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Aidan glanced at Gwen. She was biting her lip as she lifted her spoon, clearly doing her utmost to remain composed.

“Chestnut?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “It is Papa’s favorite.”

“And yours?”

“I do not much care for soup,” she admitted.

“What do you care for?”

She looked over at him, the barest smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Fruit. Oranges, especially.”

Aidan suppressed a low breath in his throat, remembering the faint taste of citrus on her lips during their moonlit kiss. The recollection sent a flush of heat through him, sharp and unexpected. He had never known such an immediate and visceral fascination with a woman, not like this. Not the pull of her presence. The memory of her fragrant hair, the way she had looked up at him in surprise and wonder. It lingered.

And soon, they would be married.

The thought stirred something perilous, and he forced his attention back to the moment. Still, the idea of a quiet stroll on the terrace after dinner, where he might steal another kiss and taste her sweetness once more—was hard to resist.

Keeping his voice low, so their parents would not overhear, he leaned slightly toward her. “Was that the scent I breathed that night?”

Gwen flushed instantly, color blooming from her neckline to her cheekbones, momentarily dimming her freckles.

“There is bergamot in my soap,” she murmured.

Aidan inhaled again, savoring the memory and the subtle fragrance now clinging to her skin. “The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise … in such a night …”

She nearly choked on a spoonful of soup, coughing behind her napkin and darting him a reproachful look. Her gaze flicked nervously toward their parents to ensure they hadn’t overheard.

“Shhh,” she hissed under her breath.

Aidan’s grin widened. “Not for a moment, sweet Venus.”

He was no practiced flirt. Yet with Gwen, poetry sprang unbidden to his lips, along with musings far less poetic. He pictured her hair unbound, her fingers twined with his, the warmth of her hand in his. He thought of what it meant to be husband and wife in the truest sense.

With effort, he shook off the vision and grounded himself once more at the table, focusing on the quiet clink of silver and the murmured conversation around him.

“We used to travel north during the summer,” Mr. Smythe was saying, his voice calm, pleasant. “But alas, this year we shall remain in London.”

The comment jarred Aidan from his woolgathering.

There had been a bill of sale for a Yorkshire property among the documents he had reviewed. And now, with Smythe seated before him, this was his chance to learn something.

“Father and I were just discussing the purchase of new property to add to our portfolio. Do you have any suggestions, Mr. Smythe?” Aidan watched the other man carefully as he posed his question. It would be heaven-sent if the man admitted he was purchasing something, thus disproving that he was desperate for funds and canceling him as a suspect from their list.

Smythe hesitated, his eyebrows coming together for just a second before responding. “No, I am afraid not. It has been some time since I dealt with any land purchases.”

Aidan’s heart sank.

And yet he pressed forward, still hoping for a clue.

“Do you intend any significant investments in the near future?”

The question was jarring, causing his father to throw him a cautionary glance. Aidan kept a straight face, but he knew Hugh Abbott was well aware that he was fishing for information.

Frederick Smythe sobered for several seconds, and Aidan silently willed him to admit to something, anything, that would explain the mounting bills of sale. Then, at last, Gwen’s father smiled his familiar easy grin.

“What could I possibly purchase? A gentleman has no need of anything but property!”