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“Ah … yes.” He drew in an audible breath. “I—you—look …”

“Half dressed?” she supplied helpfully, her lips quirking upward.

“I was going to say magnificent. The two are not necessarily related.”

“Right.”

He stepped closer and all her tenseness dissolved into liquid pliability. If he had put his arms around her, she would have dissolved, molded just to his shape. He clasped a single lock of her hair between his fingers and twirled it, slowly, idly. Her scalp responded with tingling want.

“Did the vice admiral say”—her mind was rendered momentarily blank as he combed his fingers down the length of her hair—“he would consider the matter?”

Her question seemed to break the spell. Rafe’s hand slowly returned to his side. “He said the best course of action would be to put a proposal to the hospital directors. They’ll be meeting the last Saturday of this month.”

Her pulse quickened. She realized that a part of her had thought to meet with instantaneous rejection. There were countless arguments against the idea, chief among them that she was an unwed woman born into the peerage, who had no intention of employing the child as a servant. The hospital prided itself on taking care of all its pensioners, and her request challenged the level of care they were able to provide Barnard. But she had not been met with a no. Possibility had never felt so sweet, so daunting.

“Did they say if he has recovered?” Her mouth had gone dry.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I saw him myself. Fine lad, and very fond of you.”

“You saw him?” She checked the volume of her voice and lowered it. “You’re quite sure he’s well? And ‘fond of me’—don’t jest, Rafe, I imagine he hardly remembers me.”

“He spoke of you by name. More than once.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and the last thing she’d seen was Rafe’s reassuring smile. She might actually achieve something entirely of her own mind, entirely good. “Tell me when I’m to go, then. And what do you think I ought to expect? They do know it’s me, who’s inquiring, yes?”

“Yes, Sophie, they know.” Humor surged quietly up in his voice, but the next time he spoke, it had hardened. “There is one thing.”

Her eyes flew open.

“You must have a man to accompany you. Foolish, perhaps, given that you’re the guardian in question, but that’s what Crofton said.”

She closed the distance between them and put her outward-facing hands to his chest. Her skin itched to feel his warmth, but the heavy wool prevented it. “That’s simple enough. You can take me.” She tilted her chin up and found him looking away. “If you’re worried about my parents, don’t be. I don’t intend to tell them anything until it’s a certainty. There are so many things that could yet go awry.”

“Crofton, he was very clear that it must be either your father or your betrothed who presents the proposal.” His eyes met hers, shadowed and still. “It cannot be me.”

Her hands found his lapels and tightened into little vices around them. He wasn’t touching her back. Why wasn’t he touching her back? He looked cruelly handsome, severe and remote, not like the man who had set loose her cloak on the floor of the Painted Hall and put his mouth all over her. The question was there before she knew it, a single breath saddled with a syllable:

“Why?”

Her look was enough to undo a man, to break him rib from rib and skewer the rest of his parts on his own heart’s cage. This was one of the things he prized most about her: her openness. Her ability to believe in things that someone like him found inane.

He had been able to shrug off the cold of reality more than once. Even in Crofton’s office tonight, the mere suggestion of a him and her had made him swell with private pride. If it weren’t for figures, the icy calculations he had done while feigning sleep on the drive back to Mayfair, perhaps he could now share her wide, winsome look. Her eyes were offering him better than the universe: Her heart. Her trust. The cradle of her very livelihood.

How easy it would be to break himself apart for her.

“You know I’ve been giving thought to making my own living,” he said. She nodded, her fingers needling deeper against his coat front. Two pounds in my possession. At the very best, four shillings a week to let the draper’s shop. Then I’ve Mother’s medications to think of; sixteen pounds for Abigail per annum. A good deal coming from a creditor then, at an interest of what percent? No guarantee of sales … Thomas has the connections; Thomas could ruin me. He’d be more likely to learn of my deceit with Mother living in Cheapside. What then? Run off, more penniless than before with creditors on my heels? Run with what gig, what horse? To where? He would make himself meet her gaze while he thought these things.

“Rafe.” Her knuckles beat gently against his chest. “What is it?”

A fraction of his feelings must have shown on his face, because he had sheathed that wonder-filled look in her eyes and replaced it with concern. He hated himself for that. Hated himself for a lot of things, just now. He had made up his mind that dishonesty would not be among them. “There’s an opportunity for me in Cheapside. A draper’s shop.”

Bless her, she didn’t look the least bit put off by this further lowering of his station. “That’s wonderful!” She searched his face. “Isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it could be, for me, if a very many things were to go right.” He couldn’t bear looking at her any longer and fixed his eyes on the guilloche border of the carpet. “I need to be certain you harbor no illusions about me, Sophie. I … I think you know how deeply I’ve come to feel for you.”

What a master of words he was. Deep feelings did not begin to touch upon the consummate pain sweltering inside him.

She took a step into him. Her bare palms came against his cheeks, warm and smooth.