"Because I might kiss you back."
"And that would be a tragedy?"
"It would be the start of one."
His hand lifted, brushing a curl from her cheek. It was a gentle, reverent touch—more dangerous than any bold advance.
"Let it begin, then.” He brought his lips to hers.
It was not a soft, cautious kiss. It was a culmination of flirtation, of frustration, of longing too long denied. Her heart surged as his mouth met hers, warm and insistent, while the storm whispered through the leaves above. For Alexandra, it was like tumbling headfirst into something thrilling and terrifying all at once—freedom and surrender wrapped in one impossible moment. He kissed her as if he had been waiting lifetimes. And she kissed him back as if she could not get enough.
Rain dripped from the canopy above, soaking the edges of her gown, his cravat, the earth beneath their feet. But under that ancient tree, they were the only two people in existence.
He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers. Alexandra's breath caught, a soft tremble skimming down her spine. For a moment, she didn't move—caught between the overwhelming intimacy of the gesture and the unexpected comfort it brought.
"Tell me this is nothing more than a fleeting indulgence," he murmured.
She swallowed. "That was the plan." Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird beneath her skin, and she hated how close to the truth his words felt. It had been a game—light flirtation, a bit of rebellion—but now? Now her heart was no longer listening to reason, and that terrified her most of all.
"And now?"
She looked up at him. "Now I don’t know."
They stood that way for another moment. Silent. Breathless.
Then a voice cut through the stillness.
"Well. Isn’t this cozy?"
They turned in unison.
Lady Honoria Worthington stood ten paces away, smoothing a damp curl behind her ear with theatrical poise, looking like a cat that had just discovered the cream, the canary, and the scandal of the year. Her brows arched in smug delight as she took in the scene before her.
Alexandra’s stomach dropped, a chill slicing through her rain-warmed skin. Magnus stiffened beside her, jaw tightening in silent fury.
Beside her was Lord Cedric Hargrove, eyes wide with indignation.
Alexandra blinked. "You’re both soaked."
"Yes," Honoria said, eyes gleaming. "But you, my dear, are compromised."
Langley cursed under his breath.
Cedric puffed up. "This is a disgrace!"
"Oh, do stop," Alexandra said. "You sound like a governess."
But it was too late. The moment had passed.
And by the time they returned to the estate—wet, muddy, and unrepentant—the whispers had already begun.
* * *
That evening, the drawing room of the Peregrine townhouse was filled with thunder, and not the kind from the sky. Alexandra stepped into the room with her chin held high, though her stomach twisted with nerves. She’d braced herself for this storm, the one no parasol could shield her from. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms, and her stomach coiled with dread. Every footstep toward her father felt like wading into battle, the kind that left bruises not on the body, but the heart.
The Earl of Whitby paced before the hearth like a lion recently denied a meal.
"A kiss in the rain?" he thundered. "With the Earl of Langley? Have you lost your mind, Alexandra?"
