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I kissed Barnaby.

Barnaby Westbrook!

How could she have made such an utter mistake?

Celia leaned back on her arms on her blanket beside the lake, watching people frolic about in the light of a new day and wishing the earth would swallow her whole.

She wished she could be as carefree as the couples rowing, or the older dames playing lawn bowling, or even like the groups of ladies, who like her, were seated on blankets, enjoying a picnic.

Only, she was alone.

And not enjoying a picnic.

Her companion was a single thought.

I kissed Barnaby Westbook.

And the kiss and been intoxicating! Supremely mesmerizing. Yet the moment she put a face to those lips...

Urgh!

She just couldn’t! She couldn’t have such thoughts about the man! If she did, what would happen to their friendship? They had been friends for years, and the idea of romantic involvement, no, even just a mere kiss—anything intimate—was absolutely foreign to her! Would this ruin their friendship?

Celia absolutely didn’t want that, which was why she had avoided him all morning. She needed to gather her wits which were presently scattered all over the lawn and rose bushes.

And saints, why was it so hot? Would the heat ever relent? She could do with some cold, icy rain right about now. She needed to cool off. Her brain needed to cool off. Hell, her memory needed to cool off!

A shadow fell over her and Celia looked up and blinked.

Tall. Commanding. All too familiar.

She felt it in her bones even though she didn’t have any evidence. This was the stranger from last night.

“Lady Celia,” he greeted.

“I am she,” Celia murmured. “And you are Mr. Mysterious.”

“Nothing as thrilling as that. Just Knoxley, or Knox if you wish.”

The Marquess of Knoxley. She’d heard about him in passing. A man of rather questionable reputation.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.

“No, of course not.”

He lowered down beside her. “The heat is quite bothersome, is it not?”

“Quite,” Celia replied. “What brings you to this humble country party?”

“Boredom.”

Celia chuckled. “I see. You are not friends with the duke, though.”

“No, but I am attending with a friend whose sister dragged him here. I keep questioning my intelligence.”

“Ah, boredom, indeed.”

She smiled. The marquess was pleasant enough, but he couldn’t have been more distant from her thoughts, which kept returning to Barnaby. Her gaze flickered across the garden, and then—there he was.

The man who had tilted her world.

Her best friend.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms that caught the sun in the most tantalizing way.

His shirt clung to his chest, his breeches fitting so well, so tight , that her breath caught.

And his boots—she could’ve sworn they looked more dangerous than any boots had the right to.

He bent to help drag a boat from the lake, and her gaze shifted down to his—

Celia!

Were you really just about to stare at the man’s buttocks! Your friend’s buttocks.

And she wasn’t the only one ogling, as a quick glance at the picnickers told her.

Wait, I’m not ogling!

She was merely observing. Yes, that’s right, observing. Her best friend, who could be nothing more than that. Ever.

He glanced over and their gazes locked.

Her pulse raced, and the next second, a wave of heat swept over her, even more intense than the summer sun. It was no longer just the air that was sweltering—it was him.

A throat cleared, and she snapped her gaze away, only to meet the eyes of the marquess.

A knowing smile played on his lips. “Would you like me to fan you?”

“I beg your pardon? Do what?”

Knoxley leaned slightly closer, his smile growing wider, eyes sparking with what she could only call naughtiness. “Fan you. You look positively overheated, Lady Celia. A fan would do wonders, don’t you think?”

This rogue! Had she noticed her staring at Barnaby? Urgh. Of course this perceptive scoundrel had.

Celia bit her lip.

She didn’t know why, but the idea of the fan suddenly seemed like the perfect escape from the overwhelming heat inside her.

And... maybe, just maybe, it would help distract her from the thoughts about Barnaby that kept pushing their way to the front of her mind.

“Fine,” she said. She might as well claim another moment of brazenness. “A fan. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

The man looked pleased as punch. “Excellent choice. Allow me.” He reached for a fan tucked beside him and opened it like he’d handled one all his life.

Celia couldn’t help but laugh. “How very dramatic.”

He grinned. “For you, Lady Celia, only the finest theatrics will do.”

The man really started to fan her face with slow strokes, and the breeze that followed seemed to clear some of the heat that had been building inside her—both from the summer air and from the tension that had been lingering between her and Barnaby.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the fan’s motion settle her thoughts.

What would Barnaby think?

No! What did it matter? This was her choice.

It was time to face it, however. Something had gone terribly wrong with her brain.

*

What the blazes was she doing now?

Barnaby’s eyes remained fixed on the scene across the lawn as he helped the couple drag the boat ashore.

Being fanned by a man like that? And just who was he?

