“I’ll be here.”
His eyes searched hers one last time, then he nodded and was off, taking the front steps two at a time. The doorman saw Rhys coming and had the door swung wide before he even reached the top step.
In case Tilly had any doubts that every door was open to a lord, here they were put to rest.
She pulled her black velvet, wool-lined cloak snug around her and crossed her arms over her chest, thankful for the woolen stockings she’d had the forethought to wear tonight.
However, she’d only just settled into the wait when the front door crashed open and out flew a wild-eyed Whitty. Instinctively, she lifted her hand in greeting, but it froze midway as he careened down the steps, took one look at her, emitted a strangled, “Can’t be arsed a whit,” and streaked straight past her.
A few seconds later, it was Rhys flying through the front door and down the steps. “Tilly,” he shouted, eyes bright with pursuit, “which way did he go?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but all that tumbled out was a great wallop of laughter that once started was impossible to stop. So, she pointed down the street and managed not to double over with the giggles.
“Well, come on, then,” he urged, grabbing her hand to follow.
But Tilly was finding it mighty difficult to keep up with both this laughter and her feet.
Rhys grumbled over his shoulder, “Can’t you go any faster?”
“I don’t think I can,” she said, trying to keep up and failing. “You go ahead.”
That got his attention.
His feet stuttered to a stop, and he faced her. “And leave you?”
“I’m the sort of gel who always comes through all right, haven’t you noticed?”
Now she had his full attention, his silver-gray eyes searching hers. “I won’t leave you, Tilly.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the words or the way he spoke them or the earnestness in his eyes as he spoke them or a combination of all three, but that instant, she was cured of her laughter.
In her entire life, only one other person had taken her hand and vowed not to leave her behind—Isabel.
And look how life had turned out since then.
Lawks.
Couldn’t life get serious in the space between one heartbeat and the next?
She noticed her hand was still in his when he tugged it, and on they walked, fingers twined through each other’s, side by side, in a way that could be called companionable.
“I’m sorry your friend lit out on you.”
He gave a shrug. “Should’ve expected it.”
“I reckon the reformation of a rake has to start from the inside.”
“I reckon you’re right,” he said with a shake of the head. “Whitty can really run.”
And together they laughed.
Ahead appeared a grand avenue of plane trees. “Is that St. James’s Park?” she asked. Her bearings felt all scrambled.
“Aye,” said Rhys. “Care for a midnight stroll in the park?”
“I rather think I would,” she said, prim as a lady.
She liked the smile that pulled from him.
