She glanced at him, and her face froze. "You are staring at me," she said accusingly.

So he was. Giles raised his bemused eyes to her face and said with regrettable candor, "Lady Collingwood was right."

Her face flared as red as her hair.

'That was not an insult," he said hastily. "You are a strikingly attractive woman. No man could fail to notice."

"You mean that you agree with my sister inl aw that I look like a lightskirt," she snapped. "You're both right, because that is exactly how too many men have tried to treat me." She reached for her wet cloak to cover herself.

Her bitter words gave the marquess an insight into why she was so uneasy about male attention. He stood and took off his wool coat, which had been protected from the rain by his cloak. "Put this on. Unlike your cloak, it's dry."

As she hesitated, he said in his gentlest tone, "I'm sorry for what I said. I meant no disrespect. It is only that I was surprised. You've done an excellent job of disguising yourself."

Warily she accepted the coat, as if expecting him to attack her. Wrapping it around herself, she withdrew again. The coat returned her to perfect decency, to Giles's regret.

The tea tray arrived, so he poured a cup and handed it to her along with the plate of cakes. At first she perched nervously on the edge of a chair, but she began to relax as the tea warmed her and Giles maintained his distance.

Deciding that it was time to learn why the lady was so skittish, he remarked. "You must have had a difficult first season. Innocence usually arouses protective instincts, but you have the kind of beauty that can make men forget themselves, especially young men with more passion than patience."

She stared at her plate and crumbled a cake. "The first time a young man caught me away from my chaperons, I felt horribly guilty, wondering what I had done to encourage him. Eventually I realized that the fault was not in my behavior." Her mouth twisted. "To defend myself, I took to wearing a long, sharp pin in my hair."

"I see why you have a low opinion of the male half of the race," he said thoughtfully. "And your comeout… that was just the beginning, wasn't it?"

"Why do you ask, Wolverton?" She raised her head, her gaze challenging. "If you are only expressing dishonorable intentions in a more than usually genteel fashion, I can't see that my past is any of your business."

He drew in a deep breath. "My intentions are not dishonorable, so"-the words came with difficulty- "that means they must be honorable."

Her jaw dropped, and she put her teacup down with a clink. Their gazes held in one of those kaleidoscopic moments when everything changes forever. For better or worse, there would be no going back.

When she spoke, her words seemed irrelevant, but he knew they were not. "I met your wife once when she was making her comeout. She was exquisite, like a porcelain figurine."

He set his own cup down, making sure to do so soundlessly. Turnabout was fair play; if he was going to probe Desdemona, she had the right to do the same. "Yes, Dianthe was very beautiful."

"She and I could not be more unalike."

"I hope to God that is true," he said, unable to keep bitterness out of his voice. "If it isn't, this could prove to be the second great mistake of my life."

Desdemona had felt offbalance throughout this conversation, but the marquess's words steadied her. She was glad to know that he was as vulnerable as she was. "What went wrong?"

He got to his feet and began to pace restlessly. ".It isn't much of a story. I was quite besotted when I married her. I couldn't believe that she had chosen me over so many others." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Pure idiocy that I didn't recognize why: I was heir to the best title and fortune available on the marriage mart that year. But she was very skilled at pretending sweet, loving innocence. It was easy to be a fool."

"Yet surely she cared for you. No sane woman would accept a man she didn't like when she had so many other choices."

His expression became sardonic. "She didn't precisely dislike me, but during one of our charming discussions later, she revealed that she had been bored with me before the honeymoon was over. She had expected to be bored, but not quite so much, and so quickly."

Desdemona winced. The cruelty of it was far too reminiscent of her own marriage.

He continued, "Dianthe was quite the little philosopher, however. Boring I might be, but she was prepared to tolerate me in return for fortune and position. She had an amazing talent for spending money, and she wanted to be a marchioness."

"She died in childbirth, didn't she, along with the baby?" Desdemona had a vague memory of reading about the deaths. She had spared a moment of regret for the beauty's untimely end.

