Page 146

T he night was unbearably hot.

Celia padded over the grass barefoot, dressed in nothing but her chemise, drawn to the shimmering lake.

It should be past midnight, and not a soul stirred anywhere.

The heat was truly exhausting. Perhaps the water would ease the strange restlessness winding through her.

Heat notwithstanding, she would have gone to bed long ago if her mind hadn’t been plagued by Barnaby.

Barnaby, who had spent the entire day glowering at her. Barnaby, who had dragged her away for a conversation that had left her rattled and furious. Barnaby, who had no right to make her feel as if she’d done something wrong .

Brave words, those—“Let us pretend nothing happened.”

She certainly couldn’t.

Celia sighed.

Why did he care whom she flirted with? Why did she care that he cared? It was the heat, surely. The heat that made her skin too sensitive, made her feel too much, made her thoughts wander to places they ought not to go.

A ripple disturbed the surface of the water, and Celia stilled. She wasn’t alone. A figure was emerging from the lake, the moonlight gleaming off the wet planes of a strong body. Both hands swept up over his face, dragging his soaking hair back.

Her breath caught. Barnaby?

His head lifted, and he froze, and the world tilted as their gazes collided.

“Celia?”

Oh, sweet merciful heaven.

The man was as naked as the day he’d been born.

She should turn away. She should flee, run as fast as her legs could carry her, pretend she had never seen what she just saw. But instead, she stood rooted to the spot, her gaze dragging over him in helpless, shameless fascination.

Water streamed down his bare skin and tracing over broad shoulders, a firm chest, the ridges of his abdomen. Her eyes dipped lower— Lord , she was looking lower—and she nearly choked.

Heat burned her cheeks.

Celia spun so quickly she nearly tripped over herself, her hands flying to her face as if she could wipe away the scandalous image now seared into her mind.

“I—I didn’t see anything!” she blurted, her voice high pitched and unconvincing.

A chuckle. Chuckle.

“Why are you laughing?” she snapped.

“Because you’re a terrible liar, Celia. And an obvious one.”

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, even though she wasn’t facing him. “Why in heaven’s name are you swimming naked ?”

He let out a sigh, and she heard the unmistakable sound of water rippling as he moved. “Because it’s too damned hot to sleep. The lake was my only hope of not suffocating. What’s your excuse for being here?”

Celia’s fingers twitched at her sides. She should leave. She should not be standing here, conversing with a naked man —a naked Barnaby —in the dead of night. But her feet remained rooted in place.

“I was hot, too,” she admitted reluctantly. “I thought maybe the air by the lake would be cooler.”

A pause. A rustle. Then, “You can turn around now.”

She hesitated. “Are you decent ?”

“As decent as I’ll ever be.” His voice was laced with amusement.

Celia turned and inhaled sharply. He had dragged on his trousers, but that did nothing to hide anything! The material clung to his legs, clung to that part between his legs.

Her cheeks burned twice as hot.

This sight was no less dangerous! In fact, it might even be more so!

Her throat went dry. This was Barnaby. Her dearest friend. The same man who had once tossed a frog her way and yelled catch . But nothing about this moment felt remotely like childhood. And nothing about him looked remotely friend-like.

He raked a hand through his wet hair, the muscles in his arms flexing. She forced herself to look anywhere but at him. The lake. The trees. The sky. Not the long line of his throat or the water beading on his collarbone or—

“Celia.”

Her gaze snapped back to his. He was watching her too closely, his eyes darker than usual in the low light.

“Yes?” Why did her voice sound so unsteady?

He exhaled visibly. “I owe you an apology.”

That startled her. “An apology?”

He nodded, shifting his weight. “For earlier. For—” He dragged a hand down his face, as if searching for the right words. “For being an arse.”

Her lips twitched in spite of herself, her gaze dropping before snapping up again. She cleared her throat. “You were rather insufferable.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I know.” He hesitated. “I just—I don’t know what’s wrong with me to be honest.”

A strange silence stretched between them.

Celia swallowed.

She could hazard a guess as to what was wrong with him, because it was the same thing that was wrong with her . This unbearable awareness, this pull that had never existed before.

Or perhaps it had. Perhaps she had merely ignored it.

Barnaby sighed. “I hated seeing you so unbothered.”

Un bothered? Oh, she was so bothered, she needed to get into that lake right now! If she didn’t, she might just die!

“Forgive me,” she said.

“For what?” came his baffled question.

But Celia was already heading for the lake.

*

“Celia!” Barnaby hissed at her back, frustration curling through him like wildfire, almost matching the heat of this night.

Damn it! What in the dickens had gotten into her now?

Had she lost her senses entirely? He’d done his best to remove that kiss from his mind—impossible, but he had tried.

