“Is it about what I said to you at the opera? Because if so, I’ll have you know—”

“It’s not about the opera.”

She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “So it’s about my horse, then? I told you, Sultan is—”

“Not for sale. I know.”

She frowned. “Then what’s it about?”

“This.” He drew her toward him.

She leaned away from him, pushing at his shoulders but not hard enough to break his hold. “What are you—?”

He cupped her chin. “You have sugar on your mouth, just here.” She blinked, and before she could react, he bent and licked it away, tasting the sweetness and crunch of the sugar along with a hint of her own female sweetness. The swift streak of heat startled him.

He drew his head back and stared at her. He hadn’t expected this. Sweetness, heat. Hunger.

Her eyes, wide and dark, scanned his face. She looked bewildered, troubled, surprised. And wary, like a vixen scenting a trap.

She’d felt that heat too, he was sure, and didn’t know what to think of it. Her lips were parted. Her breathing hitched—and he knew why it did, because his own pulse was pounding.

She pressed her palms against his waistcoat, holding him off, though not quite pushing him away. “What do you—mmph!”

He bent and kissed her again, softly at first. Her mouth was lush and soft. He eased her lips apart and deepened the kiss, hungry for more of her. Lord, but the taste of her swept through him like wildfire, hotter than before, as if he were already addicted.

She raised her fists—he half expected her to beat him off—but instead they wavered, and after a moment of hesitation she gripped his lapels and clung hard, angling her mouth to fit herself better to him. And pressing her body against his.

She tasted of sweet, hot honey, unexpectedly luscious and somehow wild. And there was anger and surprise and hunger, deep hunger.

By the time he released her he was breathing heavily. Stunned, he stared down at her. He’d thought her attractive, but this . . . His head was spinning. And his body was afire, hard and aching.

She blinked and after a few seconds managed to muster a glare. “H . . . how dare you.” But it was a feeble, half-hearted objection and they both knew it. She tried again. “What do you think you were . . . ?” She faltered, realizing where her question was leading, and that it was to nowhere that would do her any good.

His little termagant was delightfully flustered. He was damnably shaken himself, but determined not to let her see it.

She suddenly noticed where her hands were and released his coat abruptly, then staggered.

He caught her by the waist and steadied her.