“I look forward to it,” he said, glancing at Geoffrey with a gleam of mockery in his eye before returning to Mrs Wadsworth.

Geoffrey put a plate of food in front of Lydia and took his seat. His scowl was one of the sweetest things she’d ever seen. He really was jealous. At least, that is what she hoped. Maybe he was just angry, and feeling protective of Daniel’s sister.

“Dammit, Lydia, you truly are determined to have that scoundrel woo you?”

“I have said so, have I not? And I must say, Mr Danforth, that peevish look on your face does not signal that you are wooing me, which, you may recall, is the plan.”

He gave a resigned shrug. “Right you are. I must not forget my role.”

“It must be working, don’t you think? Did you see the way he looked at me?”

“Humph. How could I not? Ah, but you should see the way Eugenia Wadsworth is looking at you. Do you feel her daggers in your back?”

Lydia laughed. “Is she jealous, do you think? Of me?” It boosted her confidence to think that the beautiful, fashionable widow would see her as competition.

“Apparently,” he muttered, “jealousy is the name of the game tonight.”

Better and better, she thought. It was all going according to plan. The revised plan, anyway.

“Well, I really do not care about Mrs Wadsworth,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “It is Lord Tennison who concerns me. We are to make him jealous, in case you have forgotten.”

Geoffrey tore his gaze from the other couple and returned his attention to Lydia with a smile so beguiling it poured over her like warm honey. Thank heaven she was seated.

“I have not forgotten. Let us resume our performance. Can I tempt you with something to eat?”

She noticed, for the first time, the plate in front of her. Besides the sliced ham, lobster patty and pickled mango, there was a small pile of the tiniest strawberries. “Oh, strawberries!” She popped one in her mouth and it was like the richest of sweetmeats. She closed her eyes and savoured it. She was very much afraid she’d actually moaned with pleasure. When she opened her eyes, Geoffrey was studying her intently with an expression she could not immediately identify. Could it be … hunger? The air in her lungs suddenly felt thin, starving her of breath. She held another strawberry in her fingers, but could not seem to lift it to her mouth.

“I remembered about the strawberries,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

“Hmm?”

“That picnic at your aunt’s home in Richmond. You almost became sick from eating too many wild strawberries. You fell back on the blanket and said there was no better way to die.”

Her heart gave a little skitter in her chest. “You … You remembered that?”

“Of course. You looked so charmingly … sated.”

He took her hand and lifted the berry to her mouth. When she took it, her lips touched his bare fingers, for he had removed his gloves for supper, and the brief taste of his skin overwhelmed even the strawberry. He watched intently as she ate it and then licked her lips to capture every hint of flavour left behind. She watched him watch her and, all at once, with their gazes locked, she sensed a new connection between them, something deeper and full of understanding, through eyes and lips and fingers, and the sweet scent of ripe strawberries enveloping them. It felt so right. And very real — at least for her.

Please, please let this not be entirely an act for him.

He leaned back and the moment ended. He grinned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while she reeled as though the earth had moved.

“You might try the lobster cakes,” he said. “They are devilish good.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Even for more strawberries?” He waved his fork over the remaining pile.

She shook her head. She might never eat again. But she could happily sit there and watch him dine. Or watch him do anything. Dear God, she was lost to him.

And yet he merely play-acted.

While he ate and she pushed her food around the plate, they spoke of ordinary things, of friends and family, books and plays, and a dozen other mundane topics. All the while, though, Geoffrey kept up the pretence of infatuation, touching her, smiling boldly, staring at her with those splendid blue eyes. Anyone watching would assume they were in love. He was a fine actor. She teased him about treading the boards if he somehow lost his inheritance.

“Some roles are easier than others,” he said. “I confess I am enjoying this one.”

Most of the guests were still dining when Lord Tennison and Mrs Wadsworth left the room. She watched the rakish nobleman with feigned interest. “What are we to do now?” she asked. “We cannot dance a third set together without causing gossip, not to mention giving my mother palpitations. How shall we proceed with our plan? Or perhaps Lord Tennison is leaving the ball? Oh dear.” She infused her voice with disappointment.

