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wistful.
    "Ah. And now?" His fingers traced her cheek.
    Caught by his sultry magic, she closed her eyes, felt swamped by loneliness. Then she forced herself out of it, yanked her heart back, stepped away.
    "I'm sorry," she said. "This was a mistake."
    He picked up her spectacles, handed them to her. "She hides herself in the later version, I think."
    "How silly." She straightened the metal frames on her nose. "A fun little game, like an apres-diner amusement."
    "Perhaps I shall suggest it to my Cousin Amy, who loves after dinner games. She will have us scrutinizing everyone over coffee and brandy. Mrs. Blackburn, you did not share your assessment of the two versions." He regarded her expectantly.
    "One is a painted rendition of a sleeping beauty," she said crisply. "A vision of innocence and untried passion. The other... is a plain and dull little woman. All they have in common is the shape of the face, the color of the hair."
    "You do not know, do you."
    "Know what?"
    "How lovely you are. How intriguing."
    The words hung in the air. She glanced away. "I cannot compare to the girl in that painting. She is a confection, a fictional image, based on my features, made from a lot of paint and the artist's own fancy. She made me seem beautiful, when I am not. Just for a moment—then—I was." She shrugged.
    His steady gaze, the crinkling around his eyes, showed how carefully he listened. She saw his subtle expressions—a tilt of the head, a tightening of the lips, a flicker in the eyes. He seemed bemused and yet sympathetic.
    "You need a new mirror, Mrs. Blackburn. You are every bit as lovely as that painting. More so. And I know, for I have enjoyed that painting for years."
    She bristled, gathered her skirts. "Perhaps you like being closeted alone with a picture of a scantily robed woman. Many men enjoy that kind of thing, I suppose. Good night, Sir Aedan." She moved past him.
    One long step placed him between her and the door. He leaned against it, folded his arms. "I meant to say that I greatly admire everything in that painting. Damn," he swore, shaking his head. "It does not sound right no matter how I word it."
    She laughed in spite of herself. "Thank you. But the picture was never meant to be seen by anyone other than... my husband. He promised never to exhibit it or sell it, but he broke his word. I cannot change the fact that you own it, unless you were to sell it to me. And I doubt I could afford it."
    "I would never sell that painting. It means too much to me."
    "I am glad you like it. Please let me pass, sir." She sidestepped, for he still blocked her way.
    "Before you storm out of here, all righteous fire and cold indignation, hear me out." He frowned down at her. "I am no lecher, Mrs. Blackburn, who bought a picture of a lady in her nightdress to appease some prurient interest." He stepped toward her, resolute and close. She went back until her skirts crushed against the desk. "Nor do I think your morals or modesty are in question because you posed for that, once upon a time."
    She sensed his anger and felt her own keenly. "Why hide this painting in your private rooms? Why do you even own it? And why do you... look... at me like that?" The words flew out.
    "How is that?"
    "As if you... care for me and would..."
    "Kiss you?"
    She nodded slowly. He leaned toward her.
    For a moment she thought he might indeed kiss her. She saw the intent flash clearly in his eyes and in the downward glance that took in her lips.
    Feeling as if she were under some dreamy power, she leaned toward him and closed her eyes.
    Her lips brushed his, warm and astonishing. She did not know who touched first, but she let her lips move under his. Surely she dreamed. Her head whirled. Sliding her hand up his arm, she stepped in closer, drawn by some magical force, like sunlight spilling through storm clouds.
    When she thought he would pull away, his lips caressed hers, teased, drank deeper. His hand moved to cup her cheek, and a power that she could