Her breath caught."Properly?"
"In broad daylight."He grinned."With lemonades and chaperones and no wagers that treat you like a stake.I will speak to your brother in the morning, to your parents, if they will have me.I will attempt respectability with an effort that will shock the ton.And if, at any point, you decide you would rather have ink and Watford or peace and solitude, you may say so.I will step back—not because I believe I am unworthy, but because you do not choose me."
He met her gaze."In short.I am, at last, handing you the cards."
Color rose in her cheeks.She stared at him."You are proposing that I be allowed to choose my own ruin?"
"Yes," he said."It seems only fair."
Her laugh sounded close to a sob.
"You idiot," she said thickly."You absolute, hopeless, wonderful idiot."
His chest loosened."Is that a yes, then?"
She took a stepcloser."Let us be precise, my lord," she said, voice unsteady but clear."I do not want Watford and his ink.I do not want a quiet, neat life.I want mischief.I want laughter.I want to be seen exactly as I am and loved anyway."
Her hand flattened briefly against his chest, over his heart.
"And I want you," she whispered.
He swallowed hard."You are quite certain?You've heard the worst."
"I have heard whatyouconsider the worst," she said."And I have seen, repeatedly, that your worst includes dragging women out of lakes, quietly rescuing shy wallflowers, and teaching bishops how to cheat at battledore."
"That was entirely Sophia's doing," he said automatically.
She ignored that."You are reckless and infuriating and altogether too charming," she went on."But you stop when I say stop.You listen when I say no.You make even the dullest evenings bearable."A shaky smile curved her lips."You also look quite handsome soaking wet, which I have decided is a point in your favor."
He huffed out a laugh, his throat too tight for anything more.
"I am," she finished, "very much in love with you.It is inconvenient.It is likely unwise.And it is entirely my choice."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, she was still there.
"Esme," he said, voice rough, "may I kiss you?"
Her answer was immediate."Yes."
Relief and desire crashed through him.
He reached up, cupping her face in his hands, thumbs brushing her jaw.She rose onto her toes as he bent his head.
The first brush of her mouth was soft, tentative—a question.
He answered with care, not claiming but offering, not possession but promise.The taste of her—lemon, courage, a hint of laughter—went straight to his knees.Her hands fisted briefly in his coat, then slid up to rest against his shoulders, steadying herself.
Breath uneven, he drew back.She stayed close, eyes half-closed, reluctant to let the moment end.
"Well," she murmured."That settles it."
"What does it settle?"he asked, dazed.
"That any life that does not include that would be a waste."
He laughed, pressing his forehead to hers.
