The words were so soft, if the breeze had been blowing in another direction, he would not have heard them. Would not have heard the sadness in them.

“I am sorry.”

They were at the far end of the green now, where the line of stalls ended, and Simon did not think twice about pulling her farther into the darkness, around the last booth and into a cluster of trees in the corner of the square.

“I thought we agreed that tonight was for simplicity,” he said, the words soft in the privacy of the space—the trees giving them cover of darkness, the flickering light and sounds of the bonfire far enough away that everything seemed like a dream.

As though they really had taken a magic potion.

As though tonight was different.

He felt rather than saw her shake her head. “But it’s not, really, is it? You are still a duke, and I . . . well, I am who I am.”

“No, Juliana,” he whispered, stepping closer, lifting a hand to cup her chin and tilt her face toward him. “Not tonight.”

He wished he could see her face.

“Yes, even tonight. Not even magic can unmake us, Simon. We are too well formed.” Her voice wrapped around him, filled with emotion, making him ache. “I just want you to know . . . I want you to know that I understand. And that if I could return to that night when I issued my challenge, I would take it all back.”

He didn’t want her to take it back.

“I wish I could go back and choose a different carriage.”

Irrational jealousy flared at the idea of this alternate reality, where another man had found her on the floor of his carriage.

She was his.

The wave of possessiveness was unsettling, and he released her as he attempted to control it.

She misunderstood his movement and stepped back, putting distance between them. He felt the loss of her keenly. “It is two weeks today, did you know that?”

He had not thought of the bargain in days. Not since he’d left for Yorkshire. He did a quick calculation of time. “Two weeks tonight. Yes.”

And you have kept your promise to show me passion.

He did not say the words. Did not have a chance to.

“I have not brought you to your knees.”

She’d done worse. It felt like she’d ripped his heart from his chest.

“Somewhere, my plan went wrong,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear it in the darkness. “Because instead of your discovering that passion is everything, I discovered that passion is nothing without love.”

What was she saying?

Was it possible she . . .

He reached for her, his fingers brushing her arms as she pulled away, retreating farther into the darkness. “What does that mean?”

A little, humorless laugh sounded, and he wanted desperately to see her face.

“Juliana?” He could barely make out her silhouette in the darkness.

“Don’t you see, Simon?” There was a tremor in her voice, and he hated it. “I love you.”

It was not until he heard the words on her tongue, in her beautiful, lyric accent, that he realized how very much he had wanted her to say them. She loved him. The thought washed over him, pleasure and pain, and all he could think was that he would die if she wasn’t in his arms.

He wanted nothing more than to hold her.

He did not know what would come after that, but it was a beginning.

She loved him.

Her name on his lips, he moved toward her, certain that for this moment—this evening—she was his.

He pulled her into his arms, and she struggled against his grip. “No. Let me go.”

“Say it again,” he said; he’d never wanted anything so much. He had no right to it. But he wanted it anyway.

“No.” He heard the regret in her tone. “I should not have said it to begin with.”

He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Obstinate female.” He pulled her closer, one hand following the delicate curve of her throat, tilting her face toward his. “Say it again.”

“No.”

He kissed her, taking her lips with strength and purpose, and she yielded instantly to him. He groaned at her sweetness—the taste of wine and spice on her lips—but pulled back before he lost himself in her. “Say it again.”

She gave a little huff of displeasure. “I love you.”

He did not care that she sounded tortured. The words sent fire blazing through him. “With feeling, Siren.”

She hesitated, and he thought she might pull away before she seemed to give herself up to the moment, her hands on his arms, stroking up to the nape of his neck, fingers in his curls, stroking in that way that set him aflame. Her mouth was a hairsbreadth from his, and when she spoke, her voice was low and soft and perfect.

“Ti amo.”

And as she said the words in her native tongue, he heard the truth. And it slew him. In that moment, he would have given her anything she asked for . . . as long as she never stopped loving him.

“Kiss me again,” she whispered.

The request was unnecessary; his lips were already on hers.

Again and again he took her mouth, searching for the perfect angle, molding her against him and stroking deep in long, slow kisses that threatened his strength and his sanity. They kissed as though they had an eternity, long and languid, and she matched him move for move, rough when he was rough, gentle when he gentled.

She was perfect.

They were perfectly matched.

“Juliana,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice as he paused between kisses. “God, you are beautiful.”

She laughed, and the sound went straight to his core. “It is dark. You cannot see.”