She was suddenly aware.

Of his breath, warm across her skin.

Of his eyes, so blue and so magnetically fastened upon her own.

Of his lips, fine, full, and carrying a hint of a smile.

Of him. Simply of him.

She whispered his name.

He cocked his head to the side in question, and she realized she had no idea why she’d beckoned, just that there was something so right about standing here with him, and when he looked at her like that, like he thought she was remarkable, she felt remarkable.

She felt beautiful.

She knew it couldn’t be true, because he’d never thought of her that way. And she didn’t want him to.

Or did she?

She gasped.

“Something wrong?” he murmured.

She shook her head. Everything was wrong.

“Billie?”

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss George. She’d reached the age of three-and-twenty without wanting to even so much as flirt with a gentleman and now she wanted George Rokesby?

Oh, this was wrong. This was very, very wrong. This was panic-inducing, world-flipping, heart-stopping wrong.

“Billie, is something wrong?”

She snapped to attention, then remembered to breathe. “Nothing,” she said, rather too brightly. “Nothing at all.”

But what would he do? How would he react if she marched up to him, grabbed him by the back of his head, and dragged his mouth down to hers?

He’d tell her she was raving mad, that’s what he’d do. To say nothing of the four other Pall Mall players not twenty yards away.

But what if no one else were here? What if the rest of the world fell away, and there was no one to witness her insanity? Would she do it?

And would he kiss her back?

“Billie? Billie?”

She turned, dazed, toward the sound of his voice.

“Billie, what is wrong with you?”

She blinked, bringing his face into focus. He looked concerned. She almost laughed. He ought to be concerned.

“Billie . . .”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Really. It’s . . . ah . . . are you warm?” She fanned herself with her hand. “I’m very warm.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t the least bit warm.

“I think it’s my turn!” she blurted.

She had no idea if it was her turn.

“No,” George said, “Andrew’s still going. I daresay Lady Alexandra is in for trouble.”

“Is she,” she murmured, her thoughts still on her imaginary kiss.

“Damn it, Billie, now I know something is wrong.” He scowled. “I thought you wanted to crush her.”

“I do,” she said, slowly regaining possession of her brain. Dear heavens, she could not let herself get so discomfited. George wasn’t stupid. If she descended into idiocy every time he looked at her he was going to realize that something was amiss. And if he realized that she might possibly be just a little bit infatuated . . .

No. He could never know.

“Your turn, Billie!” Andrew bellowed.

“Right,” she said. “Right, right, right.” She looked over at George without actually looking at him. “Excuse me.” She hurried over to her ball, gave the field a cursory examination, and whacked it toward the next wicket.