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“Marcus Manilius was one of the greatest poets of Ancient Rome.”

Her voice, low and lyrical, held the quiet assurance of a mind well-trained. Aidan’s breath caught. A scholar. A thinker. A woman of intellect and grace.

The folded list in his breast pocket mocked his romantic optimism. Did he truly believe that the heavens would reveal the other half of his soul to be the child of the man responsible for the attack on his sister two weeks earlier?

Yet, how else did one explain this synchronization, this attraction he was feeling for the young lady? He had traveled the realm and the Continent and never encountered such feminine perfection as a divinity who quoted the great minds of the ancient world. How was such a woman unwed? Undesired by the bucks of the ton? Was she surrounded by deaf and blind imbeciles?

If only …

Drawn by forces beyond conscious thought, he stepped to her side. They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, as silent witnesses to the majesty of the night. His subterfuge forgotten, he beheld her as one might venerate a sacred vision, overwhelmed by reverence, by yearning, and by the unbearable ache of possibility.

Gwen was not accustomed to tall, striking gentlemen seeking her out, yet here one stood, mere inches away, his presence a quiet thunder in the hush of night. Perhaps it was the dramatic beauty of the evening that had drawn him forth. Certainly, he could not know that he was standing beside Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe, whose freckles were the bane of her existence and whose mirror offered no illusions of fashionable appeal.

Only moments earlier, she had sent up a silent plea to the stars, wishing she might share a moment like this, only once, with a gentleman who could see her, truly see her. And now, as though the very heavens had listened, he had appeared from the shadows, summoned by poetry and moonlight. Since their peculiar exchange on Astronomica, he had said nothing more, and she dared not speak for fear the enchantment would unravel.

She exhaled softly, accepting this improbable moment for what it was, a fleeting marvel spun from moonbeams and wishes. Clearly, the man believed he stood beside someone else. Likely, in the dim light, he assumed her to be a statuesque brunette with alabaster skin, not the freckled, flame-haired oddity she had always been. Still, she would not correct him. Not yet. Not when this singular moment was the nearest she had ever come to romance.

The fear of ruining the moment had her squeezing the stone beneath her fingers, as she clung to the phantasy that an eligible man wished to share the view with her. She was terrified she would ruin the moment and it would end before she had gathered every sense, every second, that she could before returning to the solitude of her real life.

Not only was he physically impressive, from what she could see from the corner of her eye, but he had perfectly translated the Latin poem and attributed it to the rightful source. He was a true scholar to engage in such a discussion, and for just a fleeting second, Gwen dared to believe that this was the man who her father had promised would appear. She released her cynicism to allow the magic of possibilities to enter her heart.

It is to savor the moment, she told herself. But despite her pragmatic nature, deep in her soul she felt that something unexpected was unfolding.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that his hand had come to rest next to hers. It was the tiniest fraction of an inch away, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his glove to soak into her skin. If she had the courage to move, she could touch him, but she was too afraid it would end their interlude before it had begun. She willed her hand to remain in place.

It was without surprise when she felt his large hand extend to cover hers, and she accepted that she was dreaming this entire encounter. That soon she would awake to find out she had dozed off on the terrace and imagined this entire circumstance but, in the meanwhile, she would bury herself in the dream. If only every slumber included such wonderful happenings.

The man gently tugged at her hand, turning to pull her into his arms ever so slowly as if to give her the opportunity to protest, and Gwen was amazed at the realism of this apparition. She could feel the strength of his arms wrapping around her waist and shoulders, smell the leather of his boots and his freshly laundered linen, as he pulled her against his hard body. Tilting her chin, she watched him lower his head and accepted the press of his lips against hers, sighing in pleasure when she was enveloped in masculinity.

She lifted her arms and let them rest lightly around his neck, not pulling, not pressing … simply being. He drew her a breath closer, her form nestled against the solid warmth of his chest. The sensation made her dizzy, not with fear, but with wonder. Was this what it meant to be wanted? Desired … not as a convenience, not as a social match, but for who she was in this single, sacred instant?

He leaned his head to hers, his cheek brushing hers, and Gwen inhaled sharply as he breathed deeply, just above her temple.

“Citrus …” he murmured, his voice a low, reverent sigh.

The single word sent a ripple down her spine, not because of its boldness but because of its gentleness. It was not lewd. It was admiration. And she basked in it.

The tip of his nose brushed the curve of her ear, and the whisper of his breath made her tremble. Gwen tilted her head slightly, allowing the contact, her skin thrumming with sensation. She did not move farther. She did not have to. The thrill came from being cherished, not consumed.

His hands settled more fully at her back, fingers splayed in a protective gesture rather than one of possession. She felt safe. Seen. The very air between them crackled, not with impropriety, but with the possibility of something precious and real.

Then … a sound.

The distinct creak of a door opening onto the terrace shattered the stillness. They froze.

Gwen’s breath became shallow, her chest rising and falling in a quiet panic. Not from passion, but from dread. They parted slightly, their eyes locked. He shut his eyes briefly, as though in regret, then looked past her shoulder, his body tensing with recognition.

Please let it be her father. Please let it be no one important.

But as his eyes focused, Gwen knew. They had been seen.

Her heart sank like a stone. Her height would give her away, even in shadow. There was no hope of concealment. The single virtue she had maintained in a society that prized female decorum above all else, her reputation, was now imperiled by a single, dreamlike moment beneath the stars.

The stranger stepped forward, positioning himself between her and the direction of the sound. His movement was silent, deliberate. A shield.

Gwen took the opportunity to lift her hand, smoothing her skirts and adjusting her hair with trembling fingers. Her face was warm, not from desire now, but from mortification. Whatever came of this, the consequences would fall squarely upon her shoulders.

He would walk away with only the faintest trace of scandal. She, however, stood on the precipice of social exile.