Andy closed his eyes like she'd sung it. "You know," he said after a beat, "no one's ever said that to me before. They want me to be the fantasy. Not share it."

  She laughed softly. "Mmm, it's not the same if it's not shared."

  Andy opened his eyes, that grin of his making a slow return. "And yours involves an absurdly dramatic man in silk and linen who reads you smut over breakfast?"

  "Among other things," she said with a pointed glance at his shirt collar and cravat. "But yes. I like my men a little theatrical, a lot tattooed, extremely kind, and willing to watch strange documentaries with me while I grind for gear in a dungeon crawler."

  "Perfect," he said with mock gravity. "Because I like my women gorgeous, brilliant, entirely unimpressed with my titles, and prone to stealing my muffins."

  "I did not steal your muffin!"

  He gasped in mock outrage. "You bit it! That's theft in at least three countries."

  Summer nestled against Andy's side, her fingers tracing idle shapes over the brocade lapel of his ridiculous Regency waistcoat. Her head rested just below his collarbone, where the steady rhythm of his heartbeat was easy to hear.

  After a long moment of quiet, she murmured, "I never thought I'd be someone's fantasy."

  Andy tilted his head to look down at her, a smile flickering on his lips. "You thought wrong."

  She laughed a little, but there was something raw under it. "No, I mean... I always figured I'd be the good friend. The cosy one, or maybe the weird adopted aunt. The background character. Not the person someone dreams about. Not the kind of woman who'd have a man in full Regency drag serve her breakfast and read novels to her."

  "You've clearly never seen yourself," Andy said.

  She brushed that off with a little shrug. "I'm just really happy. That you see me this way. That I'm your fantasy. Even if I didn't expect that. But... you should know something."

  Andy's fingers stilled where they'd been brushing her arm. "Yes?"

  "You don't have to be anything to be mine," she said, voice low but firm. "Not in velvet, not with a persona, not making an entrance at a gala or lighting candles like it's a movie. Just you. Messy-haired, popcorn-throwing, documentary-loving you. That's what does it. That's what fulfils my fantasy."

  Andy's breath caught slightly. Not dramatically — but enough that Summer felt the subtle shift in his chest beneath her cheek.

  "That's why you are mine," he said softly. "Because you see me. All the parts no one else asks for. You're not a character in someone else's story, Summer. You're the main one. You always were. You just... hadn't met the reader who got it yet."

  Summer looked up at him, blinking.

  Then Andy whispered, with that smile that always slid sideways before it broke wide, "Besides, you're devastating in silk chiffon."

  Summer snorted and buried her face against his chest again, laughing. "You're hopeless."

  "And hopelessly yours," he said.

  Andy let the silence linger a moment longer, his arms wrapped loosely around Summer as if he couldn't quite believe she was real. Then, slowly, with theatrical solemnity, there was a subtle shift in his posture — a change in the way his hand slid down her back, the angle of his chin, the slight straightening of his shoulders.

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  Summer pulled back just enough to glance up at him. His lips curved into a knowing, elegant smirk that felt like it belonged on a candlelit balcony, not in rumpled sheets under the morning sun.

  "I must apologize," he said, his voice deeper, silkier now — drawling with aristocratic affectation as he tucked a finger under her chin. "I had momentarily forgotten my station."

  "Oh no," Summer breathed, grinning. "He's back."

  Andy nodded solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Lord Andrew Ashbourne, at your service. And, if I may be so bold, my lady, I am at present most deeply concerned."

  "Concerned?" she echoed, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

  He held up an elegant hand with the flair of someone who had been born to play roles. "You've issued a challenge to my honour. I will not — nay, cannot — stand for it."

  She laughed outright as he sat up carefully, back straightening, every movement suddenly imbued with the exaggerated grace of a nobleman returned to duty. His tousled hair still looked utterly modern, but something about the shift in posture, the glint in his eyes, made him entirely believable as a titled rogue in some high-ceilinged estate.

  Andy gave her a look of perfect scandalized affection. "To think you assumed I'd neglect the full weight of your romantic ideals. Do you not see this waistcoat? This cravat? My lady, I have read excerpts of sensual novels aloud before noon. I have caught popcorn in midair. I have, against all odds, maintained my dignity through both."

  "You never had any dignity to begin with," Summer teased, eyes dancing.

  "Nonsense," he intoned. "And yet, I forgive you. For your beauty clouds your judgment." He took her hand, lifting it to his lips, the kiss feather-light against her skin. "Say but the word, and I shall summon a horse-drawn carriage, seduce you in a conservatory, and scandalize the entire ton by proposing marriage at a ball hosted by your sworn enemy."

  Summer grinned, biting her lip to keep from laughing. "Tempting. Very tempting."

  Andy leaned in closer, expression softening under the swagger. "You get to have it all, Summer. Because it's your fantasy. And I'm yours."

  She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw. "You already are."

  "My lady." He bowed his head, the most reverent of gestures, and whispered: "Then command me."

  She giggled, tugging lightly on his cravat. "Well. Lord Ashbourne. I think it's time you got scandalously improper with your betrothed."

  "As you wish." Andy's smile curled wicked and rakish, a rogue's promise woven in silk and mischief. "I do hope you know what you've unleashed, Lady Summer."

  He rose from the bed with theatrical flourish, taking a measured step back so she could see the full effect of his ensemble — crisp breeches, a fitted waistcoat, the open line of a coat tailored to frame his lean frame like something off a Regency book cover. But his eyes, dark and burning, were all Andy beneath the illusion.

  He extended his hand. "Come here."

  She raised an eyebrow, still lounging in bed, the blankets slipping low across her hips. "You're giving commands now?"

  "In character," he said loftily, then dropped his voice again. "But in truth... I just want to touch you again. Slowly. Like I have all morning."

  That did it. She took his hand, letting him draw her up from the bed, his fingers lingering a second too long at her wrist. He led her to the centre of the room as though it were a ballroom and not his apartment, and then, still holding her hand, lifted it once more and spun her under his arm, just once, just enough to make her laugh breathlessly.

  Then he stepped in close, chest brushing hers, lips hovering just shy of her ear.

  "You realize," he whispered, "I've been imagining this all morning. You, in that bed. My coat sliding from my shoulders. Your hands on my skin instead of the silk."

  Her breath hitched.

  "But that wasn't quite scandalous enough, was it?" Andy drawled, pressing a kiss just beneath her jaw. "No. The lady wanted impropriety."

  He eased her backward, step by step, until her knees hit the edge of the bed again.

  Andy followed her down, not hurried, not rushed — this was his stage, and she was the only audience he would ever care to enchant. His mouth grazed her collarbone, his hands slipping beneath the hem of the sleep shirt she wore. "We'll ruin the sheets," he whispered. "Good. Let them whisper about it for seasons to come."

  Summer was half-laughing, half-shivering, tangled between affection and want. "L-lord Andrew — "

  "No titles now," he murmured, voice dipping to something low and reverent. "Not unless you're going to moan them."

  He kissed her again, slow and deep, until all that clever wit dissolved into breathless sighs, until her hands were sliding the coat from his shoulders just as he'd imagined.

  Improper?

  They redefined it — gasp by gasp, kiss by kiss, until the fantasy spilled over into something wholly theirs: unhurried, unrushed, deliciously wicked, and wrapped in the kind of intimacy no masquerade could ever fake.