“There, we’ll have warning if anyone slips outside.” I pressed him down on the bench, not releasing his hand. I threw a leg over the bench and plopped down beside him as though astride a horse.
“You’re much bolder tonight,” he commented.
I shrugged. “You know now. The motivation of all of my fumblings is readily apparent.”
“And that was all it took to erase the fumblings?”
“You’re here. You’re here to see me.” I felt the smile overtake my face, wide and bright, deepening when he groaned, his head tipping back to the sky.
“Don’t,” I said, tugging at the hand I’d claimed. “I’m glad you came. So, so glad.”
His head hinged back up to meet my gaze. His lips were tipped to one side, hiding the smile beneath.
For no other reason than because I wanted to, I caught the tip of his forefinger and dragged the glove down. Then the middle. The ring. Littlest. Thumb. I caught his gaze, waiting for protest. When he was silent, I worked the glove off of his hand and dropped it on his knee.
Bare skin met for the first time in weeks as our fingertips touched. My heart was set to explode. Was this what he meant before—about a heart stopping and never starting again? It would be worth it.
A glance at his face showed he was just as infatuated with the sight and sensation of our fingers as I was. And when his fingers slotted with mine, it trapped my breath in my chest. When those fingers closed on mine, and our palms kissed, the breath escaped in a rush.
“I cannot believe you’re here,” I said.
He shook his head and a lock of hair escaped his precise grooming efforts. “I shouldn’t be.”
That strand—it called to me. With my free hand, I brushed it back to join the rest while my heart clenched on nothing. “Don’t say that. Let me have tonight—letushave tonight. Be a duke tomorrow. Be with me tonight. One more night.”
His tongue darted between his lips. “All right, tomorrow.”
“That was easy.”
“I said I shouldn’t be here, not that I didn’t want to be.”
With that confirmation, I set about removing the other glove with far less hesitance than the first. Though, performing the task entirely with my left hand slowed the process slightly.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “about what you said that night, about how you see the world? I think it’s probably a little like right now. The dark, with only the moon—it washes away the reds and greens. It leaves the blues and grays behind. It’s not perfect, and it’s hard to keep my head from correcting the color on its own. But it’s my best guess of what your world is like.”
“It is?”
He pointed to the house. A few new rose bushes bloomed against the wall. “Those are red, I’m almost certain. Mostly because Lady Grayson seems to have a preference for red roses. But they’re kind of brown in the blue moonlight.”
“Dull, isn’t it?” I teased.
“Not at all. It’s rather… enchanting.”
“Well, that’s unreasonably kind.”
“I paint. With watercolors. I’ve been working on a landscape for weeks that just wasn’t quite right. And now I know why. It needed a brush of moonlight.”
“You paint?”
“Not with any particular skill. But it passes the time,” he said, brushing away the thought with his free hand.
“I’m absolutely certain that isn’t true.”
“Oh, it is. I’ve seen the greats. I own a few myself. I have an excellent understanding of my own talents and they are middling at best.”
“I’d like to be the judge of that.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” he said, rearing back, incredulous.
