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Yes, he’d claimed to admire her. Yes, he’d promised to take her up in a balloon, to show her Britain’s cities from the air. That didn’t mean she’d ever behold another interior, view his private life from the inside.

“Is Puff ginger?” she asked.

“Gray. Why?”

Because I am in love with you. It will be a consolation, when we part, to know I’m imagining correctly.

She sipped the tea, hot and dark. “No milk?”

“You drink your tea with milk?”

“Milk’s free,” she muttered. When the MacKinnons took tea, it was mostly milk.

“I could fetch some.”

“No, it’s nice like this.” It was nice. The nicest—grandest—tea she’d ever drunk. And not only because she was thirsty, with cold deep in her bones. It possessed a refined, slightly floral savor. This was quality tea, for a duke’s table.

She sighed, sipped, and slanted a look up at him. “You’re looming.”

“May I sit?”

Drat. She was blushing again. Of course, he’d hesitated to lower himself onto the bed. Once he sat, they’d be both in the bed. Being both in a bed—it was different somehow than being both in a boat, on the brink of death, beyond the reach of any social law.

They’d said and done intimate things in darkness. But here, in his stately bedchamber, the gulf between them had never seemed wider.

“Please.” She inclined her head, trying to equal his courtesy, a doomed proposition. Her breeding didn’t involve elegant manners or deportment. She’d gleaned fancy speech from books, but she felt less foolish speaking plain. She made a face at him. “Put yer bum where ye like.”

“Thank you.” With a faint smile, he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“What time is it?” She realized she had no idea how long she’d slept. “Did you talk to your father?”

They’d tumbled through the window, then stood, shivering, back-to-back, peeling off their clothing. She’d dived immediately into the bed, to cover herself. Her eyelids had rolled down as though weighted, and she’d found it beyond her power to lift them. She’d barely registered the click of the door as James left the room.

She looked at the window now. The curtains were drawn. No glimmer of afternoon light.

“It’s late,” he said. “You slept for hours. So did I. Down the hall, in Arthur’s room. I only just woke up. I went to the kitchen to secure us refreshment, but I made the housekeeper swear not to speak a word of my presence.” His mouth pulled to the side. “I was in a damnable rush to shout down my sire. Now that I’ve arrived, well . . . I’d rather put it off. I’ve come to recognize that my entire plan was precipitous. If I curse him and hie off to Spain, he’ll intercede. He’ll pull every string to have me sent back, by a general if need be.” He pushed back the errant lock of hair. “The scandal would embarrass Arthur’s hopes of a military career. And, as you pointed out, there’s the matter of my mother, the pain my soldiering would cause her, at the moment she can least withstand the blow. Despite all that—” He tightened his jaw and looked at her, eyes hot as coals. “I burn to take some action that will guarantee no harm comes to my brother.”

“There are no such guarantees.” She stretched to deposit her teacup back on the tray. Reaching for his hand presumed continued intimacy, invited rejection, but she couldn’t do anything else. She covered his knuckles with her palm. “We long to shield the people we love, and we do the best that we can. But much of life is beyond our control.”

“He chose his path. He wants to serve King and country.” James put his other hand on top of hers. “I know I should respect his choice, on his terms. And I know I could absorb eleven bullets, only for the twelfth to strike him down. But I feel the need to act regardless.”

“We’re well-matched in feeling, too. Another fault I can’t hate.” She met his eyes. “Too much sentiment.”

“Me?” He scoffed, but his face softened, and a smile twitched his lips. “Sentimental? I’m all starch and stiff-upper-lip, with an abiding interest in mathematics, empiricism, the laws of physics, and voyages to the moon.” He sobered again, returning her gaze. The green of his irises made the Pemberton green seem dim.

“I’ve always appreciated the lengths to which you go to protect your siblings.” His thumb played over the back of her hand. “What ever happened to Pinkie?”

“I still can’t believe you remember Pinkie at all.” She meant to laugh but sighed instead as his thumb slid to her wrist.

“You hoped to save the wee beastie, for Dierdre’s sake.”

“Aye, but Da killed him just the same. He ended up on the table, with potatoes.”

“Poor Pinkie. Poor Dierdre.” He was smiling, but with compassion, not mockery.

“You tried to help,” she said softly.

“Because I lost a bet.” His thumb kept sliding back and forth. His voice deepened. “And because I would have done anything you asked.”