"Hurricane Agatha? That's rather dramatic even for you."
"You haven't experienced the full force of her disapproval yet. The woman could wither roses with a glance and probably has on several occasions."
Clara extracted herself reluctantly. "Then we'd better make sure she has nothing to disapprove of, hadn't we?"
"She'll find something. She always does. Last time she visited, she spent twenty minutes lecturing me on the inappropriate length of my hair, and that was before the scar gave her additional ammunition."
"Your hair is perfectly appropriate."
"It's too long by her standards, which is apparently antiquated and overly severe unorthodox ordinance regarding masculine presentation that I've repeatedly failed to achieve."
"I quite have a liking for it at that length. It makes you look less like a military automaton and more like a romantic poet."
"A romantic poet? Good gracious. Next you'll be saying I should take up writing sonnets about your eyes."
"My eyes would hardly inspire sonnets."
Gabriel sat up, his expression suddenly serious. "Your eyes are worth entire epic poems, Clara Whitfield, and if I had any poetic talent whatsoever, I'd spend the next three weeks composing verses about the way they change color depending onthe light, or how they darken when you're aroused, or the way they flutter closed just before I kiss you."
Clara felt heat flood her cheeks. "You can't say things like that and expect me to maintain composure in front of your aunt."
"Then I'll refrain from mentioning how your lips part slightly when you're concentrating, or how you bite the lower one when you're trying not to laugh at my jokes, or how thoroughly I plan to worship them tonight after…"
She pressed her hand over his mouth. "Gabriel Edmund Hale, if you don't stop this instant, I'm going to march downstairs and tell your aunt exactly what you've been doing with your supposed professional boundaries."
He kissed her palm, and she felt it all the way to her toes. "Edmund's not my middle name, though I appreciate the attempt at formal scolding."
"What is your middle name then?"
"Alexander, after my grandfather who was apparently even more dissolute than I am, though he had the good sense to conduct his affairs with more discretion."
"Affairs plural?"
"According to family legend, he kept three mistresses simultaneously, yet somehow contrived to persuade each individual that they alone were the object of his singular devotion.”
“How positively dreadful!”
"That's the Hale family tradition, terrible at love but excellent at self-destruction."
Clara pulled her hand away. "You're not terrible at love."
"Aren't I? I'm currently compromising my housekeeper while facing potential legal action from my aunt and somehow convincing myself this is all perfectly reasonable."
"It is perfectly reasonable, given the circumstances."
“The circumstances being that I am wholly deranged with devotion for you, and have been since the moment you appeared half-perished upon my threshold?”
“The circumstances being that we possess but three weeks to be perfectly candid with one another before my inevitable departure.”
Gabriel’s countenance changed ever so slightly at this.
"Don't," she said softly. "Don't retreat just because I mentioned leaving."
"How can I not? Every moment with you is borrowed time, and we're spending it playing house like children who don't understand consequences."
"We understand consequences perfectly well. We're choosing this despite them."
"Which makes us either very brave or incredibly foolish.”