The Marquess of Knoxley? Bloody absurd, if you asked him.

What was this? A scene from some strange play?

This would be the same man she wanted to kiss last night, wouldn’t it?

Otherwise, it would be too much of a coincidence.

Plus, Knoxley fit the picture of the one from last night.

Was he the suitor she had chosen?

The man was no good for Celia. No good at all.

He turned his attention forcibly back to the boat, but he couldn’t quite shake the image of Celia sitting there being fanned, looking—what?

Relaxed? Unbothered? Maybe, but that smile on her lips?

It made his gut tighten. What was going on in that damned head of hers?

So many damn questions.

Barnaby bit back a growl. It didn’t matter. It was her life. He wasn’t her guardian, her protector, or her keeper. He wasn’t entitled to feel this tightening in his chest. Or gut. Or wherever it was.

Yet, as the boat finally slid into place on the grass, restlessness stirred within him. What was wrong with him? Because something was irrefutably wrong. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about Celia.

The thought didn’t sit right with him. Nothing sat right with him.

Did she always look so damn bright?

He tossed the oar to the ground. Confound it! This couldn’t continue. He needed to talk to her.

Barnaby left the perplexed couple behind and marched over to Celia and the marquess, his eyes narrowing on this pretty little scene.

“Knoxley,” he nodded, then turned to Celia. “Might I have a word with you?”

She blinked up at him, lips parting. Such sweet, luscious lips.

No, damn it!

Barnaby shook his head. Get your thoughts out of the sewers, man. This was Celia. His closest friend. The only woman to whom he could truly speak. He would not have their friendship dashed by one impulsive moment. A mistake.

“Frosthaven,” Knoxley greeted lazily.

Barnaby didn’t say anything more to the man, only arched a brow at Celia.

“Of course.” She rose to her feet. “If you could excuse us just for a moment, my lord.”

Barnaby led her to a spot of shade beside the lake, and for a moment, words failed him.

She was just... The way the light played with her hair, the golden strands catching the sun in such a way that it seemed almost deliberate.

And her eyes—they weren’t just green as always, they were alive, sparkling with something he couldn’t quite identify. Something he hadn’t noticed before.

“What the devil are you doing?” The question burst out before he could put a harness on his tongue.

Her eyes instantly narrowed. “What do you mean what the devil am I doing?”

“You, allowing Knoxley to fan you like some... some... I don’t know, like some damn fop. Or something.”

“He was helping me cool down.”

Cool down. Laughable. “From where I was standing, the scene looked rather heated to me! Have you no sense of shame?”

“Sense of shame? What precisely are you implying by that, Barnaby?”

“Are you accepting him as your suitor?”

“Does that matter?”

Of course it did. “It matters if he is fanning you like that.” He took a step closer to her, dropping his voice. “He is the man from last night, correct? The one you meant to kiss. Is that what’s happening here? Are you going to lead him into the garden tonight?”

“Barnaby!”

He clamped his mouth shut, cursing inwardly. He might have gone too far. No, he had gone too far. He didn’t know what the deuce had gotten into him.

Barnaby stood there, breathing heavily, his breath catching in his chest, as Celia’s shocked expression melted into something colder. She crossed her arms, her brow furrowing in that way she always did when she was affronted.

And these damn bugs. He swatted at them.

“Do you truly think so little of me?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Do you honestly think I would lead a man into the gardens like some seductress with no shame?”

“I—” He swallowed. The situation was spiraling out of control in a way that was maddening.

He hadn’t meant to snap at her like that, hadn’t meant to make it sound as though he doubted her.

But that man , Knoxley, with his damn fan, and Celia sitting there with that smile on her lips—he couldn’t stand it.

“Why are you acting this way, Barnaby?” Her question hung in the air, and the bluntness of it stung. “This is very much unlike you.”

She was right, damn it. This was very much unlike him. But after last night... it all felt different. She was different. He was different. The entire situation was different.

“I don’t know,” he muttered in a low voice. “But you don’t have to act so carefree about everything. About him.”

She was staring at him, her lips slightly parted, and he couldn’t tell whether she was angry or confused. Maybe both. “This is because the kiss.”

Yes. No. Maybe.

Yes.

“I think the best we can do is to pretend it never happened,” she said bluntly.

“Pretend it never happened,” Barnaby repeated dumbly. How in damnation was he supposed to do that?

“I think we can both agree that it was a mistake. So yes, let us forget about it entirely. Can you do that?”

What else could he reply but, “Very well.”

She nodded, then turned on her heel, leaving him standing there, staring after her, feeling more lost and annoyed than ever. She wanted him to forget? Fine then, he would find a way to forget. He would forget every single damn thing.