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host of lovers half her age. It was not hard to imagine how his staid, proper English sire had succumbed to Marcelle’s sparkling charm. The harder question had always been why Damien did not have a dozen brothers and sisters, considering how much time his parents had spent in their bedchamber. Now that he was older and wiser, Damien supposed that Marcelle had merely availed herself of one of the tricks that were popular for preventing pregnancy.
    But since Edward Cross’s untimely death due to a heart condition, his mother had spent less and less time at the Devon estate. Longing for France as she always had, Marcelle was a hothouse flower that quickly wilted in the cold English winters and rainy springs. Damien expected she would eventually declare a firm preference for Chateau de Villette and leave the management of the Mistgrove estate entirely up to him.
    In his youth, Damien had spent equal time in both countries and found advantages and drawbacks to each. In the queen’s court he was a noted favorite and had only to ask for what he desired. The same had once been true when France was a republic, but in the new empire Damien was less sure of where he stood. Still, his mother’s name was not without influence there. In their day, the de Villettes had been a powerful and wealthy family, and their holdings in the north of France were still considerable.
    Naturally, the pressure had been upon Damien since he was barely out of nappies to secure a fine match and produce more heirs for the earldom in England. He had been betrothed twice, unbeknownst to him until Edward’s death, to two different girls of approved families. His father had apparently not considered Damien’s wishes of much import, and so the younger man had been surprised and outraged to learn of such machinations when Edward suddenly died.
    The third earl of Devonshire had always been a decisive man, with all but his wife Marcelle, who had somehow always managed to wheedle and charm Edward into doing her bidding. Such was how Damien had come to have a French first name, though by tradition eldest boys were usually named for their sires. By guile or wile Marcelle had wrangled that feat, as well as many others during her marriage.
    By now Damien had also learned his mother had saved him from disastrous marriages to either of the two debutantes Edward had selected — young ladies who both later turned out to be vicious shrews who drove their respective husbands to early graves.
    Women, Damien had decided a decade ago, were better kept for pleasures of the moment, not years of conjugal misery. He had mistresses in both European courts, one of which was the delectable Henriette his mother had referred to in her letter, but he was always careful to choose ladies who were wise enough not to press him for commitments. Someday, he supposed, he would succumb to society’s standards and take a wife pretty enough to pass court inspection and mindless enough to produce the necessary sons year after year.
    Sometimes, though, he envied the men who spoke wistfully of their country wives, women without ambition who placed no shrill demands upon a man’s time or money, and who were a species apart from the helpless butterflies that flitted around the European courts, scheming only to snare rich husbands.
    Damien was astute enough to realize the beauties he dallied with at court would never spend time with him if he lacked or lost the fortune he had now. With an idle smile, he found himself recalling the pretty gypsy waif he had rescued from likely disaster several years ago in Constantinople. How long had it been — three, four years? And he imagined that if that little one had fulfilled her promise in this time, she was no doubt a bright, beautiful young woman. And also, no doubt, long wed as well.
    Perhaps there was no woman in the world who could suit him. It would, he thought ruefully, take a remarkable girl indeed to fulfill his desire for beauty and intelligence.