He kept still, too uncertain to risk moving.
She reached a hand to his cheek, her gloved palm pressing gently against it.
Frederick swallowed, his cravat suddenly feeling tight, his breath impossible to control.
Her fingertips pressed more firmly against his jaw as she pulled him toward her, unhurriedly but irresistibly.
His anticipation was so powerful and the final distance between them closed so slowly that he could hardly tell when her lips finally touched his.
They were soft and silken, moving against his effortlessly as the smell of hay and horses was replaced by the gentle scent of bergamot and the taste of her lips.
The brush in his hand dropped to the floor with a thunk, and he slid a hand up the satin skin on her neck, turning his head to deepen the kiss only to find her bonnet in the way.
He found his way to the ribbons and tugged until they broke free. His lips never leaving hers, he gently removed the bonnet and set it aside.
Her hand slipped along his cheek and threaded into his hair.
He suppressed a small groan of pleasure, wrapping his arms around her frame and pulling her flush against him.
This. This was what he wanted.
Caroline. Every bit of her. Every thought, every quip, every chastisement. Every kiss, every sigh, every inch of her warm skin. For the former made the latter all the sweeter.
A thud sounded, and they broke apart.
It was only the kick of a horse against its stall, and Frederick smiled down at Caroline. “Between the two of us,youare certainly the rake—taking advantage of a helpless young man in the tack room.”
She pushed at him playfully, but a quick hand around her waist kept them together.
He stole another kiss, which she returned readily before pulling away and resting her forehead against his.
A small sigh escaped her. “Why did you not tell me?”
“What would you have thought if I had?”
“What do you mean?”
He pulled back and looked at her with a half-smile. “Caroline, you have mistrusted my every move, my every word since my arrival—and I am not condemning you for it,” he hurried to say at the look on her face. “You were right to do so. My intentionswereselfish. So, when I discovered that you and Mrs. Penrose believed Oswald responsible for the stile…” He lifted his shoulders.
“You allowed us to believe it,” she said, condemnatory but teasing.
Frederick squared her with a flat look. “Would you have thought better of me if I had rushed in and said, ‘No, no, no! It wasnotOswald. It was I. I did it! Thankme.’”
She regarded him for a moment, her lips pressed together in a way that confirmed she understood his decision.
“Besides,” he said, “it was not only me. I could not have managed it without Ruan.”
She laughed softly. “He said you nearly hammered his thumb off.”
Frederick scoffed. “He moved it when I was striking. Is he the one who told you, then? He was not supposed to.”
“Spare him your censure. I forced it out of him.” She looked up at him, a tenderness in her eyes that made his chest glow with warmth. “Thank you.”
He swallowed, for gratitude from her was something he had never thought to receive. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and closed his eyes.
“Frederick…”
“Hm?”
