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they were making love, almost out of her head.
    He continued carefully. “I want to give myself to you, Anna. I want you.”
    She shivered at the seriousness of his tone. A lifetime of preparing to be subjected to men made it difficult to understand his words. When he said I want you , she heard I want to own you , as if he wanted to acquire her. Which could never happen, not if she were ever to be free of the shackles of all men. Without intending to, she stiffened in his arms. She was too confused. Everything was happening out of order. She needed to see Pia again. They needed to discuss their plans in more detail. She needed more time before she went to Madrid. These things were supposed to happen over time. She was supposed to become someone’s mistress, nothing more. She felt the panic spread like a creeping mold in a damp cellar. Sebastian had the look of someone who wanted far more.
    She spoke carefully, in an attempt to stem the slow, tormenting terror rising up from her gut. She had betrayed Pia. She had betrayed herself. “I know I was terribly wanton, but nothing can come of it—”
    He pressed one finger against her lips, and it stilled her thoughts as well as her words. He set her slightly away from him so she was sitting on the couch. He knelt down in front of her, on one knee. She was appalled but did not have any idea how to stop what was clearly about to happen. If there were some way to claw herself out of her own skin, she would have tried it. Surely the man was not willing to offer anything more than an arrangement. Which , some part of her rational mind scrambled, might be a workable solution . Her thoughts scurried around like little mice, frantic. Pia, what am I to do?
    He took her hand in his.
    Surely . . . not.
    “No,” she whispered, covering her mouth with the handkerchief clenched in her free hand and widening her eyes in anticipation.
    “My dearest Anna, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
    “Your wife ?” she blurted. Even to her own ears she sounded shrill and shrewish.
    His face softened. “Yes, Anna. My wife . Or would you rather be my mistress?” His smile made it perfectly clear he considered that last bit an absurdity, as if any woman in all of Europe—or in all the world, for that matter—would rather be Sebastian de Montizon’s mistress instead of his lawfully wedded wife with all the wealth and prestige the title conferred.
    Her heart pounded. Think, think, think . “I need to think. It’s all so . . . unexpected.”
    “Really? Did you not expect to marry ever ? Or did you not expect to marry me ?”
    “We’ve only just met. We’re practically strangers. We are strangers.”
    Sebastian stood up from his kneeling position and pulled at the pristine white edge of his shirt cuff, where it peeked out from his expensive green coat. “Really, Anna,” he practically clucked. He looked down at her, letting his eyes slide over the length of her body, then his tongue swept across his upper lip in greedy memory. “I can still taste you. We are far from strangers. In fact, I would venture to say we are intimately acquainted.”
    She jumped up from her inferior position on the couch and put her hands on her hips. She needed to collect herself. He kept smiling down at her. Why was he so damned tall? She spied a footrest near where he was standing and stepped onto it. Now they were at eye level, which only seemed to amuse Sebastian further. His smile widened as he rested one elbow on the mantelpiece with casual confidence.
    Anna almost growled at his arrogance. “Stop looking at me like that.”
    “Like what? Like I adore you? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wipe that expression from my face. And why should I?”
    “Oh! You are so entirely accustomed to getting your own way, aren’t you?”
    “Hmm. An attribute we have in common, perhaps?”
    She fisted her hands at her waist.
    “Are you going to take a swing at me for proposing matrimony?” he