“Do not cry. I won’t—” He shut his lips. His throat moved as he swallowed. “I will try not to hurt you.”
She made a valiant attempt to smile. Impossible with trembling lips. His gaze tumbled to her mouth.
“Cherry ripe,” he said.
Her mind went blank as he brushed his mouth against hers. The kiss was neither demand nor entreaty, but a solemn promise of comfort and care. This—far more heady than seduction—was devastatingly dear. He pulled back, just enough to touch her jaw.
“Giles,” she breathed.
“Katherine,” he said against her lips, “my hellion. To the devil with scandal.”
Ah, but he did not know of the truth that stood in their way. “You do not know me.”
“I know,” he kissed her again, “enough.”
“A little more time,” she hedged, grasping for her words. “A fortnight, at least.” Yes, a fortnight. She would work up the courage to tell him by then. “If you still want to marry me then, my answer will be yes.”
His smile melted her core.
Very well, then. She had tomorrow to worry. Not just tomorrow, but a fortnight. She let her worries fall away. Right now, she would stand in the rain, soaking up all the sun she required through the heat in his smile.
“Shall we kiss on the agreement?” he asked.
Yes, please. She nodded.
Her bonnet toppled as his hand cupped her neck. She let it fall. She did not care.
His palm was a furnace—his hold swept away the chill. His mouth met hers squarely on the lips, with a deft precision as much promise as potential. A kiss of agreement. A kiss that said, well, then, at last you are mine.
“You will not be sorry,” he whispered against her hair.
“No.” Howcouldshe be sorry? How could shenot? She fancied she felt the earth move. “We—we had better return.”
“Just,” he kissed her temple, “just let me hold you a moment longer.”
The rain wet her unbonneted hair, trickling down in rivulets over her chest. If he held her for a moment longer, her favorite dress, along with the shoe she’d just broken, would be a ruin.
“Yes,” she replied, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Hold me.”
Her dress was already lost—like her shoe, her hat, her virtue, and her sense.
For just this moment, she did not want anything to matter. Not secrets. Not scandal. Not shoes. Not hats. Not dresses. Not pain.
For just this moment, she wanted to imagine Bromton was hers. And for just that moment, he was. Entirely. How did she know?
An intoxicating blend of awe and need gleamed from within his eyes. Not even Septimus had gazed at her that way—as if she was the key to his most cherished desire. A first-rate jewel. A ruby beyond price.
“I am glad you came. I—” She wet her lips. “I want to know you better.”
“So, you shall,” he said. And then, he smiled.
Coming untethered was an indescribable experience. Years of careful planning ensured Katherine had lived on a protected, if barren, plane—in a lightning-fast second, they were undone. Instead, she floated on a sea with distant horizons. And all it had taken was the dimple in Bromton’s right cheek and the light of affection in his eyes.
But was the marquess guiding her to safe harbor, or would he strand her, broken and rudderless?
He bent his head to recapture her lips, tasting of sunshine, even as the rain continued to fall.
Chapter Seven
