The instant they stepped outside, the chilly breeze slapped her to her senses. He led her to a quiet, shadowed corner of the terrace surrounded by a grouping of potted palms in huge porcelain vases. Several couples strolled around the small fenced garden, and a trio of gentlemen stood at the other end of the terrace. Otherwise they were alone, no doubt because of the unseasonably cool air, hinted with the scent of rain.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked.

Dear God, ensconced with him in the privacy provided by the potted palms, she felt as if she stood in the midst of a roaring fire. She nodded, then her gaze searched his. "Do… do you know who I am?"

His gaze slowly skimmed over her, lingering on the bare expanse of her shoulders and the curves she knew her ivory gown highlighted-skin and curves that her normal modest mode of dress never would have revealed. That openly admiring look, which still held no hint of recognition, reignited the heat the breeze had momentarily cooled. When their eyes once again met, he murmured, "You are Aphrodite, goddess of desire."

She relaxed a bit. He clearly didn't know who she was, for the way he'd said "desire," in that husky, gruff voice, was a tone Lord Surbrooke had never used with Lady Wingate. Yet her relaxation was short-lived as that desire-filled timbre pulsed a confusing tension through her, part of which warned her to leave the terrace at once. To return to the party and continue searching for her sister and friends. But another part-the part held enthralled by the darkly alluring highwayman and the protection of her anonymity-refused to move.

To add to her temptation was the fact that this anonymous interlude might afford her the opportunity to learn more about him. In spite of their numerous conversations during the course of Matthew's house party, all she actually knew of Lord Surbrooke was that he was intelligent and witty, impeccably polite, unfailingly charming, and always perfectly groomed. He'd never given her the slightest hint as to what caused the shadows that lurked in his eyes. Yet she knew they were there, and her curiosity was well and truly piqued. Now, if she could only recall how to breathe, she could perhaps discover his secrets.

After clearing her throat to locate her voice, she said, "Actually, I am Galatea."

He nodded slowly, his gaze trailing over her. "Galatea… the ivory statue of Aphrodite carved by Pygmalion because of his desire for her. But why are you not Aphrodite herself?"

"In truth, I thought costuming myself as such a bit too… immodest. I'd actually planned to be a shepherdess. My sister somehow managed to convince me to wear this instead." She gave a short laugh. "I believe she coshed me over the head while I slept."

"Whatever she did, she should be roundly applauded for her efforts. You are… exquisite. More so than Aphrodite herself."

His low voice spread over her like warm honey. Still, she couldn't help but tease, "Says a thief whose vision is impaired by darkness."

"I'm not really a thief. And my eyesight is perfect. As for Aphrodite, she is a woman to be envied. She had only one divine duty-to make love and inspire others to do so as well."

His words, spoken in that deep, hypnotic timbre, combined with his steady regard, spiraled heat through her and robbed her of speech. And reaffirmed her conclusion that he didn't know who she was. Never once during all the conversations she'd shared with Lord Surbrooke had he ever spoken to her-Carolyn-of anything so suggestive. Nor had he employed that husky, intimate tone. Nor could she imagine him doing so. She wasn't the dazzling sort of woman to incite a man's passions, at least not a man in his position, who could have any woman he wanted, and according to rumor, did.

Emboldened by his words and her secret identity, she said, "Aphrodite was desired by all and had her choice of lovers."

"Yes. One of her favorites was Ares." He lifted his hand, and she noticed he'd removed his black gloves. Reaching out, he touched a single fingertip to her bare shoulder. Her breath caught at the whisper of contact then ceased altogether when he slowly dragged his finger along her collarbone. "Makes me wish I'd dressed as the god of war rather than a highwayman."

He lowered his hand to his side, and she had to press her lips together to contain the unexpected groan of protest that rose in her throat at the sudden absence of his touch. She braced her knees, stunned at how they'd weakened at that brief, feathery caress.

She swallowed to find her voice. "Aphrodite caught Ares with another lover."

"He was a fool. Any man lucky enough to have you wouldn't want any other."

"You mean Aphrodite."

"You are Aphrodite."

"Actually, I'm Galatea," she reminded him.