For her. For their friendship. He had even apologized, when all he had wanted to do was reach out, cup her face, and just touch her skin.

To make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

She looked so damn breathtaking. Too scandalous by half.

Her hair tumbled to her waist in wild waves, and that thin scrap of material she wore clung to every blessed curve.

And here he stood, a duke reduced to rubble.

His jaw dropped as she waded into the lake like some mystical lake nymph, summoned by some infernal force to test his willpower.

Bloody everlasting hell.

Had she always glowed like this?

The starry midnight clung to her, turning her into something otherworldly.

But somehow she seemed to shine more than the sky itself.

He had known Celia much of his life, had spent countless days in her company, but never—never—had she appeared quite like this.

There was this awareness of her that had never been there before, a shift so subtle and yet so consuming it clawed at the edges of his sanity.

His body was already flushed from the flashes of memory that stoked heat in his blood, but now? Now it burned for an entirely different reason.

His legs moved before he even grasped what the hell he was doing. One moment, he was standing at the water’s edge, and the next, he was striding in after her, bare feet sinking into the soft lakebed, the cool water lapping against his thighs.

Celia stiffened at the sound of his approach, whirling. “What are you doing?” she demanded, voice hushed but laced with shock that made him feel a tiny bit of satisfaction.

“The same as you,” Barnaby said gruffly. “Cooling down.”

Her look sharpened. “Well, go cool down in another spot.”

He should. He would. But his body betrayed his head, drawing him closer to her, caught in a current that rendered him powerless to fight. “Why? We’re friends, are we not? Surely we can do this much.”

Her gaze narrowed. “We’ve never done this much before.”

“There is a first time for everything,” he murmured, his voice low, inching forward. “Besides, what happens if you slip and drown?”

She scoffed. “People who can swim don’t drown that easily.”

Barnaby’s gaze dropped to where the water kissed the swell of her breast, smooth and pale, the starlight playing along the curve. The lake’s surface rippled softly between them, teasing, taunting.

His fingers twitched.

He wanted to touch her.

God help him, he wanted to do more than just touch her.

“Barnaby . . .”

His head snapped up.

Her eyes were on him, an unfathomable depth to their brightness, as if she sensed his sudden desire.

But that would be absurd. Though the thought of it still sent something primal tearing through him.

He inched closer, circling her slowly, and she followed suit, turning with him.

One step. That was all it would take. One step, and she would be flush against him, her curves molded to his body.

Her throat bobbed, and he had the unexplainable, maddening urge to press his mouth right there, to feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against his lips.

“This is foolish,” she said, but there was no force behind it.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” A shaky breath. “We’re friends.”

Friends. The word had never felt so inadequate, so suffocating—like this damn heat.

Whatever was happening between them at the moment, it was not friendship.

Each time he circled her, the distance between them grew smaller.

“Tell me I’m mad, Celia. That this is mad.

Tell me, and I’ll never speak of it again. ”

“I think we are both mad, Barnaby.”

The space between them evaporated, water shifting as he reached up, trailing his fingertips along her jaw, tilting her face toward his. Her lashes fluttered, and he watched, fascinated, as her lips parted on a soft, unsteady inhale.

Had his name always sounded so dangerous on her lips?

Barnaby traced his hands down her arms, his fingers skimming along her wrists under the water. Gooseflesh rippled beneath his touch, but she didn’t pull away. Her skin was warm despite the coolness of the lake, and it struck him—how easily she could undo him.

“Celia,” he rasped. “Tell me to damn well drown myself. Tell me to sink to Hades.” Anything to stop this madness.

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t.

Instead, she lifted her chin, her hands floating up to press against his chest.

He hesitated. A last effort. A battle fought and lost in the space of a heartbeat. Christ. Was this how it felt for a man’s constraint to shatter?

Because his did.

Thoroughly.

He slid his hand around her waist, pulling her against him with a force that sent water splashing around them. She gasped, her body stiffening at the impact before softening, melting into him in a way that left him utterly lost.

His fingers traced the curve of her back, drawing her closer, until there was no space left between them at all.

His mouth hovered over hers, wavering. They would never be able to go back once he crossed this line for good.

She stilled too, and for one excruciating half-second, he thought she might step away, that she might push him back and pretend this—whatever it was—had never happened.

But then—

Her arms circled his neck.

And she surged up onto her toes, pressing her mouth to his.

Ah, dear saints. She kissed him. Again. A groan rumbled in his chest, and then he was kissing her back, fiercely, desperately, as if he had been starving for this moment and had only just realized it.

His hands tangled in her hair, angling her head as he deepened the kiss, tasting her, drinking her in.

There was no more hesitation, no more pretense.

Whatever they had been before—

It was no longer enough.

Not anymore.