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love or even his affection, but she had, she realised, hoped for agreement. Understanding.
    A footman came in and cleared their plates, and Liana was glad to see the last of the mussels. She felt resentment stir inside her at the memory of Sandro’s mocking smile. He’d enjoyed seeing her discomfited, would have probably laughed aloud if she’d dropped a mussel in her lap or sent it spinning across the table.
    Perhaps she should have dived in and smeared her face and fingers with butter; perhaps he would have liked her better then. But a lifetime of careful, quiet choices had kept her from making a mess of anything, even a plate of mussels. She couldn’t change now, not even over something so trivial.
    The footman laid their plates down, a main course of lamb garnished with fresh mint.
    ‘At least this shouldn’t present you with too much trouble,’ Sandro said softly as the door clicked shut. Liana glanced up at him.
    She felt irritation flare once more, surprising her, because she usually didn’t let herself feel irritated or angry...or anything. Yet this man called feelings up from deep within her, and she didn’t even know why or how. She definitely didn’t like it. ‘You seem to enjoy amusing yourself at my expense.’
    ‘I meant only to tease,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologise if I’ve offended you. But you are so very perfect, Lady Liana—and I’d like to see you a little less so.’
    Perfect? If only he knew the truth. ‘No one is perfect.’
    ‘You come close.’
    ‘That is not, I believe, a compliment.’
    His lips twitched, drawing her attention to them. He had such sculpted lips, almost as if they belonged on a statue. She yanked her gaze upwards, but his eyes were no better. Silvery grey and glinting with amusement.
    She felt as if a fist had taken hold of her heart, plunged into her belly. Everything quivered, and the sensation was not particularly pleasant. Or perhaps it was too pleasant; she felt that same thrill of fascination that had taken hold of her when she’d first met him.
    ‘I would like to see you,’ Sandro said, his voice lowering to a husky murmur, ‘with your hair cascading over your shoulders. Your lips rosy and parted, your face flushed.’
    And as if he could command it by royal decree, she felt herself begin to blush. The image he painted was so suggestive. And it made that fist inside her squeeze her heart once more, made awareness tauten muscles she’d never even known she had.
    ‘Why do you wish to see me like that?’ she asked, relieved her voice sounded as calm as always. Almost.
    ‘Because I think you would look even more beautiful then than you already are. You’d look warm and real and alive.’
    She drew back, strangely hurt by his words. ‘I am quite real already. And alive, thank you very much.’
    Sandro’s gaze swept over her, assessing, knowing. ‘You remind me of a statue.’
    A statue? A statue was cold and lifeless, without blood or bone, thought or feeling. And he thought that was what she was?
    Wasn’t it what she’d been for the past twenty years? The thought was like a hammer blow to the heart. She blinked, tried to keep her face expressionless. Blank, just like the statue he accused her of being. ‘Are you trying to be offensive?’ she answered, striving to keep her voice mild and not quite managing it.
    His honesty shouldn’t hurt her, she knew. There was certainly truth in it, and yet... She didn’t want to be a statue. Not to this man.
    A thought that alarmed her more than anything else.
    ‘Not trying, no,’ Sandro answered. ‘I suppose it comes naturally.’
    ‘I suppose it does.’
    He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you ever lose your temper? Shout? Curse?’
    ‘Would you prefer to be marrying a shrew?’ she answered evenly and his mouth quirked in a small smile.
    ‘Does anything make you angry?’ he asked, and before she could think better of it, she snapped, ‘Right now, you do.’
    He laughed, a rich chuckle of amusement,