"Ah, yes. The statute Pygmalion fell so in love with was so lifelike he often laid his hand upon it to assure himself whether his creation were alive or not." He reached out and curled his warm fingers around her bare upper arm, just above where her long satin ivory glove ended. "Unlike Galatea, you are very much real."

Her common sense coughed to life and demanded she move away from him, but her feet refused to obey. Instead she absorbed the stunning sensation of his touch. The shocking intimacy when he slipped one finger beneath the edge of her glove. Heat gushed through her, rendering her mute.

"He showered her with gifts, you know," he said, his glittering eyes studying her.

Carolyn managed a nod. "Yes. Brightly colored shells and fresh picked flowers."

"Also jewels. Rings and necklaces. Strings of pearls."

"I'd much prefer the shells and a flower."

"Than jewels?" There was no missing the surprise in his voice. His fingers slipped from her arm, and she had to clench her hand to keep from snatching his and setting it back on her skin. "Surely you jest. All women love jewels."

He sounded so positive, she couldn't help but laugh. "Jewels are lovely, yes, but to me they lack imagination and are impersonal. Anyone can visit the jeweler and select a bauble. To me, a gift's value is in how much thought went into selecting it as opposed to how much it cost."

"I see," he said, although he still sounded surprised. "So what would you have wanted Pygmalion to bring you?"

She considered, then said, "Something that reminded him of me."

He smiled. "Perhaps diamonds and pearls did so."

She shook her head. "Something more… personal. I'd prefer flowers he picked from his own garden. A book from his own collection that he'd enjoyed. A letter or poem he'd written expressly for me."

"I must admit I never thought I'd hear a woman say she'd prefer a letter over diamonds. Not only are you exquisite, you're-"

"A candidate for Bedlam?" she teased. "Extremely odd?"

His teeth flashed, straight and white, accompanied by a low, deep chuckle. "I was going to say extremely rare. A breath of fresh air."

His gaze lowered to her mouth. Her lips tingled under his regard and involuntarily parted. A muscle ticked in his jaw and the air around them seemed to suddenly crackle with tension.

His gaze returned to hers, and even the dim light couldn't disguise the heat glittering in his eyes. "Speaking of letters," he said, "have you heard of this latest rage of ladies receiving notes that state only a time and place?"

Carolyn's brows shot upward. Clearly Lord Surbrooke had heard of the practice. An image flashed through her mind, of him and a woman who, dear God, looked exactly like her, engaged in a tryst, their bare limbs entwined-

She briefly squeezed her eyes shut to banish the unsettling picture then said, "I've heard of these notes, yes."

"Have you ever received one?"

"No. Have you ever sent one?"

"No, although I find the idea intriguing. Tell me, if you were to receive such a missive, would you go?"

She opened her mouth to emphatically state of course not, but to her surprise and chagrin found the words would not come. Instead she found herself saying, "I… I'm not certain."

And with a dismaying, unsettling clarity, she realized that she truly wasn't certain. Yet how could that be? It was as if she'd donned her goddess costume and become a different person. A person who would consider a secret rendezvous with an unknown admirer. What on earth was happening to her? And why would it be happening with this man? This charming, practiced, nobleman who was like so many of his peers-interested only in his own pleasures.

Botheration, clearly the Memoirs were to blame for filling her mind with these ridiculous thoughts and disturbing images. As soon as she returned home she'd toss the book into the fireplace and be rid of it.

Raising her chin, she asked, "Would you go?"

Instead of immediately answering yes as she would have expected, he considered for several seconds before replying, "I suppose it would depend on who sent me the note."

"But the entire point is that you don't know."

He shook his head. "I think you'd have at least an inkling of the sender's identity. A clue as to who desired you that much." He reached out and lightly clasped her hands. The heat of his palms seeped through her gloves, and she found herself wishing that no barrier separated their skin. "A desire that strong surely could not go unnoticed."

A reply… she needed to think of something, anything, to say, but instead all she could focus on was the word he'd just spoken, which kept reverberating through her mind.

Desire.

Before she could recover her usual aplomb, he said softly, "To answer your question, if you sent me such a note, I would go."

Silence engulfed them. Seconds passed, pulses of time that felt to her thick with tension and an almost painful awareness of him. Of everything about him. His commanding height. The breadth of his shoulders. The compelling intensity of his gaze. His scent, which seemed to intoxicate her. His touch against her hands.