"Yes." He braced a hand on the mantel and stared into the fire for a long time. "As she was dying, when it looked like the baby might survive, she told me that it was almost certainly not mine. She was rather apologetic. Women in her position usually try to provide a legitimate heir or two before going their own way. She had intended to do that as part of the bargain, but… mistakes do happen."

Desdemona ached for him. For the first time in her life she went to a man and made a physical gesture of comfort, not worrying whether he would react the wrong way. Laying a hand on his shirtsleeved arm, she said, "I'm very sorry. She didn't deserve you."

Though he managed to keep his voice steady, his arm was as tight as strung wire under her fingers. "I don't know about that, but it is certainly true that we had very different ideas about what we wanted of our marriage. My judgment was disastrously bad." His voice almost inaudible, he added, "The worst of it was not knowing how to mourn."

"I understand," she said quietly. "When my husband died, I felt relief, guilt, some impersonal sadness for such a pointless death. It was… complicated."

He raised his hand to rest it briefly on hers. "I never met Sir Gilbert Ross, but he had the reputation of a gamester."

"Among other things, most of them bad." It was Desdemona's turn to stare into the fire.

She had never spoken about her marriage to anyone, but the marquess's honesty deserved a like response. "He drowned in a ditch one night, drunk. Virtually the only considerate act of his life was to die when he was at high tide with his gaming, so there was enough to pay off his debts, with a bit left over. That, combined with a modest legacy from an aunt, enabled me to become independent. I found that widowhood suited me much better than marriage had."

He sighed. "A fashionable courtship is such an artificial thing. It's not surprising that you and I ended up choosing partners who were quite different than we thought."

"Very true, though in fact, I did not choose my husband."

"The match was arranged by your family?"

"No, my brother would surely have chosen better. During my London Season, Sir Gilbert was one of several serious suitors." She gave an acid smile. "My fortune was hardly on the order of yours, but I had a decent dowry, and men liked my looks, even if they didn't respect them.

"Gilbert courted me assiduously, but knew my brother would refuse permission if he made an offer. So he took me for a drive in the park one day and kept on going. He didn't bring me home until the next day."

The marquess frowned. "Did he… "

She looked into the fire again. "No, he was most respectful. He took me to an unoccupied house in the country, swearing undying love and saying that he couldn't live without me. I was furious, of course, but also rather flattered. He was very handsome, and I was young enough to think that it was romantic to have a dashing rake madly in love with me."

"I see," Wolverton said grimly. "He didn't have to lay a hand on you. The mere fact of having spent an, unchaperoned night in his company meant that you were thoroughly compromised."

"Precisely. Everyone agreed that I had no choice but to marry him." Her full lips thinned. "I was too young to realize that there is always a choice, so I accepted my fate."

"And this is why you are so determined that your niece will have a choice, no matter what has happened?"

"Exactly. I will allow no one-no one-to coerce her into a miserable marriage." Desdemoha lifted the poker and jabbed the glowing coals. "I should have resisted, but as I said, part of me was gratified that Gilbert wanted me so much that he was driven to desperate measures. I liked him well enough. He was very amusing, and I took the fact that he didn't ravish me as proof of genuine affection. Unfortunately, it was no more love than what your Dianthe felt."

"He was interested only in your dowry?"

"That was the main reason. But apart from the money…" She swallowed, not sure she could continue. The marquess put an unthreatening arm around her shoulders, and she relaxed a little.

"Gilbert told me once when he was drunk that he had made a list of girls who had decent fortunes, but who were not such great heiresses that he wouldn't be allowed near them. Then, after he had met us all, he chose me because of… because of my breasts." She spoke baldly, amazed that she could say aloud what had scarred her soul.

Wordlessly he pulled her closer to his side. She sensed that he could understand how humiliating she had found her husband's declaration; Wolverton's own experiences had been equally humiliating.

"The basic, underlying transaction in marriage is sex for money," he said reflectively. "The male supports and protects the female in return for sexual access. It's not very flattering for either party. Certainly I didn't enjoy learning that the hard way." His arm tightened. "You had the misfortune to be forced into marriage because of both lust and money. That seems particularly unfair."