"Did I?" she murmured, far more pleased than she should have been that he'd remember such a minor detail. "I don't recall."
"I wished to give you something, but wasn't certain what it should be. But then you said you'd prefer a gift that reminded me of you. And honey reminds me of you," he said softly. "It is the exact color of your hair."
Her brow pulled downward. Surely she hadn't said anything so… forward to him. "When did I say that?"
He reached out and lightly touched a tendril of her hair. The intimate gesture stopped her breath. "Last night. On the terrace." His gaze seemed to bore into hers. "Galatea."
She actually felt the blood drain from her head, leaving nothing save a buzzing sound in her ears. Good God. Had she, less than a minute ago, believed this visit couldn't get any worse? Yes, she had.
Obviously she'd been very, very wrong.
Chapter Six
I believed myself well acquainted with physical pleasure before entering into my arrangement with Lord X. After only one kiss, however, I suspected I didn't know as much as I thought. After our second kiss, I was sure of it. Because I'd never craved a third kiss so badly.
Memoirs of a Mistress by An Anonymous Lady
Daniel watched the color leach from Carolyn's face and his jaw tightened. She was clearly stunned, and not in a delighted way. Disappointment washed through him, followed immediately by a tight grip of jealousy. And something else he couldn't quite name other than to know it made his heart feel as if a piece were torn from it. Based on her reaction, she hadn't known it was him she'd kissed.
Damn it, who the bloody hell had she thought the highwayman was? He didn't know, but was determined to find out. Before he could ask, however, she moistened her lips, and that flick of her tongue distracted him. He hadn't quite recovered when she asked, "How did you know Galatea was me?"
"It wasn't difficult. The way you hold yourself. The curve of your chin. Your laugh. You are… unmistakable."
For several long seconds she studied him through those beautiful eyes that reminded him of a cloudless summer sky. Then, without saying a word, she rose and moved toward the fireplace. After setting the jar of honey on the mantel, she kept her back to him and appeared to stare into the flames.
"How long did you know it was me?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated. His pride-dented by the fact she hadn't realized he was the highwayman-demanded he not admit he'd known her identity all along. That he hadn't guessed until after they kissed. If she were any other woman, the falsehood would have slipped from his lips without a qualm. Seduction was nothing more than a series of intricate games-games he knew very well how to play. Just as he knew very well how to keep his own counsel and reveal as little as possible of himself to his lovers. In games of love, information was ammunition. The man who gave a woman too much risked getting shot.
But with this woman, the lie caught in his throat, refusing to be spoken. For the sake of his battered pride, he even coughed once in an attempt to dislodge the falsehood, but it refused to budge, leaving him with only one option: to tell her the unvarnished truth. Completely uncharacteristic, but there was simply no other alternative. He didn't quite understand why he felt this way, why he had no choice in the matter, and damn it, he detested feeling so confused. But as this was the hand he'd been dealt, he had no choice but to play it. Bloody hell, no wonder he'd never cared for card games.
He stood, then crossed to the fireplace, stopping directly behind her. The faint scent of flowers rose from her skin, teasing his senses, and he drew a deep breath. God, she smelled good. Like a garden on a sunny day.
His gaze riveted on the nape of her neck. That column of creamy skin, flanked by a pair of honey-colored tendrils artfully loosened from her upswept hair, looked so soft, so vulnerable. And so damn touchable.
"I knew it was you the instant I saw you," he admitted softly. Unable to resist, he reached out and touched a single fingertip to that tempting bit of skin, relishing the discovery that it felt as velvety as it looked.
He savored her quick intake of breath, as well as the slight tremor that ran through her. "I was completely aware it was you I spoke to," he continued, lightly trailing his fingertip along the gentle curve of her nape. "You I danced with." He stepped forward until his front lightly grazed her back, and brushed his lips against the skin his finger had just explored. "You I kissed."
She went perfectly still, indeed, it seemed she'd ceased breathing, and grim satisfaction filled him. Excellent. It was a sensation he understood all too well, and it was entirely her fault. Every time he so much as thought of this woman, the sensual images she inspired made it feel for several seconds as if his lungs forgot how to work.
His arms slid around her waist, and holding her lightly against him, he dragged his lips along her neck and inhaled… slowly, deeply, steeping his senses in the soft, floral scent of her. The delicious and almost painfully arousing sensation of holding her in his arms. And as happened every time he was near her, his finesse fled, leaving him struggling to keep from simply snatching her against him. Backing her against the nearest wall. Or bending her over the nearest chair. Or tossing her on the nearest settee. Or just dragging her to the floor. Anywhere to put out this damnable fire that roared through him every time he touched her. A flame that burned even hotter now that he'd tasted her.
The effort not to give in to the craving had him damn near shaking, and he briefly closed his eyes. Forced himself to pull himself together. For God's sake, he'd barely touched her. Never had he experienced such an overwhelming need to have any woman. Still, his inner voice warned him not to move too quickly with Carolyn, lest he scare her off again as he had last night.
Leaning back, he gently turned her until she faced him. One look at her heightened color and languorous expression left no doubt that she was as affected as he. Thank God. Because the next time he kissed her she was damn well going to know it was him doing so.
He reached out and lightly stroked his fingers down her soft cheek. "Who did you think kissed you last night?" he asked, voicing the question that had ceaselessly reverberated through his mind. Hating that he had to ask it.
She studied him with an indecipherable expression, and he dearly wished he could read her thoughts. Then, as if recalling that they stood so close, that his hands rested on her waist, she eased away, putting several feet between them. A space he had to force himself not to erase.
"A dashing highwayman," she finally said. "I'm afraid I got caught up in the excitement and anonymity of the masque and…"
Her voice trailed off and she shifted her gaze to the fire. Although disappointed that she hadn't known or guessed his identity, he was vastly relieved that she at least hadn't named another man.
"And you gave in to your desires?" he suggested softly when she remained silent.
She shook her head. "No. I made a mistake."
She turned toward him, and for the first time he realized that her eyes bore traces of redness around the rims and faint smudges beneath. Signs of a restless, sleepless night. And perhaps even tears. The thought of her crying filled him with an ache he couldn't name. Brought to life a need to comfort and protect-a need he hadn't felt for a very long time. A need he'd thought long dead.
It required all his will not to reach for her. "It wasn't a mistake," he said, his voice quiet yet implacable.
A look of resolution and something else-anguish perhaps?-flickered in her gaze and she lifted her chin. "I assure you it was, Lord Surbrooke. I didn't mean-"
"Daniel."
She hesitated, then continued, "I didn't mean for things to go as far as they did. I shouldn't have accompanied you-the highwayman-onto the terrace. I can only reiterate that I made a mistake. And ask for your forgiveness."