Faustina looked serious now rather than exasperated. Serious and beautiful, cheeks flushed pink and eyes sparkling and breasts heaving. The man I hire to put her in the mosaic as Andromeda won’t want to cover her up in blue draperies, Titus found himself thinking. He’ll say it’s a crime to hide those breasts, and I must say he’ll be right.

“I know you’ve known me since I was a child, but I’ve grown up.” Faustina gestured down at herself. “You had to have noticed that when I climbed out of the pool in a dress wet enough to see through!”

Yes, he’d noticed. Faustina rising out of the water all but naked—that image had returned to his mind this year with embarrassing frequency.

“I really think you might have taken the hint, Titus,” Faustina scolded. “If I’d minded you seeing me half naked, I’d have grabbed my cloak a lot faster and I certainly wouldn’t have walked in front of you into the house. Really, what does it take? I’ve been laying a trail for you ever since I was eleven and you told me I’d grow up to be a beauty someday. You liked me before I was beautiful, and I liked you before you inherited your grandfather’s fortune. Doesn’t that put me ahead of all those other girls who just want to get their hands on your money?”

She scuffed one sandal along the plain stone underfoot. “So really, I’m very flattered that you want to put me in a floor. But it’s not the best way you could have repaid me, if you were really feeling thankful.”

“I’m not putting you in a floor,” Titus said, and made a lunge. He got hold of Faustina’s wrist and gave one tremendous yank. She fell into the pool with a shriek and a huge splash, pale-blue silks darkening to turquoise. She surfaced much more gracefully than Titus had, slicking her hair back from her face with both hands. Her lashes made silky spikes about her huge dark eyes, her wet hair gleamed like a gold coin at the bottom of a river, and she looked nothing like Sabina. She looked like herself, like Annia Galeria Faustina, and she was beautiful. He could smell the faintest trace of hyacinth perfume rinsing away with the water. Hyacinth—she must have known it was his favorite flower.

“You should know a few things, if you don’t already,” he told her. “I’m not witty, I’m not brilliant, and I’m certainly not handsome—”

“What are you—”