The fragrance of the lilacs faded. Instead, she smelled spice and soap, a mingling of gentleman and highwayman that was the duke.

He was right. This wasn’t flirtation; this was craving, so deep and intense that Olivia’s whole body vibrated with the need to be closer. She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, allowed his hand to press her body against the hard planes of his body. The other cupped the back of her head, cradling it in a position that tilted her head so that he could kiss her hard, a hungry, smoldering kiss that told her without words that he didn’t think she was plump and unattractive.

His hair fell from its ribbon and brushed her cheek. His eyes were closed, which made him look like a different man. Open-eyed, he was fierce, hawk-like, somewhat cold. With his eyes closed, he was someone else entirely.

A man in the grip of pleasure, her instinct told her.

His lips slid from hers, seeking the tender sweep of her neck. She gasped and shivered; his eyes opened.

“This is not flirtation.” His voice rasped as his lips lit a trail of heat across her cheek.

“No,” she whispered, trembling against him.

“It’s a bloody forest fire,” he said, dropping one last short, hard kiss on her lips and then putting her away from him.

Olivia swallowed.

“Yet you are betrothed.” It was a statement, but those dark eyes were asking a question. Olivia felt as if the world peeled away from around them, as if there were only the two of them in the whole of the windy garden: this tall, hard man, his eyes searching her face, and Miss Olivia Mayfield Lytton, betrothed at birth to a marquess. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but . . .

There was Rupert to think of, and Georgiana.

She steeled herself and willed the words aloud. “A forest fire is no reason to betray the two people I . . . to betray my fiancé.”

“Two people.” He paused. “Georgiana?”

“That’s irrelevant,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—at any rate, it’s completely irrelevant.”

“No, it’s not. She’s here because my mother invited her.”

Olivia nodded.

“It’s not as if we were looking her over, like a horse at Tattersall’s,” he said somewhat defensively. “My first marriage went very poorly. My mother is anxious that I don’t repeat the mistake.”

Olivia touched his cheek, as lightly as a breath, but still her fingertips tingled. “Georgiana would never betray you.”

“So you have heard the gossip?” His eyes were shuttered.

“My maid mentioned your former wife’s reputation.”

“Evangeline earned her reputation, I’m afraid.” There was no shame, or condemnation in his voice. “I believe we had better continue to the stables, Miss Lytton. My aunt, not to mention young Justin, will grow restless if they are kept waiting in the pony cart.”

Olivia again took his arm. Her knees felt weak.

“I take it, then, that Montsurrey has your loyalty.”

She nodded, but realized he was looking straight ahead, and said, “Yes.” It came out a croak. “He—he would be very hurt if I were to . . . It wouldn’t do.”

“A very English response,” he said, glancing down at her. “It wouldn’t do. But you’re right. The very worst thing any man could do to another, especially one serving his country, would be to steal his future wife. Perhaps when he has returned safely, we might discuss this further?”

“You and I scarcely know each other,” Olivia said, keeping her voice steady only with effort.

“I want to get to know you better. That’s the point of the conversation.” His voice was dark, husky.

Georgiana’s hopeful face swam before Olivia’s eyes. She drew herself together. Rupert was one thing, but Georgiana was her twin, her other half. And she felt instinctively that her sister was right: this man was perfect for Georgie. Not for Olivia.

“One doesn’t marry on the basis of madness,” she said, dropping a cool edge into her voice.

He took another few steps without a word. Silence . . . silence just made Olivia even more conscious of the powerful body next to her. Brother-in-law, she said to herself.

“So are you familiar with this sort of madness?” His voice was colorless. “Does it come often to you?”

Like his wife. That’s what he’s thinking. She opened her mouth to deny it—and thought again. “Rupert and I have been betrothed since his birth. Of course I have not . . .” She tried again. “Neither of us had a choice of spouse. We both understood fidelity was not part of our fathers’ pact, at least before marriage.”

They were rounding the corner of the stables now. A stable boy peeked out the door, then popped back inside, followed by the clop of horse’s shoes as a dappled mare emerged into the sunshine.

“I’ll put you on your mount,” the duke said.

He led her to the mare, then put his hands on her waist. For a moment they both froze. His hands tightened, and he lifted her carefully up to the saddle.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, slipping her leg around the pommel and tweaking her skirts.

“I prefer to be called Quin.”

Startled, she looked down at him. “That would be quite improper.”

“ ‘Improper’ would be if I pulled you off this horse in front of four servants and kissed you senseless.”

“You can’t!” she squeaked.

“I can.” He said it calmly enough. “And I can only assume that it wouldn’t disturb you, Olivia, given that you just characterized yourself as an accomplished flirt . . . to put your description in the best possible light.”

What was she supposed to say to that? “ ‘Miss Lytton’ to you?” The duke had already turned away and leapt on his horse in one smooth movement. He was angry: she could see the contained fury in his body, in the way his cheekbones looked even more sharply masculine than usual.

But she didn’t know how to respond. Everything in her—except her pride and loyalty—longed to reach out, touch his hand, catch his sleeve. Give him a feverish look, somehow, anyhow, lure him back so that he would kiss her again like that. As if she were desirable. Sensual.

Olivia glanced down and caught sight of her own leg curved around the pommel. The sight jolted her back to her senses. He wanted her now, for some reason.

But she was fat. Her leg was fat. He hadn’t seen that yet, somehow. He’d overlooked it, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—if they were ever in a state of undress together.

The thought made her stomach pitch, but she welcomed the faint queasiness. It was a call to reason. Quin would be happy with Georgiana. He would forget this nonsense, this “forest fire,” as he called it.

She smiled at the stable boy holding her horse’s reins. “Will you keep Lucy for me until I return? I do believe she thinks there might be rats in the stable.”

“She’d be right,” the boy said promptly. Lucy was nosing around at the wall, her tail stiff with delight.

“Find them,” Olivia suggested.

He grinned and handed over the reins. She deftly tightened them, nudged the mare, and set out after the duke. Quin.

They reached the house by a road that rounded a bend and placed them before the house. Littlebourne Manor had a magisterial façade, she realized, paying attention to it for the first time.