Geoffrey turned slightly to watch the departing couple. “No, they are not leaving. They are going out the terrace doors.”

“Oh. Do you think we should follow them?”

“A capital suggestion, my girl. Let’s go ogle each other in the moonlight. Nothing could appear more romantic.”

She felt many pairs of eyes on them as they left the supper room. No doubt tongues would be wagging as soon as they were out of sight. “Are you certain this is wise?” she whispered. “I fear people may get the wrong idea.”

“That is the point, is it not? To make one particular person get the wrong idea?” He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “Do not vex yourself, Lydia. Taking a bit of air after supper with your brother’s best friend is no scandalous thing. Trust me, no one will care.”

She hoped he was right. She would hate for a general expectation to arise, forcing him into a situation he did not want, even if she wanted it desperately.

When they reached the terrace, Lydia saw Lord Tennison in a far corner, standing very close to Mrs Wadsworth. It looked as though they might have just ended a kiss, and Lydia turned away, embarrassed. Geoffrey led her to the opposite corner. He stood with his back to the balustrade and pulled her gently to his side so that she faced the garden. It was a beautiful, clear, temperate evening. The stars were out in force and the moon almost full, the air redolent of lilac and horse chestnut. It was the perfect setting for romance, with the perfect man at her side. If only …

He took her hand and discreetly held it behind him so that no one looking out from the ballroom could see. Neither could Lord Tennison, if he bothered to look, so she wondered why Geoffrey did it. She wanted to believe it was for himself and not for the sake of their ruse, but she tried not to get her hopes up. Though both were gloved now, she nevertheless felt the warmth of his fingers, especially when he began sketching lazy circles on her palm.

“I think we need to up the game a bit,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“If Tennison is the man you want, you must be prepared to play at his level. He is a man of the world, as you know, with a great deal of experience.”

“With women.”

“Yes. A great many women.”

“And you think I am no match for all those other women? That he may find my youth and inexperience tiresome?”

He reached up and stroked her cheek. “You are more than worthy of any man’s attention, my girl. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he is worthy of your attention. I may not like him, but it is not my place to judge your heart’s desire. If he is the one you want, then I am here to help you win him. But, because he is so worldly, I suspect a few dances and moonstruck gazes are not enough to incite his jealousy. Tennison is a bold choice, Lydia, and you must be bold to win him.”

A frisson of anticipation skittered down her spine. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come with me,” he said. Keeping hold of her hand, he guided her to the steps leading down from the terrace.

“Where are we going?”

He merely smiled and led her into the garden, where gravel pathways were lit by paper lanterns hanging from trees. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can we make Lord Tennison jealous if he can’t even see us?”

He’d stopped at a stone bench tucked among the shrubbery. “It’s what he will see when we return,” he said, and pulled her to sit down beside him. Very close beside him.

“What will he see?”

“A woman who has been thoroughly kissed.”

And there, bathed in the lush scent of a nearby lilac tree and the silvery light of the brilliant moon, he kissed her. Tenderly, at first. His hand spread against the back of her head, angling his mouth over hers, while his other hand settled low on her back.

She did not care if he did this merely to provoke another man, she was in his arms and he was kissing her — it was what she had always wanted, her every dream and fantasy. And, by God, she was going to take advantage of the moment. She kissed him back for all she was worth, twining her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his.

She felt the thumping of his heart beneath his shirt and waistcoat, or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. She could no longer distinguish his heart from hers. They were as one, synchronized, merged, united.

He parted her lips with a gentle nudging from his own, and all at once the kiss became lush and full and potently carnal as his tongue began an urgent twirling dance with her own. Good God, what was he doing to her? It was like nothing she had ever experienced or could even have imagined. It was earth-shaking, soul-shattering — a kiss filled with hunger and tenderness, with promise and desire. She melted into it, allowing him to draw her tongue deeper into his mouth, and everything within her dissolved into molten liquid.