Moonlight filtered through lacy tree branches, pouring molten silver onto the veranda just off the ballroom, and the soft air was spiced with the fragrance of night-blooming flowers. A huge urn at one side dripped soft white blossoms that reminded him of moonflowers, a tropical vine in Mexico that exuded sweet scent and exotic blooms, round and lucent—pale as the moon, as beautifully intense as Mexico.

“You’re ready to leave here now, aren’t you, Steve?”

He looked down at Ginny, saw the frown gather in her eyes and on her brow. She was far too perceptive at times. He put out a hand, his finger brushing over the gleaming jewels around her neck, vivid against the creamy expanse of her skin. Once her pale skin had been a lovely peachy color, a vibrant tan acquired from days of riding in the hot Mexican sun. His hand fell away and his tone was abrupt.

“You should know something, Ginny.”

She tensed beneath his hand, eyes suddenly dark and wide.

“Oh God! You’re not going to tell me bad news tonight, Steve, when the music is so gay and the champagne chilled. I am having too good a time and I refuse to allow it.”

Despite her flippant words, there was a note of genuine distress in her tone. For all her bravado, Ginny was far too fragile lately. The resilient woman he’d known—had battled across half of Mexico at times—had changed since she’d come back to England for her children. Since they had agreed to reconcile. But hadn’t he changed, too?

He forced a smile, dragged his fingertip across the lushly glowing necklace around her throat, up to the heavy earrings dangling from her lobes.

“Ah, hell, sweetheart, you know I just want to tell you how the moonlight makes your eyes glow like stars….”

“Liar.” A soft laugh vibrated in the air between them, and she wore a resigned expression on her lovely face. “I know you better than that. You once told me not to expect pretty words in the moonlight from you.”

“And I haven’t disappointed you.”

“No, there have been few pretty words from you, that’s true.” She moved to lean against the stone wall, a graceful drape of her body that reminded him of the Alma-Tadema painting. In the pale light, her eyes looked huge, darkly mysterious, bewitching. “You hate it here, don’t you, Steve? Don’t bother denying it. I can see how restless you are, can feel it in the way you hold me. Is it here or is it us?”

“London can be stifling at times.”

It was the truth—and a lie. The city bound him, tied him down, but the restlessness came from being forced into a role he didn’t relish playing.