His eyes closed briefly as though he were steeling himself against her, and she thought for a moment that he might refuse. But when he opened them, she saw desire flare there in the stunning amber depths, then he groaned his pleasure and gave her what she wanted, pressing closer.

“You are my siren,” he said, running his hands along her thighs and down her calves, feeling the shape of her even as the silk of her gown kept them both from what they wanted. “My temptress . . . my sorceress . . . I cannot resist you, no matter how I try. You threaten to send me over the edge.”

His hands came to her ankles, and she flinched at the instant, intense pleasure of his touch. Her eyes widened. “Simon, I don’t—”

“Shh,” he said, as his hands smoothed slowly up the inside of her legs, setting her stockings aflame. “I’m showing you what I mean.”

His fingertips reached the lacy, scalloped edge of the stockings high on her thigh, and they both groaned at the feel of skin on skin. She snapped her legs closed, trapping his hands between her warm thighs.

She couldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

He leaned forward and placed his forehead on hers. “Juliana, let me touch you.”

How could she resist such temptation?

She relaxed, opening her thighs, knowing that she was a wanton.

Not caring.

He smiled, his hands climbing higher and higher. “You are not wearing drawers.”

She shook her head, barely able to speak through the anticipation. “I don’t like them. We don’t—in Italy.”

He took her mouth in a wicked kiss. “Have I mentioned how I adore the Italians?”

The sentiment, so counter to every argument they’d ever had, made her laugh. Then his fingers reached her core, feathering over the soft hair there, parting, seeking, and sending a shock of sensation through her. And the laugh turned to a moan.

His mouth was at her ear now, and he whispered wicked things as his fingers sought. Found. She did not know what she wanted. Only that—

“Simon . . .” she whispered.

He slid one finger deep into her core, and she closed her eyes at the caress, leaning back at the sensation, the piano keys sighing beneath her movement.

“Yes,” she whispered, embarrassed and bold all at once.

“Yes,” he repeated, as a second finger joined the first, and his thumb did wicked, wonderful things, circling the secret folds of her.

She bit her lip. “Stop . . . don’t stop.”

His grin was wide and wicked. “Which one?”

He stroked deep, and she grasped his arm tightly, whispering. “Don’t. Don’t stop.”

He shook his head, watching her. “I couldn’t if I tried.” Holding her gaze, he worked her in time with the movement of her hips, with the soft discordant tinkling of the piano keys beneath her. Everything faded except the feel of him, the strong, corded muscles of his arms, the magnificent way he touched her, driving her harder and faster toward something she did not understand and did not entirely trust.

She sat straight up, and he was there, one hand capturing her face, holding her to his lips. “I am here,” he whispered against her.

Was he, really?

She stiffened, shaking her head, rocketing toward pleasure. “No. Simon . . .”

“Take it, Juliana.” The demand crashed through her, so imperious that she could not follow it. She gasped at the pleasure, and he took her lips again, feeding her unbearable desire for more, for him where she ached and needed more than she would ever imagine, his beautiful amber gaze her anchor in the storm.

When he had wrung the last of her pleasure from her, he placed a soft kiss on the high arch of one cheek and righted her skirts, pulling her to him as she regained her strength. He held her there, quiet and unmoving for long minutes. Five. Maybe more.

Before she remembered where they were.

And why.

She pushed him back, away from her. “I must return.” She stood, wondering how long she would be able to suffer this interminable evening.

The worst was yet to come.

“Juliana,” he said, and she heard the plea in his voice, for what, she did not know. She waited, eager for him to say something that would make it better. That would make it right.

When he did not, she spoke. “You are to be married.”

He lifted his hands. Paused. Dropped them in frustration. “I am sorry. I should not have—I should have—”

She flinched at the words—she couldn’t help it. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t apologize.” She moved to the door, had one hand on the handle when he spoke again.

“Juliana. I cannot—” He halted. Rethought. “I am marrying Lady Penelope. I have no choice.”

There it was again, his cool, masterful tone.

She let her forehead rest on the cool mahogany of the door, so close that she could smell the rich stain on the wood.

He spoke again. “There are things you cannot understand. I must.”

She laid her palm flat against the door, resisting the horrible temptation to throw herself at his feet and beg him to have her. No. She had more pride than that. There was only one way to survive this. With dignity intact.

“Of course you must,” she whispered.

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But it is not important. Thank you for the lesson.”

“The lesson?”

This was her chance to have the last word.

To at least feel like she had won.

“Passion is not everything, is it?” She was proud of the lightness in her tone, the way she tossed the words at him as though they did not matter. As though he had not just thrown her world into upheaval.