Her heart clenched, and she wanted nothing more than to set fire to the chains of his restraint. Let him burn. Let them both burn.
His breath was coming too fast. “Tell me you hate me.”
There was no room for truth between them; she tilted her chin to his and gave herself to the inevitable. “I hate you,” she said, and he finally kissed her.
From the moment Henry had met Louisa, she had awakened something in him that could not be put to sleep. He had destroyed them both a thousand times over, but this felt like redemption. A chance to start anew.
As her mouth claimed his, every reason he had to keep his distance from her turned to ash.
Chapter Eighteen
THE PAST
September 1804
By the end of the week-long house party, Louisa had changed her mind. For the entirety of her first Season, she had resolved to marry no gentleman who would not support or encourage her painting.
After a week in Henry’s company, she had resolved to marry none but him.
“Tell me more about your art,” he said as they walked along the gravel path in the formal gardens. The afternoon was balmy, a burst of unexpected warmth sending most of the young people outside, and Louisa had conspired to escape their escort. “Why do you want to paint with oils?”
She looked up at him now, biting back her amusement. “Why, are you looking for excuses to find me shocking?”
His smile was warm and unguarded. “I don’t find you shocking, Louisa.”
“Now that, I am certain, is a lie. You were very shocked the first time we met.”
“Surprised is not the same as shocked.”
“I think you were positively scandalised that I was by myself.”
“I think you’re imagining things,” he said, but there was a charming self-awareness to his smile, and a hint of redness around his ears.
“If you are a prude, you can admit it to me, you know. I am an antidote to prudish behaviour.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. One cannot be prudish and bear my company.” She shot him a glance from the corner of her eyes. “Once, I went swimming in the lake in nothing but my chemise.”
He made a slight choking sound, and when he met her gaze, even for an instant, there was no denying the flash of heat in his eyes. “Were you caught?”
“No one but you and my maid knows of it,” she said, and was rewarded by a faint blush on his cheekbones. “Now, look at me and say you are not scandalised.”
He glanced at the ground. “That is not precisely the term I would use. What provoked you to swim in the lake in the first place? Were you bored?”
“I am never bored while on the run from propriety.”
That made him give a low, rough laugh. Sometimes she dreamt about that laugh, waking flushed and heated at the thought of it against her skin. “Are you bored now?” he asked.
“Not in the slightest,” she said, and tugged him off the main path. “I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me and you’ll see.” She led him to the brick hothouse, glass inserted into the walls and sloping roof andthe door ajar. Inside, perfumed heat washed over them, and she laughed, giddy at the exotic beauty. A bold red flower dangled provocatively over the gravel walkway, and she trailed her fingers along its velvet petals. When she glanced at him, he was watching her with singular focus, as though debating if he should run.
“Why are we here?” he asked her, the caution in his tone helplessly endearing.
“Afraid I’ll attempt to seduce you?” she asked, trailing a finger down his chest.
