“John. Strange that not even my name rings with any resonance.”

Her gaze flickered, her brown eyes uncertain, though she spoke with authority. “You hit your head rather hard.”

“Did I?” He rested his hand on the rail beside her, uncertain as to what emotion he felt foremost…Irritation. Frustration. Amusement. He stopped. He was amused. This little wren had decided she needed him—Chase St. John, scion of one of the most powerful houses in England—for her plots and toils. And he’d willingly succumbed, wearing the mantle of sheep farmer and whatever else she required.

Worse, he had the irritating suspicion that even if she knew who he was, she wouldn’t care. All she wanted was a man, any man available, to play the part her family had assigned.

What truly amused him was that she stood before him, met his gaze as calmly as a statue, and lied through her teeth as if born to such low deeds when in fact she was so filled with goodness and purity that she almost shone with it.

She slid a glance at him, then away. “Perhaps your memory is returning. You certainly remember how to waltz.”

He smiled. “Yes I do.”

She caught his gaze and, to his amazement, a smile quivered on her lips, then broke through like sunshine piercing a cloud on a rainy day.

Chase was entranced. She had a beautiful mouth. White and even teeth, perfectly set off by a pair of plump, moist lips that were the fresh pink of a new rose. Strange how he’d never noticed that before. Perhaps the plain brown wren wasn’t a wren after all, but a juicy robin. “You know,” he said slowly, moving even closer, “I think I do remember this…”

“What?” she said, her low voice suddenly breathless.

He slid his fingertips across her cheek. “I remember touching you.”

“How could—you never—we never—”

“But we must have. I think…no, I’m certain that I remember it well.”

She eyed him suspiciously. Chase had to hide a sudden inclination to grin. She was all fire and brimstone, starch and oversewn ruffles.

“You cannot remember any of that,” she finally said. “It did not happen.”

“Didn’t it?” He leaned forward, his breath fanning her cheek, sending a ripple of heat down her spine. “I remember this…and more.”

Harriet swallowed. Dear God, he was going to kiss her, she could see it in his eyes, feel the rapid thud of her own heart. “You are mistaken if you think you remember kissing me.”

“I would never forget a woman like you.”

A pang of wistfulness hit Harriet squarely in the heart. Every woman wanted to hear those words. Every woman wanted to feel special, to be thought of as unique. It was a pity then, that common logic forced her to argue. “But you did forget me. And when you leave, you will forget me again.”

The words stung as she said them, but she refused to betray herself.

This was a most inappropriate conversation. They really shouldn’t be talking about such things as kisses even though the memory of their previous embrace still had the power to send an illicit shiver through her body.