in disarray. She was the object of every man's desire . . . that was part of the problem. She didn't wish to be wanted for her beauty; he must list all her other perfections. And, too, she had to need him - really need him - or else the marriage would fall apart within a year. Percy had no doubts how marriage to him would change Marguerite. Margot. The incomparable flame of the Paris stage, set loose among London 's ton, would singe many a heart and his could be the sorriest victim. It would be like setting out a bowl of cream in a room of roving tomcats. Marguerite would only be faithful if she truly loved him. If not, she would turn into Lady Melbourne - whose first three sons belonged to her husband and each of her last six children had been fathered by different men. No, Percy knew that the love between them had to be absolute, or else he would lose Marguerite. She was a woman who banked love, who nurtured it.

"If God was truly kind, we could steal away from the world for a while and linger here where I'm sure to give you everything your heart desires." Percy watched Margot grin wickedly at his blatant ego. "It's when we admit the rest of the world that other needs and wishes enter the equation. Is there any chance I might keep you prisoner here, in this room (he stroked the bed sheets as he said this) for . . . oh, a week or so? By then you would be truly mine, never interested in anything beyond your four walls. I shall be vastly entertaining, always eager to fulfill your ever wish, continually anticipating your desires." He reached out his hand to her and after a moment Marguerite took it. He pulled her to him and she nestled into his lap. Her wonderful hair - god, he loved her hair! - tickled and warmed his flesh (he was wearing nothing but his breeches) and it was a tremendously erotic moment, unlike anything he'd experienced before.

The woman was a witch. A demon. He was more in love than ever. 'You wish to keep me all to yourself for so long?'

I wish to keep you with me forever, if you would allow it. The more time I spend with you, the more in awe of you I grow. Percy framed the words carefully, fully aware they were far too romantic for a marriage proposal, but then the scene was ridiculous. They were more undressed than clothed and drenched in each other's essences. By all rights he should delay; be conscious of the momentousness of the occasion.

"I am more than intrigued by your proposal..." Marguerite said, startling him as she shifted in his lap so that her eyes might meet his. Her eyes were his undoing.

"Perhaps. . . . if I might . . . you will allow me to keep you forever," he began. It hadn't quite come out as he'd planned and damn, how typical of his voice to go all husky and gravelly now.

She squirmed in his lap, adding to his torment, grinning as she registered his discomfort. Damnation, she was laughing at him. Her hands in his hair, her lips roving his face, despite these things he sensed her laughter. What madness was it that made man assume he asked for the woman's pleasure? Percy could see that she took his heart as if it were her right.

'...my love might be the death of you. Are you so sure you wish to attempt this undertaking?' Subtle. Marguerite was the subtlest of women when wielding her filleting blade. She might cut his heart to ribbons, but it was hers now, so what could he do? She kissed him with a saucy reverence that was as delightful as it was decadent. A pity he could never tell a soul about these hours - he felt as if he'd learned more about life and love since sunset than he'd known in all his life.

'Do you intend to start now?' she asked. Something of his purpose crossed to her and Marguerite slid off Percy's lap, but he didn't inch her onto her back as she'd assumed, instead he slid to the floor where he knelt at her feet. Automatically she lifted her left foot and rested it on his shoulder. Her expression said, 'so this is the game', and Percy saw that she didn't understand. It would be a surprise to her then. How could she not know that somewhere between midnight and morning he had become her slave. He would do anything for her.

He removed the foot, kissing it as he put it back on the floor, then he reached out to her with both hands, palms raised. Marguerite blinked, then placed her hands atop his. He threaded his fingers through hers.

"I wish to keep you with me forever, if you would allow it. The more time I spend with you, the more in awe of you I grow." Done. Were he a horse, they'd give him a carrot. As it was, he got a long, sobering look. Oh, he'd taken her by surprise all right. Her eyes lit on the sapphire ring flashing on her hand, then returned to his face.

"You are the most wondrous woman," Percy continued, hoping his tone was conversational and not too pleading, too needy. "You have all the qualities of integrity and daring that I admire most in a person. I admire your courage and resourcefulness, how you've survived on your own, and raised Armand by yourself. Marguerite, you have all the qualities of a great lady and I'd like you to take your place as one. I mean, as my wife. If you would."

It was said and not too badly. He hadn't veered off into the maudlin descriptions of how he couldn't live without out or say he would love her until he died. Words such as those didn't belong in a proposal of marriage. She needed to know he was stable, honourable and that he could provide for her.

"I have an income of over 900 thousand pounds a year," he supplied. "And two houses, neither fashionable. I would leave it to you to choose a place you prefer and improve it to suit you." God - had he said that? Going a bit far, that was. Percy swallowed, trying to remember what else he needed to say. Marriage proposals, marriage proposals. He'd done marriage proposals before. Usually over tea. With mamma in the next room and papa wearing a tread in the carpet. The parents were usually in awe of his money and keen on a match with Blakeney. Inevitably, the young lady was less impressed with him than he'd hoped.

