Why should she pull away when they fit together like gored stockings fit to calves? He may be too good to be real, but he was solid. His chest was so wide, his shoulders so broad, she could almost believe he was capable of blocking out theton’scruelest cynic.
Of wrestling her fate for a win.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No.” She would be, though.
Her chance to turn away had vanished, though Bromton was too expensive to keep. His cost? Her secrets. She’d have to tell him. She’d have to say the words.
I am not a virgin.
Then, all his unexpressed wonder, his compacted hope, his laughter, and his warmth would dissipate, too. And, as with every past mistake, she would have only herself to blame.
What terrible pride had kept her from running him off with the truth at the start? She hadn’t needed theatrics and mobcaps, not when her past held more than enough shame to chase him away.
The dismal realization was too thorny to bear. She’d not told him the truth because she’d wanted him. She’d wantedthis—whateverthiswas. She had better rein in her sense.
“I apologize,” she said. “I—I tripped.”
Instead of letting her go, he tightened his hold. She exhaled, her breath making a little indentation in his shirt.
Oh, why did men go about slathered in coats and useless trimmings? If it were not for his coat and waistcoat, she would be able to press her ear against his chest—skin to skin. She would, right now, be slathered in his heat, comforted by his muscle.
She was ravenous, she realized, and her hunger was all for him.
One of his hands strapped her close, the other lifted her chin. She was not sure if the wetness on her face was rain or tears.
She whimpered from the back of her throat.
She could write poems adulating the color of his eyes, but she could not say for certain if the rain had grown harder or had stopped.
If a storm raged about them, Bromton did not care.
“Bromton?” She rolled the syllables of his title over her tongue. Not because she had a question but because she wanted to say his name.
His groan vibrated in his chest.
“Not Bromton,” his voice cracked. “Giles.”
He spoke his Christian name as if he brandished a sword. His expression would have brought her to her knees had she not been safely clasped. For reasons she did not understand, his true name on her lips was a gift he craved.
She closed her eyes. “Giles.”
He inhaled, swift and sharp. “Lookat me and say my name.”
Emotions too complex to name built up against a dam in her throat. He ran the back of his finger down her cheek—a reverent touch at odds with the ferocity in his tone.
She was too afraid to comply.
“Please,” he begged.
He crammed a lifetime into the single syllable—and the resonation sounded like pain. Slowly, she lifted her lids. His gaze was scalding brimstone—tumult she instinctively wished to ease.
“Giles,” she whispered.
The rain began to pound. The muscles in his cheeks flattened into fierce, possessive planes, and their hearts conversed in a language she couldn’t begin to decipher.
Her raw, unkept emotions, the dark imaginings brought to life only at the sound of a three a.m. chime, reflected in his face. But there was something else there, too. A recognition. You are me. I am you.Belonging. The word was a candle to light the way. New wetness gathered in her eyes.
