Page 83 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Then perhaps we both should apologize,” he said. “For I should never have kissed you.”

His words were a dart to her chest. Claire had known Michael regretted the kiss—he’d already said as much. Now that she knew how she truly felt, Claire received his words as a keen insult. Of course Michael shouldn’t have wasted such romance on her—she wasn’t the type of lady that a man like him would want in such a way.

Claire swallowed her hurt and tried again. “I would very much like for us to be friends once more.”

Michael frowned at the cobblestones for a long time. In those drawn-out moments, Claire felt as if her entire future balanced atop the narrow ridgeline of a steep roof. Though she couldn’t have Michael as she desperately wanted him, she would be thrilled to settle for having him in her life at all.

“Very well, Claire,” he finally said, his face taut with some unknown emotion. “If that’s what you wish.”

She nodded, relief sagging her shoulders. “Then you forgive me?”

“Yes. Do you forgive me?”

There was nothing to forgive, she wanted to say. Except perhaps that the experience would never be repeated.

“Of course.” If her voice sounded a bit strangled, she hoped he’d have the good grace to ignore it.

Michael nodded. He sounded a bit resigned when he said, “Very well, then.”

Claire nodded and tangled her fingers together, offering him a smile that felt as if it would freeze and splinter on her face. “Friends, then.”

Claire turned to leave, but before she could help herself, she whirled back toward him.

“Who is that lady you’re courting?” she blurted, then blushed furiously and shook her head.

Caught in the storm of her swirling emotions, she’d uttered the one question she’d determined not to ask at all. Michael cocked his head and studied her.

“It hardly matters. Your business is your own. I’m sure she’s lovely.” Claire coughed to try to cover that her voice had nearly choked on the last word.

His eyes narrowed. “Claire, are you…jealous?” He said the word with a touch of wonder and no small amount of deep satisfaction—like a man who’d finally made some great discovery he’d been searching for, for years. Though Claire shook her head furiously, a smile spread slowly over Michael’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

Claire blinked rapidly and twisted her fingers until they ached. She took a half step back as if to avoid the coming embarrassment. “Certainly not. It’s only that I don’t know her, you see.”

A lame excuse if she’d ever heard one. Perhaps if she’d asked politely, with a detached coolness to her tone, she might have been able to write it off as bland curiosity. But she’d asked in the same manner she felt—desperate and slightly unhinged.

Michael stepped forward, his eyes intent on her face. Claire had the sudden impression of being stalked or hunted as he walked toward her. She froze in place, though part of her mind screamed at her to abandon all her pride and run off into the shrubbery. Perhaps there was a bush in this garden large enough for her to hide in, or a large empty pot.

“She’s my cousin who recently returned from France.”

Michael stood just before her. She could see his gaze clearly searching her own. He was certainly close enough to see the relief that coursed through her, to hear the tiny breath she let out. In this dim light, his blue eyes looked darker than they were. They narrowed and she could only blink as they traced her features.

“Claire?” The word was low and spoken like a question.

“Yes?” she said lamely.

Then she clamped her lips together, promising herself that she wouldn’t open them again unless she had something worthwhile to say—preferably something that her mind had approved.

Michael sent all thoughts fleeing from her head when he reached up and slid two fingers from her temple to her chin. She couldn’t help it—she sighed and leaned into his touch. When she regained her senses enough for her eyes to flutter open, Michael was smiling down at her, tenderness clear in every line of his face.

“Please don’t toy with me, Claire,” he murmured. “If you don’t feel anything past friendship for me, please tell me now.”

Claire didn’t think she could have spoken for all the gold in England. Not when Michael’s eyes dropped to her lips, returned to her eyes, and dropped again. He drew her forward achingly slowly, one hand at her waist. It was as if he were giving her time to contemplate what he was about to do, giving her time to twist from his gentle grasp or push him away.

She didn’t want to, of course. Claire was frozen by the intent clear on his face. Michael slowly dipped his head and pressed his warm lips to hers. It took Claire a moment to realize he’d pulled back, that he was studying her with that affectionate expression again.

“I love you, Claire,” he murmured, a soft smile on his lips.

“You do?” Her eyes flew wide—with surprise or wonder, she could hardly tell.