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all her fearful and outraged imaginings, the object of her resentment was a living, breathing man. Her past had finally come crashing headlong into her present. If only she could find a way to disappear…but instead she could only stand there, trapped out in the open. She was afraid that if she did move, she wouldn't be able to keep from bolting like a hunted fox.
    Somehow she hadn't expected her husband to be handsome, as splendidly dark and elegant as a foreign prince. He was a tall man with a quietly powerful presence. Beneath a black coat, an amber-and-gray-striped waistcoat, and charcoal trousers, the broad, sloping spread of his shoulders tapered to a slim waist and hips. His features were austere and perfect, his gaze devoid of emotion. He was a startling contrast to the men she usually associated with, men such as Logan and the other actors in the company, who earned their salaries with their expressive faces. This man seemed utterly inaccessible.
    As if he sensed her presence, he glanced in her direction. A questioning frown touched his brow, and his head tilted slightly in concentration. Julia tried to look away, but he wouldn't let her, his gaze locked steadily on her face. Filled with sudden panic, she turned and began to walk away in controlled strides. However, it was too late. He cut across her path and reached her, forcing her to stop or risk bumping into him.
    Julia's heart thumped painfully in her chest. She lifted her gaze and stared into the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, cool gray and ruthlessly intelligent, framed by black lashes so long that they had tangled at the outside corners.
    “You look familiar to me.” Although his voice lacked the rich, winelike clarity of Logan Scott's voice, it held a pleasantly husky undertone.
    “Do I?” Julia could barely force the words from her numb lips. “Perhaps you've seen me on stage.”
    He continued to stare at her, while all she could think was You're my husband…my husband …
    Damon was puzzled by the young woman who stood before him. The music and colorful profusion of the ball seemed to recede in the background as he studied her face. He knew they had never been introduced—God knew he would never forget a woman like her—but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. She was slim and cool in her pale blue gown, holding herself with a regal poise that would not admit any hint of uncertainty. Her face seemed more like an artist's creation than something belonging to a real woman, hauntingly lovely with cheekbones angled deeply over the soft curves of cheek and jaw. Most remarkable of all were her blue-green eyes…they could have belonged to a fallen angel, virginal, soft, and yet sadly familiar with the ways of the wicked world.
    Perhaps you've seen me on stage , she had said.
    “Ah,” he said softly. “You must be Mrs. Wentworth.” She was far younger than he had expected of the popular actress, whose image had been spread all over England in paintings, prints, and engravings. The public was wild over her, as were the critics, lauding her attractiveness and skill. She had undeniable talent, but more than that, it was her warmth that had endeared her to audiences, making her instantly familiar and appealing.
    But that creature was a world apart from the wraithlike young woman who stood before him now. It seemed that her neck was almost too slender to support the weight of the heavy blond braids that were twisted and pinned at her nape. He wasn't aware of reaching for her hand, nor of her offering it, but suddenly her gloved fingers were in his. As he raised them to his lips, he became aware that she was trembling.
    Questions raced through his mind. Was she frightened of him? Why had she been standing here alone? Unconsciously he made his voice softer than usual, as if he might frighten the wary creature before him. “May I be of service, madam? I'm—”
    “Yes, I know. You're the Marquess of Savage.” All at once her