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I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Celia stepped to the agreed spot in the garden, her pulse quickening as she awaited the tall, mysterious man.

How liberating! How thrilling . She hadn’t known this was what she wanted, needed, until the moment she’d decided tonight was the night she wanted her first kiss, and with each passing second, the urge to be bold, to be daring, to claim a kiss for herself grew stronger and stronger.

Her very first kiss.

The more she imagined it—the thought of kissing him, this handsome man—the more impatient she grew for it. Would he be a good kisser? Would he know how to make her heart race, or would it be a clumsy, forgettable thing?

He would probably be a be the former. How could a man like that not be a good kisser?

Her lips prickled at the thought, and she raised her fingers to them, imagining the closeness of that touch. Would he be gentle, or would he take control with a desperate hunger? Or would she be the hungry one? The one to take control? Would that be all right?

Well, whatever the case may be, he certainly wouldn’t compare her to his mother, she was sure.

A crunch of a branch beneath a boot broke through her musings. Her breath hitched, and she felt him—the man—approaching from behind.

Ah, yes, she was the hungry one!

The moment he cleared his throat, Celia spun toward him, her heart racing. In a single motion, she grabbed his lapels, pulled herself up on the tips of her toes, and pressed her lips to his.

At first, the man stood frozen. She felt his surprise—his shock—before his hands slid around her waist and he yanked her up against him, his tongue demanding entrance past her lips, and she gladly gave it.

But dear Lord!

This was nothing gentle. This was fierce and indeed hungry, as if he, too, had been impatient beyond imagined belief.

All Celia’s senses flared to life, alive in a way she had never experienced before. The absurdly warm night’s air pressing at her skin. The even warmer heat of his chest against hers. The feel of him—the raw strength of his arms around her—that sent fire licking up the back of her spine.

It was all so . . . explosive.

Saints, she even thought she felt the pulse of his heart in the kiss, and in that surreal second, the masquerade could have gone up in glorious fuming flames and she would not have noticed. She could barely recall how she had gotten here, but she was sure she never wanted to leave.

His lips were so, so demanding .

And yet, the kiss—it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was an awakening. Every nerve in her body seemed to burn with sensation.

Her fingers curled into his coat, the fabric smooth beneath her touch, and she pulled herself closer, if that were even possible, as the kiss grew more urgent, another thing that seemed impossible.

She could taste him—warmth and desire—and it left her dizzy.

A branch snapping had them both freezing mid-kiss, lips still locked, eyes shooting open.

She blinked, but before she could make any sense of the situation, the man’s hand on her waist tightened, and without a word, he pulled her behind a dense bed of roses.

Her heart raced, staring at his chest in a daze, but this time it was for a different reason.

Something that felt almost... dangerous.

She didn’t want her first kiss to end in scandal! In ruin.

That would be disastrous.

The man’s hands hadn’t left her waist, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she did a quick check of herself, and she found she was still gripping his arms tightly.

Another snap.

Celia’s glanced through the roses, her eyes widening as a figure stepped out of the darkness. A man. Tall. Commanding presence.

Wait . . .

Wasn’t he . . .?

Her mind reeled. But he looked like... No, it couldn’t be, could it? She blinked, trying to focus, but there was no mistaking it.

But if that man was . . .

Her heart skipped.

Her head whipped up to the man embracing her.

If that was the man she agreed to meet, then who the blazes had she just kissed?

*

Barnaby didn’t know what the deuce was going on.

Against his better judgment, he had followed the beauty into the gardens, where she proceeded to throw herself into his arms, and on the heels of that, she’d kissed him.

Which would be fine, if the hint of horror in her eyes now didn’t indicate she might have kissed the wrong man—which would explain her pouncing.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

He recognized the stupefaction. Recognized the eyes. Recognized the woman. This close, how could he not?

“Celia?” he muttered under his breath.

Her eyes widened even more. “ Barnaby? ” she whispered.

A breath he had forgotten to release spilled from his lungs in a sharp exhale. He placed a finger on her lips, and they both jolted from the contact. He yanked his hand away.

Damn it all to hell.

The reality of the situation didn’t dawn slowly on him. It hit him like a slap to the face.

Celia. His best friend. A woman he had always regarded with the same affection as his... ahem!... as someone he’d never once considered in a light that wasn’t familial.

And she had kissed him.

Kissed him.

But that kiss hadn’t been meant for him. No, it had been meant for the man beyond the roses, waiting with his back against a tree.

Waiting for Celia.

Anger surged in him, hot and raw. What was she doing meeting men in the in the middle of the night in the middle of a very secluded part on their grounds? The question spun in his head, colliding with a dozen more, none of which brought him closer to a sense of reason.

This isn’t your affair.

He clenched his fists. That’s right. He had no right to be angry. He couldn’t very well scold her since he had done the same. When all was said and done, she was free to do as she wished, but that damn kiss—how had it felt so right?

And damn it—ten minutes! The man waited ten whole blasted minutes before he pushed away from the tree and retreated. Ten minutes he stood frozen with Celia in his arms. Ten minutes his mind tortured him with that kiss.

The moment the man disappeared, Celia seemed to snap from her own daze. Her voice was high-pitched with indignation. “Barnaby! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Me?” He shook his head, the turmoil inside refusing to subside. “What on earth are you doing? Kissing—” He immediately cut off at the reminder that they had kissed, his face heating up.

“Yes! Kissing! You kissed me!” She practically shoved her finger through his chest.

His gaze dropped to that finger before snapping back to her eyes. “Do not forget you threw yourself into my arms!” He couldn’t quite hold back the accusation from his voice.

“That’s because I didn’t know it would be you!”

Bloody hell. “So you admit going about kissing other men.”

Her nostrils flared in a show of defiance, though there was a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. “How is that any of your business?”

“How is that any of my business?” He spluttered, the effort to stay detached unraveling entirely. “I’ve known you forever, Celia! I’ve seen you through every ridiculous scheme and every outrageous moment, and now you’ve gone and kissed some random man in the bloody garden?”

She threw her hands up in the air, eyes flashing with frustration. “Well, it wasn’t any random man now, was it? It was you !”

Was that the point? He was random at first, was he not?

She retreated several steps, almost as if retreating from the conversation altogether. “I... I have to go.” Her voice faltered, and she turned sharply, dashing off.

“Wait—” Barnaby started, but it was too late. She had already vanished into the darkness, leaving him standing there, alone, utterly perplexed.

He could still taste her on his lips.

Hell and damnation.

That meant Celia was the vision he had been staring at all along?

His mind had been racing at first, but now it felt as if it stopped altogether. The vision. Celia. Kiss.

What the devil was he supposed to do now?