―It does, actually," she said, surprising herself with her answer, because obviously it didn‘t matter.

And yet it felt like it should.

―One can‘t argue with that kind of certainty," he said in a smile-tinged murmur.

She felt herself grin. ―I very much enjoy being certain."

―Don‘t we all?"

―The best of us, perhaps," she said archly, getting into the spirit of their game.

―Some say it‘s foolhardy to be so eternally certain."

―Some?"

―Oh, not me," he assured her, ―but some."

She laughed, deep and true, all the way from her belly. She was loud, and uncouth, and it felt wonderful .

He chuckled along with her, then asked, ―Rome, I assume, is on your list of things you‘ll never get to do?"

―Yes," she said, her lungs still quivering from merriment. It no longer seemed so sad, that she would never see Rome. Not when she‘d just laughed so hard and so well.

―I‘ve heard it can be dusty."

They were both facing forward, so she turned, her profile lined up over her shoulder. ―Really?"

He turned, too, so they were looking straight at one another. ―When it doesn‘t rain."

―This is what you‘ve heard," she stated.

He smiled, but just a little bit, and not even with his mouth. ―This is what I‘ve heard."

His eyes…oh, his eyes. They met hers with the most startling directness. And what she saw there…It wasn‘t passion, because why would it be passion? But it was still something amazing, something hot, and conspiratorial, and…

Heartbreaking. It was heartbreaking. Because as she stared at him, at this beautiful man who might as well have been a figment of her imagination, all she could see was Lord Newbury‘s face, florid and flaccid, and his voice rang in her ears, laughing, mocking, and Annabel was suddenly rocked by an overwhelming sorrow.

This moment…any moment like this…

They were not to be hers.

―I should be getting back," she said quietly.

―I am sure you should," he said with equal gravity.

She didn‘t move. She just could not seem to make herself do so.

And so he rose, because he was, as she‘d suspected, a gentleman. Not just in name but in deed.

He held his hand down to her, and she took it, and then—it was as if she floated to her feet—she rose, and she tilted her chin, and lifted her eyes to his, and then she saw it—her life, ahead of her.

All the things she would not have.

She whispered, ―Would you kiss me?"

Chapter Five

There were a thousand reasons why Sebastian should not have done as the young lady requested, and only one—desire—why he should.

He went with desire.

He hadn‘t even realized he wanted her. Oh, he‘d noticed that she was lovely, sensual even, in a rather delightfully unselfconscious manner. But he always noticed such things about women. It was as natural to him as noticing the weather. Lydia Smithstone has an uncommonly attractive lower lip was not terribly different from that cloud over there is looking a bit like rain .

At least not to his mind.

But when she‘d taken his hand, and his skin touched hers, something flared within him. His heart leaped, and his breath seemed to skip, and when she rose, it was as if she were something magical and serene, moving along the wind into his arms.

Except when she reached her feet she wasn‘t in his arms. She was standing in front of him.

Close, but not close enough.

He felt bereft.

―Kiss me," she whispered, and he could no more deny her than he could his own heartbeat. He lifted her fingers to his lips, then touched her cheek. Her eyes met his, deep and filled with longing.

And then he, too, was filled with longing. Whatever it was he saw in her eyes, it somehow moved within him, too, gentle and sweet. Wistful, even.

Wistful. He couldn‘t recall the last time he‘d felt anything approaching wistful.

It made him want this kiss—want her —with the strangest intensity.

He didn‘t feel warm. He didn‘t feel hot. But something inside of him—maybe his conscience, maybe his soul—was burning.

He didn‘t know her name, didn‘t know anything about her except that she dreamed of Rome and smelled like violets.

And that she tasted like vanilla cream. This, he now knew. This, he thought as his tongue brushed against the soft inside of her upper lip, he would never forget.

How many women had he kissed? Far too many to count. He‘d been kissing the girls long before he‘d known there was anything else to be done with them, and he‘d never really stopped.

As a young lad in Hampshire, as a soldier in Spain, as a London rogue…he had always found women intriguing. And he remembered them all. He truly did. He held the fairer sex in far too much esteem to allow them to melt into a hazy puddle in his mind.

But this was different. It wasn‘t just the woman he wasn‘t going to forget, it was the moment. It was the feel of her in his arms, and the scent of her skin, and the taste, and the touch, and the amazingly perfect sound she made when her breath twisted itself into a moan.

He would remember the temperature of the air, the direction of the wind, the precise shade of silver that the moonlight sprinkled upon the grass.

He dared not kiss her deeply. She was an innocent. She was wise, and she was reflective, but she was an innocent, and if she‘d been kissed more than twice before this he‘d have eaten his hat.

And so he gave her the first kiss that young girls dreamed of. Soft. Gentle. A tiny brush of the lips, a tickle of friction, the barest, most wicked touch of the tongue.