He was taken aback by her honesty. “Why?”

She shook her head. “It’s not important.”

Suddenly, nothing in the world seemed so important. He stood, knowing he should not move closer to her.

Moved closer to her anyway.

“The gossip,” he said. Of course it was the gossip. She would certainly bear the brunt of it.

She gave a little half laugh, making room for him on the piano bench. The movement was so natural—as though she hadn’t thought for a moment.

As though he belonged there.

He sat, knowing it was a terrible idea.

Knowing nothing good could come of his being this close to her.

“Apparently, I am not her daughter, but rather a cunning gypsy who has pulled the linen over your eyes.” She smiled at the words, finally meeting his gaze.

She might have been a gypsy then, with streaks of silver moonlight in her hair, and a soft, sad smile in her beautiful blue eyes turned black with the night. She was bewitching.

He swallowed. “Wool.”

She was confused. “Wool?”

“Pulled the wool over our eyes,” he corrected, his fingers itching to touch her, to smooth back a curl that had come loose at her temple. “You said linen.”

She tilted her head, the column of her throat lengthening as she considered the words. “In Italian, it is lana. I was confused.”

“I know.” He was feeling confused himself.

She sighed. “I shall never be one of you.”

“Because you cannot tell the difference between linen and wool?” he teased. He did not want her to be sad. Not now. Not in this quiet moment before everything changed.

She smiled. “Among other things.” Their gazes met for a long moment and he steeled himself against the desire to touch her. To run his fingers across her smooth skin and pull her close and finish what they had started the night before. She must have sensed it, because she broke the connection, turning away. “So you are betrothed.”

He didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want it to be real. Not here.

“I am.”

“And the announcement shall be made tonight.”

“It shall.”

She met his gaze. “You will have your perfect English marriage after all.”

He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You are surprised?”

One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. He was coming to like those shrugs that spoke volumes. “The game was never one I could win.”

He was surprised. “Are you admitting defeat?”

“I suppose so. I release you from the wager.”

It was precisely what he had expected her to do. What he’d wanted her to do. “That does not sound like the warrior I have come to know.”

She gave him a small wry smile. “Not so much a warrior any longer.”

His brows snapped together. “Why not?”

“I—” She stopped.

He would have given his entire fortune to hear the rest of the sentence. “You—?” he prompted.

“I came to care too much about the outcome.”

He froze, watching her, taking in the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the way she fiddled with a piece of trim on her rose-colored gown. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” She did not meet his gaze. Instead, shaking her head once more. “I am sorry that you felt that you had to watch over me. I am sorry that Gabriel hit you. I am sorry that I came to be something you . . . regret.”

Regret.

The word was a blow more painful than anything Ralston had delivered.

He had felt many things for her in the past week . . . in the past months. But regret had never been one of them.

“Juliana—” Her name came out like gravel as he reached for her, knowing that when he had her in hand, he might not let her go.

She stood before he could touch her. “It would be a problem if we were discovered. I must go.”

He stood, too. “Juliana. Stop.”

She turned, taking a step back, into the darkness, placing herself just out of reach. “We are not to speak. Not to see each other,” she rattled, as though the words could build a wall between them.

“It is too late for that.” He stepped toward her. She stepped back. “Ralston will be looking for me.”

He advanced. “Ralston can wait.”

She hurried backward. “And you have a fiancée to claim.”

“She can wait as well.”

She stopped, finding her strength. “No she can’t.”

He did not want to talk about Penelope.

He met her, toe-to-toe. “Explain yourself.” The whisper was low and dark.

“I—” She looked down, giving him the top of her head. He wanted to bury his face in those curls, in the smell and feel of her.

But first, she would explain herself.

She did not speak for an eternity—so long that he thought she might not. And then she took a deep breath, and said, “I told you not to make me like you.” The words were full of defeat.

“You like me?” She looked up, her blue eyes reflecting the light from the window behind him, and he caught his breath at her beauty. He lifted a hand, ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek. She closed her eyes at the caress.

“Yes.” The whisper was plaintive and soft, barely audible. “I don’t know why. You’re a horrible man.” She leaned into him. “You’re arrogant and irritating, and you have a temper.”

“I do not have a temper,” he said, lifting her face toward him, so he could look his fill. She opened her eyes and gave him a look of complete disbelief, and he amended, “Only when I am around you.”