"I have no bad habits. I don't gamble to excess, I'm not a drunkard. I don't have a mistress." Marguerite's eyes narrowed at that. Well, she knew he didn't have a mistress; he didn't have the strength for both a mistress and Tigress Saint-Just. "Oh, and I would assume - gladly assume - all responsibility for Armand. His education. His future. I could buy him a commission if he wishes, or set him up in business. Or whatever you think best."

The silence on Marguerite's side felt long. Please say yes, he wanted to shout, but managed to hold that comment back. Bit it back and swallowed it. Marriage proposals. A man aged double-time in the waiting. Heartless wretch, making him sweat. Didn't she love him to distraction? Wouldn't she adore waking up next to him? He was still holding her hands in his and they felt cold. When he gazed back up into her face, she was looking away.

Faltering, he sat back on his heels, looking up into Marguerite's face, seeing her eyes fill with tears. 'Are you sure this is what you want? Have you considered your reputation?' His reputation? He was considering his heart, which felt too large for his chest. Heavy. If it stopped beating the weight would drag him to his knees. "Well, if I ain't been buggered," he muttered aloud in English. Tremors pulsed up and down his legs, he needed to sit down. Odds fish, how fortunate he'd taken a moment to don his breeches. It would have been deuced embarrassing to have the lady refuse him while he stood fully naked before her. What had happened to her passion? Didn't she love him? Oh he knew it was never done, a man never chose to marry a woman because she stiffened him to desperation every time she looked his way.

How could he walk away from her? He had tried everything. He'd given her money - she'd thrown it in his face. He'd brought her jewels - she turned her nose up in the air and said she would not be bought. How else was he to provide for her . . . and if he didn't, then she was free to take any man she wished to her bed. It was beyond enduring! Her actions said he was equal in her eyes to every other man in Paris , she would not favour him in any way; but her passion . . . actress she may be, but what they'd shared through the night had been no performance. Percy knew little about love, but he knew a great deal about coupling and what had occurred in this room, in that bed, had transcended pleasure - he knew. That had been love for all it had been damnably short-lived for what the poets said should last a lifetime.

"I can't believe you do not love me, after . . ." Percy bit back the words he'd intended to say. It was inappropriate to speak of such things before a woman. "Therefore..." he paused again as the aching of his heart made it nearly impossible to speak. "I can only assume that I have not yet proved myself worthy of marriage."

He staggered a little, like a wounded deer, as he made a swipe for his shirt. He was suffocating. The room was filled with the pungency of a night of loving and he couldn't bear it a moment longer. Marguerite had sat down on the bed, her filmy robe outlining her rose-tinted curves. Pettishly, he imagined her, not as his cherished lover, but as a woman who sat thus morning after morning, saying goodbye to a stream of lovers. Monsieur Lundi, Monsieur Mardi . . . all the days of the week, and Sir Percy could have no claim on her. There had to be some way to hold her, to bind her to him. He had to make her his! He refused to consider sharing her . . . the idea was unthinkable.

Jealousy - the road to ruin. After he pulled his shirt over his head, he rubbed his eyelids and tried to focus on the disaster at hand. He had to remain calm, making a scene would buy him nothing. Patience, then. He took a deep breath and wrapped his cravat around his neck, leaving the ends to dangle. Tying it was beyond him in this mood - lord, he might inadvertently hang himself! Marguerite was sitting very still, looking forlorn as if it were the end of her world and not as if she'd been the one to wield the sword. Her large eyes were frightened and she looked very fragile. Percy couldn't bear it - he went to her, sat down next to her and pulled her into his arms.

"You mustn't cry, my darling. Perhaps I was wrong to speak . . . to speak so abruptly. Perhaps you need time to consider." To reconsider. Yes. She needed time. She needed a quiet space in which to think without facing his wounded dog expression. He would pick up his shattered pieces and limp out the door - but he would be back.

An idea - a flash in his mind. "I mentioned . . . I think I mentioned a party..." He's said the word "party" in English, his thoughts obscuring his ability to think in French."

"Une soiree. I met a friend at the comedie who invited me to . . ." When was that party supposed to take place? Well, it didn't matter; he would find out later. He would get back to her with the date and time and so on, because if she thought this was the last she would see of Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, then she had another think coming.

A wild urge coursed through Percy and impulsively, he pushed Marguerite back into the blankets, lying atop her and kissing her with abandon. She struggled a little, a very little, more surprised than angry, he thought, before her arms went round his neck and she resumed her sweet clinging. Pulling his hair. Responding to his kiss. As she began rocking into him, trying to get her legs free, he sat up, dragging himself out of her embrace.

"You remember that kiss. Remember that I love you." He picked up his boots and fled the room, determined that he wouldn't let her destroy him. He sat down on the bottom step and pulled on his boots, then, minus his coat and hat, with hair flying free, he emerged into the mid-morning sun and strode to the stable for his horse.