“I find it difficult indeed to believe you are onlypassablytalented at anything.”
His belief in her abilities filled her with warmth. She grinned at him, some of the heaviness of their earlier conversation, some of the desperation of the moment, forgotten.
“I assure you that I am only passably talented at singing.”
“Your voice is beautiful.”
Her smile widened. “Ever the charmer, Mr. Carstairs.”
“I tell the truth. That is all.”
“Hmm.” They had reached the exit to the maze now, and the path leading to the rose garden beckoned just ahead. “If you insist, sir.”
“I do.”
“Then you must also accept the truth from me,” she continued, leaning into his side in a teasing fashion. The gesture proved a mistake when his warmth seared her and a bolt of lust went crashing over her. But she reminded herself that she had not brought him to the rose gardens to have her way with him, tempting though the notion may be. “I am indeed only passably talented at sketching and singing. I am moderately talented at playing the harp. I am decidedlyuntalented at embroidery and crocheting. I am abysmal at speaking French and conjugating Latin verbs. I make a cake of myself whenever I dance…”
“I refuse to believe you are anything other than the most elegant of dancers.”
She laughed. “Dance with me and I shall prove you wrong. Your feet will be weeping with the mistake you have made.”
“Never. You are light as a bird and every bit as dainty. Graceful, too.”
He certainly carried her about as if she were. But he also possessed an unusually muscled form. His strength surprised and titillated. She had never known a man who could lift her about with such ease. Nor one who showed her such sweet, seductive tenderness.
“I should hardly think so, sir, but if you wish to claim otherwise, for the sake of my ego, I shan’t dissuade you.”
“Tilly.”
There was an urgency in his voice that stopped her where she stood. “Robin?”
For a moment, a frown creased his forehead. Or, at least, she thought it did. It was gone so quickly she may have imagined it. “I want to tell you something.”
The way he said the words—the ominous portent in them—had her stiffening. Had her fearing. Had she not known this idyll between them was too rare, too good, too perfect to last?
Had he changed his mind already?
Please God, do not let him leave me so soon, she found herself praying.Not now. Not yet.
Not ever.
“What can it be?” she asked.
“I am falling in love with you.”
She blinked. Her knees trembled. For the beat of a heart, she feared she would swoon. Or that she had misheard.
She blinked some more. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am falling in love with you, Tilly. This is not what I expected.Youare not what I expected. But I cannot deny this feeling within me any longer,” he elaborated. “I tell myself there can be no future between us. I tell myself we have only known one another for a short duration of time. I tell myself it makes no sense, that I am wrong, that my feelings are confused. And yet, when I close my eyes before I go to sleep at night, you are all I see. You are all I want. All I long for. You make me feel…”
His words trailed off, but he did not need to say anything else. Her heart was racing, flying, galloping.
She threw herself at him, wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his throat as tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Robin, I feel the same.”
The rest of what she may have said was a question, but it was also one she had no wish to ask.
What shall we do?
