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“He was so miserable before meeting Kate,” Wick explained.

“Yet he can’t manage without you? Would he not wish the same happiness for you?”

There was another moment of silence. Then he smiled down at her. Philippa suddenly thought she would love to kiss him. She would give him a scandalous kiss, the kind that Rodney had demanded and she hadn’t allowed.

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I want to hear more about Rodney.” She should never—never—have told Wick about Rodney. Somehow, during these nocturnal tête-à-têtes, it was hard to keep secrets, and Wick had already guessed she was running from someone.

“Well . . . he has a tendency to start braying when he’s nervous,” she offered, feeling a wicked delight in betraying her former betrothed.

Wick nodded. “I know the type. I think it goes along with the English ancestry. I expect he hunts, and delights in shouting absurdities like tallyho.”

“I expect so,” she said. She could not help but conjure a mental picture of Rodney sitting on his horse in that red hunting coat that made his buttocks look four times wider than they actually were. Involuntarily, her eyes dropped to Wick’s legs.

They were all muscle, as different from Rodney’s as night from day.

“Are you comparing us?” His voice had gone low and husky.

Her nerves jolted again, but she nodded. She couldn’t lie to Wick any longer, now they were so close. Friends, or perhaps even something more. “You are very different.”

“Perhaps because he’s a baronet’s son.” He didn’t say it bitterly.

“He’s always had everything he wanted, but that doesn’t excuse his fat bottom,” she observed.

“Was he really seven when he fell in love with you?”

“He was nine. I was seven.”

“Astounding,” Wick said, staring at her as if she were some sort of exhibit in a traveling show.

Philippa caught back a smile and tossed her head. “Are you saying, Mr. Berwick, that I was not desirable at age seven?”

“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.