“You are as pretty as a fairy-tale princess,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “I’m quite certain that you were just as enchanting at age seven.”

“I actually used to dream of being in a fairy story,” she admitted.

“Vanity, thy name is woman!” Wick said, pulling a strand of her hair.

“Not from vanity. I always pictured a prince who would ride up on a white horse. I’d be there, in the village square, and he would sweep across and wrap his arm around me and pull me before him in the saddle.”

Wick’s eyebrow was up. “That would take quite a bit of skill. The story would be so disappointing if you took a hoof to the head. Was the prince wearing shining armor, by any chance?”

“Naturally,” Philippa confirmed.

“Near impossible,” Wick said. “Scoop a girl”—he pulled back and gave her a quick inspection from head to toe—“who’s no lightweight onto a horse while wearing armor?”

“My prince,” she said loftily, “would have had no problem with the feat. He considered me as light as a feather.” She gave him a look akin to the one he had given her. “That was thanks to his physique, you understand.”

Wick burst out laughing and then stopped suddenly when Jonas fluttered his eyelashes.

“You have no romance in your soul,” Philippa said. She leaned back against the sofa and sighed. “It was only very recently that I realized the fairy story had more to do with escaping Rodney than being carried off by an acrobatic prince.”

Wick leaned over and peered at Jonas. “Fast asleep.”

“I should bring him back to the nursery. I think he sleeps better in his cradle.”

“No, he sleeps better in your lap.” There was a note in his voice that transformed a simple comment into something altogether different.

She could feel her cheeks turning pink. Maybe he would lean over . . . maybe he would kiss her. She could almost feel his lips on hers.

But not quite.

So she stood up, and together, in the darkness, they made their way back to the nursery. Wick stood next to her, watching silently, as she gently tucked Jonas back into his cradle.

When she straightened and turned around, he was there, just before her. His head bent, slowly, and his lips slipped along her cheek. She stayed still, her heart beating in her throat, willing his lips to touch hers.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, low and sweet.

He was looking down at her with velvet dark eyes. He was too beautiful for her, too sophisticated, too princely . . .

“Yes, you should,” she said.

Chapter Six