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He had worked tirelessly to ensure he could return to her, free from the burdens of the past. And yet, she stood before him now, guarded, her expression carefully measured, as if bracing for disappointment.

A pang of frustration rippled through him, but he crushed it down. He would prove himself, not with words, but with actions.

“We are being watched,” she murmured, beneath her breath.

Relief washed over him.

Roxina’s bland countenance wasn’t due to what he said but because Mrs. Beale, brazen as brass and apparently without a jot of remorse, watched them.

Sweeping her lips upward at the corners, Roxina peered past him and gave her prying neighbor a little wave before perusing Shelby inch-by-inch from his beaver top hat to his boots, then back to his face.

He felt her visual touch, no less powerful or arousing than if she had brushed her fingers over him. Desire slammed into him, causing his knees to tremble and other parts of his anatomy to behave less gentlemanly.

“My, I must declare, you are quite handsome.” She arched a winged eyebrow in approval. “A regular tulip of fashion.”

Shelby wanted to crow at the appreciation in her gaze, thrust his chest out, and strut about like a cockerel. Instead, he glanced downward at his new tobacco-brown coat, cream-and-gold waistcoat, and pantaloons tucked into gleaming Hessians.

Touching her chin with her forefinger, she angled her head. “Hmm, not quite a dandy, but assuredly dressed in the first stare of fashion.”

Fingering his coat lapel, he searched her face. “I chose this fabric because it reminded me of your eyes.”

A pleased blush tinted her cheeks.

“Why, I never took you for a poet, Shelby.”

Was she flirting?

God, he hoped so.

She pointed her pretty gaze toward his curricle. “Your curricle is quite something.”

“It reminded me of our flight to Robyn’s with you sleeping against my shoulder.”

“Oh.”

He wanted to tell her she had changed him, that he was no longer the man she had first met. That his wealth, his success, meant nothing if he could not share it with her. But the words lodged in his throat, too fragile to utter just yet.

She glanced over his shoulder again, and her mouth tightened the merest bit.

“I take it Mrs. Beale is still unabashedly and unashamedly observing us?” Shelby refrained from glancing behind him.

“Indeed,” Roxina agreed, mirth sparkling in her gaze. “Good morning, Mrs. Beale.”

“Good morning, Miss Danforth. Won’t you and Mr. Tellinger come for tea this afternoon?” Mrs. Beale called. “I baked a seed cake.”

Roxina nodded. “We shall do our best, Mrs. Beale.”

A moment later, the distinct click of a door closing announced Mrs. Beale had finally entered her cottage, though she probably peeked out the curtains.

Dash poked his head between the doorjamb and Roxina’s skirts. Releasing a happy whine, he wagged his tail furiously in canine greeting.

“Hello there, old chap.” Bending, Shelby scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Have you been keeping our girl safe?”

“Our girl?” Roxina repeated, her voice tight with wonder.

Did hope glisten in Roxina’s eyes?

Shelby swallowed hard.