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“Are you well?” he called out over his shoulder.
Getting caught in the rain with Mother had always been a chore—listening to her complaints and fears of catching a cold. But getting caught in the rain with Charles?
Marie smiled. “Never better!”
The look he gave her was worth all the discomfort in the world.
Within just a few minutes, they arrived at the cottage, clambering beneath the small awning and the shelter it provided.
They stood side-by-side, catching their breath and staring out at the rain. Charles removed his gloves, then hat, running his fingers through his mostly dry hair with another chuckle.
“That was an adventure.” He peered down the length of her. “You are even wetter than you were from the fountain.”
She laughed, feeling not one ounce of shame over her appearance, for Charles’s look of approval was apparent.
“I’m certain this isn’t helping my case for getting you to enjoy being out of doors,” he said.
But Marie shrugged. “I’m beginning to learn that one’s enjoyment of matters is entirely dependent upon one’s company.”
A smile passed between them, though she ended it prematurely to remove her bonnet. “Although, you do know I shall now never trust your weather predictions. Nor you personally, should we ever again be within close proximity to a fountain.”
“There you go again,” he said, watching her every movement, “blaming me for our little dip in the fountain when it was more your fault than anyone’s.” He gave a shake of his head. “It is a wonder you trusted me enough to get you back to Grendale safely. I thought for certain you would have left me for your parents that night.”
“I made a vow, Charles. A simple fountain mishap and argument was not going to change that.”
He sobered, and only then did she realize what her words had insinuated.
“Until...until we know what comes of the annulment,” she managed.
“Of course.”
His eyes searched hers, his brow soft. “I think of that night often.”
Rain clicked upon the stone pathway leading to the house, and droplets bounced from the pink and red rose petals beside them. The world was cloaked in a gentle, muted grey, but the space around Marie and Charles glowed brightly.
“You mean the night of the ball?” she asked, her eyes fixed on him.
“The ball...and the gardens afterward.”
She swallowed. “An argument like that is hard to forget.”
A spare drop of rain ran down his temple. “I wasn’t thinking of the argument.”
“What, then?”
“Can you truly not know?”
Of course she knew, for she had thought of their kiss a hundred times over.
That kiss had been filled with anger and frustration. With disappointed hopes and dreams. And yet, her desire for Charles had yet to be silenced, and the stirring in her heart to be close to him had never been satiated.
Even now, as his eyes centered on her lips, heat burst within her, for she could feel his own longing as well—that pull, that craving to experience just one more moment of affection.
But this time, if they did kiss, it would not be filled with anger. This time, the kiss would be shared between two people who had drawn closer to each other...but who had promised to keep away.
He drew a step closer, and her eyes threatened to flutter closed, but she had to keep her wits about her. “Charles...”
“Tell me you have not thought of that moment yourself,” he whispered, ignoring her weak attempt at protest.
