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Why? Because of the pain she’d been caused. Father leaving her in death. Mr. Yates leaving her when she revealed who she wanted to be. Mr. Drake leaving her when he learned he would not receive a penny of her inheritance.

But she was not quite ready to share such things.

“Because,” she began, “many gentlemen do not have a high opinion of women. They are too often untruthful with us simply to protect our delicate sensitivities. They believe that because we may dress fine and be told we look lovely in ball gowns, we cannot bear long travels, or early mornings, or talk of birds eating. Femininity is its own form of strength. One can be delicate, one can wish to be cared for, while not being coddled.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mr. Branok said softly. “Which is why I complimented your conversation and bravery before complimenting the gown.”

The air between them instantly changed, sparkling like magic between them. He placed his hand on the banister only a few inches from hers.

“You did not compliment my gown,” she breathed, her head beginning to spin.

He moved closer, only one step between them. “Then allow me to now,” he whispered, eying the slight slope of her neckline before staring once more into her eyes. “Your gown is beautiful, but no matter what you wear, you are stunning, Miss Fernside.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his words, and she marveled at his ability to share exactly what he was feeling with merely the intonation of his tone and the look in his eyes.

“I can only hope,” he continued, “that one day, you might give another gentleman a chance to prove that not all of us are intolerable. To prove that some of us know just how to respect a woman…and to treasure her.”

His hand slid up the banister, his finger brushing against hers in the process, and energy surged through her bare hands, spilling heat across her body like a hot cup of tea—invigorating and soothing all at once.

She looked at his hand next to hers, unmoving, then back at him. His eyes had yet to waver from her features. Slowly, deliberately, he moved forward to the step just below hers, their bodies nearly flush, their eyes at the same level due to his height.

“I suppose,” she began, forcing her voice to remain steady, “you are just that type of gentleman who knows how to do such things?”

She searched his eyes, attempting to decipher why he was drawing so closely to her—or perhaps to find her own answer as to what she was doing allowing him. Both of them had made clear to the other that neither had any interest in marriage. So why did they both allow themselves to pursue the clear attraction between them?

But then, she already knew why she did. The very fact that he was attracted to her and she was attracted to him was the chink in her armor. And she was powerless to the look of desire in his eyes as he drew ever closer.

His hand lifted from the banister, moving to rest softly against the back of her fingers, funneling more heat throughout her body. His eyes were soft as they looked between hers, and when they moved to her lips, her heart stamped against her chest.

Mr. Branok, the Mr. Branok, wanted to kiss her.

Her. Strange, little, fortune-filled, bird-obsessed Lark Fernside.

She had to be dreaming. There was no possibility this gentleman, this famed naturalist, writer, bird observer, and world traveler, had any true interest in her.

Or did he?

He leaned closer, his head tipping to the side, his masculine lips parted as Lark did the same. Their breath mingled. Lark’s head swirled with desire, disbelief, and longing as her eyes closed of their own accord, as if they knew it would help her live in the moment, relish in his kiss even more.

He hovered just out of reach. If she moved but an inch, their lips would touch. So why didn’t she? Why didn’t he?

Did he not truly wish to kiss her but had been caught up in the moment and was now wondering how to retreat without offending her?

Her heart sank, and she opened her eyes, daring a glance at him.

His own eyes were only half-open, his brow furrowed.

“Mr. Branok?”

“Yes?” He remained where he was, his breath tickling her lips.

“What…what are we doing?”

He did not move, that intense focus remaining on her lips. “I know not.”

Just as she’d feared. He did not want to kiss her. “Then perhaps, if we do not know what it is we are doing, we ought not be doing it?”

His frowned deepened. “Perhaps.” He hesitated. “But I cannot help but wonder if that is the precise reason we should do it.”