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“Kiss me again.” Her face betrayed neither fear nor anger. “And then I will decide how to answer your proposal.”

Challenge accepted. With a saunter, he approached her and cupped her neck. His thumb found the tender hollow just beneath her ear. He felt her pulse beating with his own.

This time, he indulged his admiration. Delicate features. Soft skin. Inviting lips. Those lips parted.

How was a man to keep his head? He claimed them yet again, recognizing her cherry-sweet flavor, a flavor purely her own. He urged her lips to part and deepened the kiss.

Before, she had been still, merely receiving his advance. Now she answered him in kind. Stroke for stroke, she gave more than he asked.

He brought his other hand up.

He needed to touch her, to hold her, to make sure she was real. He had been careless with something precious. He did not intend to be careless again.

Each time their lips touched and melded, he came more undone. These were not kisses of seduction, but recognition.

Perhaps she had never been a changeling. Perhaps she had always been simply his.

Radiant, revelatory light flooded his senses. He almost dropped to his knees.

***

Lenora gave in, fully yielding to her deep-seated devotion, a decision she’d made while she rested against the wall. She kissed him deeply while holding his words close to her heart—when I saw how I hurt you, how I scared you, everything changed.

For the past three weeks, she had been trying to get over him. With Amelia’s blessing, she embraced Amelia’s serene and unshakable demeanor—a shield that guarded the gentle qualities Lenora knew they both possessed. Armed and ready, she kept a wary distance.

But her borrowed armor had become too heavy, inadequate even for the onslaught she’d just survived. Barely.

She no longer wished to fight.

As he repeatedly brushed his lips against hers, she received everything she had ever wished.

Everything she’d ever wished... yet not.

His hand on her neck tightened, and for one breath, something old and unrelated flinched in her. She let it pass. This was Simon. She’d wanted him for so very long.

She became Lenora-of-the-yew maze—bold, defiant, prepared to assert her claim.

She threaded her fingers beneath his cravat and then yanked him close, exactly as he’d warned her never to do again. This time, he didn’t complain.

The fabric beneath her fingers was stiff and starched. If he’d planned to seduce her, wouldn’t he have tied a simple knot?

She drew back, for the first time truly seeing his clothes.

He’d dressed for the occasion.

Ah, Simon.

Her solid, reliable Simon had shaved, trimmed his hair, and put on a silk, gold-and-cream striped waistcoat. His trousers had been freshly pressed, his brass buttons polished; even his boots gleamed.

Her eyes smarted. She briefly closed them. Behind her lids, she saw the image of a boy on the cusp of manhood, a boy who carefully hid his damaged hand, and bowed a respectful and proper bow to a ragamuffin with wilted daisies in her hair.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing at all.”

She lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him soundly and with all her heart.

She learned his pleasure through the whispers of his breath, the nearly inaudible sounds that told her where and when his composure failed. Not wanting the lesson to end, she fumbled with the knot of his neckcloth.