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right to do this to me!"
    "What the hell are you talking about?"
    She thumped her fist against her breast. "I have plans; I have a new life awaiting me. I cannot deal with this, this ..."
    "Stupidity? Me falling in love with you is stupid?"
    "I didn't say that!" She briefly closed her eyes as if she couldn't bear to look at him. "You can't love me. I won't allow it."
    He held her anguished gaze, his smile wretched. "You think I have a choice in the matter?"
    "We all have choices. Yours are already clear. Go home to your family, marry the girl you are supposed to, and forget all about me."
    His throat ached, and he took an unsteady step toward her. "I can't do that. I want you and only you. I don't care about your background or the fact that you are a widow. I just want to marry you."
    She worried her lip so hard she drew blood. "You can't."
    "Why not? I know that you care about me." He placed his hand over his heart, mirroring her gesture. "I know it here. Tell me what I can do to make things right for us."
    She shivered violently and lifted her chin. "I am not what you think."
    Philip drew an unsteady breath. "You are the woman I love."
    "I am a whore."
    He opened his mouth to reply and shook his head as words finally escaped him.
    "It's true. I've bedded more men than you could ever imagine. I spent two years in the Bastille servicing the guards and two years as an old man's mistress. I am a whore."
    He still couldn't speak; his throat was so constricted. She sat back down, her features composed; only the fine tremor in her folded hands displayed any hint of inner turmoil.
    "Are you suggesting that what we shared was a fake, a sham? That I was just another customer to you?"
    She inclined her head the merest half inch. Rage bubbled and boiled inside him again, and he picked up his coat and hat.
    "Madame, you are good in bed, but not that good. I know when a woman is pretending and you ... you were not."
    She raised her eyebrows, and he caught her chin in his hard fingers. "You didn't have to pretend with me. Say it."
    She swallowed hard, her tongue moistening her lips. "Perhaps I am not only a whore but a brilliant actress."
    He gazed into her blue eyes as the pain in his heart threatened to fill his whole chest and then crawl up his throat. "You lie. If you choose to pretend we mean nothing to each other, have it your way. But I know the truth. I know you."
    Her eyelashes fluttered down, concealing her expression. In a savage motion, his fingers curled around her neck. The pulse at the curve of her throat pounded like a trapped animal. With all his control, he let her go and stepped back, dug his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, and drew out his purse.
    "How much?"
    "What do you mean?" she whispered.
    He jingled his purse. "How much do I owe you for our night together?" She looked away from him. "If you are a professional whore, surely you have a regular charge?"
    "Va chez le diable, Philip!"
    He stuffed his purse back into his pocket with shaking fingers and waited until she looked at him again. The mixture of desolation and anger in her eyes probably reflected his.
    "You see, you can't charge me, can you? Because you know we shared more than a business transaction or a slaking of lust. We shared each other's souls." He put on his hat.
    She flinched away from him as if expecting a blow. Sadness ate at his anger. "It's a shame you are too afraid to trust me. I expect one day you'll realize what you let slip through your fingers, and I hope you'll feel as empty and wretched as I do today. Good day, madame."
    She didn't speak, didn't even look at him as he headed for the door, shoving his half-packed bag out with him. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it. His mind refused to function properly as he strained to make sense of the silence behind him.
    Thoughts tumbled erratically through his mind. He should hire a horse, get to London as quickly as possible, and marry whomsoever his father wanted.
    He closed his