Kate could have sobbed with joy at the sight of it. “Will they pull us back?” she asked. “Don’t answer that! Save your breath.” In the light of the approaching torch, she could see his muscled arms pulling, hand over hand, so fast that the rope raced past his shoulder.

It was . . . interesting. He looked like a farm laborer, but at the same time, not at all like a farm laborer.

The boat met the marble edge with a splintering thud. “Come on,” Gabriel said, breathing hard. He leaped in and held out his hand. She climbed on, almost losing her footing because of her wet slippers.

“Sit down; they’ll pull us over directly,” he said.

“I—” she said, teeth chattering, but he pulled her down onto his lap, and that was the end of whatever she was about to say.

His body was huge and warm, and she was so cold that she melted into him with an entirely unladylike noise. He wrapped his arms around her and she almost moaned again from the pleasure of it.

“You’re warm,” she said after a moment, feeling that they should be having some sort of conversation. “Is the boat moving?”

“Yes.” He tucked her more firmly against the warmth of his chest. “Are you still cold?”

“Not as much.”

“I have the solution to your chill,” he said, and his voice had gone dark and fierce. She turned her face up to his like a child seeking a good-night kiss—it was that natural—and his lips parted hers.

Their third kiss, she thought dimly, and it was already different from the others. They kissed now as if they knew each other, as if they were both leaping into a fire that they longed for. Raw heat scorched down her backbone and she broke away with a little murmur, almost frightened by the force of it.

But his arms tightened and he wouldn’t let her go, brushing his mouth against hers. Then she felt his tongue caressing her bottom lip until she gasped from the sweet heat. He took her gasp as if it were an invitation and gave her a little bite, nibbling on her lip in a way that somehow had Kate pressing against his chest as if she wanted to get closer and closer.

He just kept teasing her, until she took her hands from his chest and wrapped them around his neck, pulling his head down to hers in a silent demand.

She could feel him laughing and then he was kissing her again and their tongues were tangling in a kind of rough explosion that made her feel dizzy and breathless.

This time he pulled back. “We’re coming to shore. They’ll be able to see us soon.” He sounded a little drunk.

Kate nodded, looking up at him. His eyes were black in the torchlight, his cheekbones drawn, and his wet hair slicked straight back from his head. He looked like a Cossack warrior, the kind who pillaged villages and stole maidens.

Maidens like her, milkmaids and poor relations and women with few relatives.

She cleared her throat and quickly shifted off his lap to the seat next to him. “Thank you for warming me,” she said, starting to shiver immediately.

An odd look passed through his eyes and she followed his gaze downward. Her gown was utterly soaked, of course, and unfortunately her wax breasts had not survived their bath unscathed. One was still in place, perkily holding up Kate’s meager offering. But the one on the right, where Gabriel’s arm had towed her through the water, had been squished. The misshapen remains had migrated down and were positioned just above her waistline.

She looked down, thinking desperately what to say. “Henry calls them her ‘bosom friends,’ ” she blurted out, saying the first thing that came to her head. “If you would please close your eyes . . .”

He did. “A gentleman would not be grinning like that,” she scolded, plucking the freezing ball of wax from her ruined gown. The crushed one was a bit trickier, but she was able to pull her destroyed bodice down enough to pull it out through her stays.

The boat was close to shore by the time she had restored her bosom to its natural state. Luckily they were obscured from view by the fact that their torch had at last spluttered out, though she could make out curious faces lining the marble basin.

“All right,” she said, hauling her bodice into a reasonable approximation of its former self.

He opened his eyes.

“Take that expression off your face!” she said crossly.

“It’s this or look at you in such a way that everyone would know exactly what I’m thinking about,” he said softly.

She glanced down and saw her nipples poking straight through the wet silk. Heat rose in her face. “You’d better give the discards to me,” he said. “If the servants find them, they’d never be able to keep it to themselves.”

She had them hidden at her side, but she reluctantly handed them over. Gabriel turned over the blobs of wax. “You don’t need these,” he said. “But they’re fascinating, all the same.”

“You may keep them,” Kate said. She could see Wick standing on the shore with what looked like a blanket in his hands. “Now,” she commanded, “go get me that blanket. I’m not standing up in this drenched gown.”

“Not without your bosom friends,” he said.

She gave him a fierce look, and it worked as well as it did with the French hairdresser; Gabriel got up, still laughing, and fetched the blanket.

Then he came back and wrapped her in it. “Your wig is gone,” he said, looking down at her. “You look like a drowned rat.”

He looked breathtakingly handsome, but she should retaliate for the benefit of his soul. The man raised confidence to the level of a deadly sin. “You look—” she began. But there was something in his eyes that she liked, something lustful perhaps, but still . . .

“Thank you,” she said. “I might have drowned without you and I’m very grateful that you towed me out.”

A strange look crossed his eyes. “You should slap me for that kiss, for taking advantage of your chill.”

She moved around him, heading to the bow of the boat and Wick’s outstretched hand. Just before disembarking, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “Perhaps I took advantage of you ,” she said, just quietly enough so that no one on shore could hear her.

He blinked and then said, “I only wish you would.”

Twenty

T he next morning Kate slept late, after a confused and mostly sleepless night in which she alternately tossed with fiery humiliation at the memory of Gabriel laughing down at her wax breasts, and flushed red at the memory of his kisses.

She was wakened by Rosalie, who told her that Miss Starck’s maid was inquiring whether her mistress might join her for breakfast.

“Lady Wrothe says you’re not to leave this room all day,” Rosalie said importantly. “You’re quite the heroine of the hour, I must say. Those youngbloods who caused your boat to capsize are properly ashamed of themselves and planning some sort of gift.”

“No!” Kate said. “Surely not.”

“Yes, because you were the only one who wasn’t plucked out immediately, but actually had to swim across the lake. Like a mermaid, that’s what everyone is saying.”

“I wasn’t in the least mermaidlike,” Kate objected. “The prince towed me along like a dead fish.”

“No need to get into the particulars,” Rosalie said. “Now Miss Starck and Lady Wrothe, they were saved by the quick thinking of Lord Wrothe. He righted the boat, and the only ones to fall in were yourself and the dog.”