He smiled up at her, squinting against the sun, and reached out a hand. Before she knew what happened Imogen was lying next to him, feeling the heat of sun-warmed earth at her shoulder blades, and a tingling feeling in her hand.

She stared up at the sky, trying not to think about the long fingers curling around hers. Baby clouds were float-ing high up, looking as pale and ephemeral as the thistledown blowing into the Maitland courtyard. Before she knew what was happening, the tears that she'd ordered away in Draven's bedchamber came sliding from her eyes. She closed them against the sun, at the same moment Rafe pulled her against his shoulder.

There weren't so many tears. Only a few, shed for that final good-bye to Draven, good-bye to the gaudy embroidered waistcoats he loved, good-bye to his loving, testy mama, good-bye to all the adoration she'd devoted to their marriage and to him, starting years before he even noticed she existed.

Rafe didn't say a word, just let her huddle into the warmth of his shoulder.

When she sat up, he handed her a large white handkerchief, rather threadworn, like everything Rafe owned. It made her smile.

"Draven would never have contemplated carrying something this old," she told him.

"I don't see any holes in it," Rafe said, lazy amusement in his voice.

"When we eloped, he brought four waistcoats with him. But because he wasn't bringing his valet, naturally—"

"So one doesn't bring a valet along on an elopement? That's a good rule to know."

She tapped him on the chin with a yellow daisy. "You have no need for such rules. But in fact, if you ever elope, do not bring your valet."

"Trevick would expire from shock if I invited him to accompany me anywhere," Rafe said, with the enjoy-ment of a man who hadn't paid much attention to his valet in years.

His eyes were half-lidded now, as they used to be when he was drinking. Her stomach felt hot and muddled, so Imogen said, lightly, "Draven brought four waistcoats, but he forgot to bring enough shirts to change in the evening. He became very annoyed after a few days."

"I am making notes. When contemplating an elopement, bring sufficient shirts. How many? Three a day?"

"One for riding, a second for dinner." She bobbled the daisy against his chin again. "A third for evening."

"Do you suppose that you'll ever stop mourning Draven?" he asked, not looking at her.

"Yes," she said, feeling a bit of heartbreak at the sound of her own voice. "Because, you see, I cry now for what our marriage wasn't as much as what it was."

"And what wasn't it?"

"It was my marriage," Imogen said, dropping the daisy and wrapping her arms around her knees. "It was all mine."

There was silence.

"Do you understand what I mean?" she asked.

"I frequently don't understand when women complain about their marriages," Rafe said. "I never understood my mother, for instance, although I admit that Gabe's existence gives me a great deal more sympathy for her."

"Draven and I only married because I loved him," Imogen said. "It's humiliating."

"Life has a way of routinely humiliating us," Rafe said. "A passion for whiskey gave me many opportunities to experience it."

Imogen smiled a little at that. "When I think back, I can't remember anything between myself and Draven except my feelings for him. He didn't truly wish to marry me. We didn't talk about anything serious, and"—she swallowed—"I don't think our intimacies were enjoyable for either of us."

He reached out and took her hand without saying anything, and they just sat for a while. A blue-winged dragonfly skated over the flowers. Rafe's jaw was strong and as chiseled as his cheekbones. A shadow of beard gave him a rakish look… as if he were drinking.

But he wasn't. Those very things that had pointed directly to his moral rot, back when she used to watch him empty his glass over and over, now made her feel utterly different.

"Your brother is always clean-shaven," she said suddenly.

"If he shares my beard, he must retreat to his room to shave during the day."

"And you don't?"

"Sometimes before the evening meal. It's tiresome, allowing someone to drag a sharp steel across your face."

"Does a beard start growing immediately?" Imogen said.

"It's the family curse," Rafe said, closing his eyes. "We're a hairy, fertile lot."

The sun was hot on the back of her neck now. She picked a stalk of chicory, its petals tightly closed against the sun, and tapped it against his lower lip. His lip had an immoral curve to it. She twirled the chicory thoughtfully.

Then he turned his head slightly and opened his eyes again. It was immensely improper for her to brush the flower against his mouth. What on earth had she been thinking? He was grinning. Everything in that wicked grin was in his eyes as well: desire, mockery, and something she hardly dared guess about.

"Why is that flower unlike a woman?" he asked.

"I have no idea."

"Because chicory opens in the morning and shuts most close at night. As I'm sure you know, wenches do the contrary."

She dropped the flower as if it burned her hand, but his laughter made her giggle too. She couldn't look away, and then he reached out, slowly, giving her time to leap to her feet and declare in a flustered kind of way that it was time they returned to the house. Because Josie was there. Or any other excuse.

Except she didn't jump to her feet, but sat there staring into his eyes. It was just Rafe, her guardian, her drunken old guardian, her—

He pulled her closer, the amusement in his eyes warring with something else, something she'd never seen on Rafe's face before.

"What—" she asked breathlessly.

"This," he said. And he pulled her so that she toppled over on top of him. She fell flat onto his hips, and he brushed his mouth against hers.

Imogen caught herself opening her mouth. Of course, Rafe wouldn't think that she was a candidate for those hot, hungry kisses of his brother—Gabe!—what was she doing—

He brushed his mouth against hers again, and her mind blurred.

"I think I've forgotten how to kiss," he said, sounding thoughtful.

She gaped at him.

"You've had much more experience than I've had in the last ten years."

"Do you mean that you haven't kissed a woman in ten years?" Imogen could feel her eyes getting rounder.

"No, I don't mean that."

"Oh."

"I haven't kissed any ladies in ten years."

Imogen's eyes narrowed. Perhaps Cristobel had sung in Silchester before.

"Now you," Rafe continued lazily, "you have kissed any number of people. So perhaps you could put me back into the spirit of it, so to speak."

She just stared at him.

Rafe sighed. "Luckily, I begin to remember." Large hands cupped her head and pulled her face down to his.

It wasn't like kissing Gabe. That was an assault: a hot, hungry pursuit of her mouth. This was a Rafe-like kiss: brushing her lips so lightly that she shouldn't have even noticed. Certainly she shouldn't have felt all her senses spring to life, so that suddenly every inch of her skin was aware of the hard body under hers, of its ridges and curves, of the power of the hands cradling her face.