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“Autumn.”

“What was the rest?” he asked.

“I don’t remember now,” she murmured. “I daresay it does not signify. You tell me yours now.”

“My favorite flower?” he asked humorously.

“Yes, why not?”

“The daffodil?” he answered after a pause. He sounded more like he was asking than telling.

“Favorite season?”

“Spring.”

“When is your birthday?”

“September fourth. Yours?”

“July twelfth.”

“Hmm.” He regarded her a moment in silence. “The Stocktons are idiots, Lizzie. Your company is the best of all.”

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him before a sudden suspicion struck. “We’re in bed,” she reminded him. “Does that mean I can believe you or not?”

“Well, as I’ve already got you where I want you, you can believe me.”

“Is that how it works?”

“In general.” He regarded her through frowning brows. “How about you just believe me anyhow, Lizzie? I’ve no intention of deceiving you now or in the future.”

Lizzie thought about this. “If I had been at that masquerade party,” she said slowly. Do you think you would have noticed me, Benedict Toomes?”

He gave her a searching look, as though realizing she was testing him. “It depends,” he replied seriously. “On whether you’d have sat there all prim and disapproving, threatening to tell your uncle on your return.”

He answered so frankly she winced. “Or,” he carried on steadily. “If wearing a mask and having a glass of punch would have freed you up to enjoy yourself, like you did at The Fiddlers Green.” Lizzie met his gaze. “I’d have noticed you then, alright.”

His words set her heart racing, even though she was not so sure if that was true. The fact he had thought her the prettiest present at The Fiddlers Green was because his opinion was already biased in her favor. Still, she could not bring herself to utter any of this when he was looking at her with such an expression.

“You think so?” she asked instead and found herself placing a hand against his chest.

“I know so,” he breathed out. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you that night.” Lizzie felt the strangest sensation of warmth spreading throughout her limbs from the inside out.

“I don’t feel cold anymore. You remember I told you that once when we were sat by the fire? That I felt cold inside, not outside?”

“Were we talking about family?”

“Yes. You told me you weren’t close to yours, and I said I thought I was, but not anymore.”

“I remember.”

“I think it’s because you’re my family now.”

His arms about her tightened. “Yes,” he agreed in a raspy voice. “And you’re mine.”

“Benedict ... ” she did not get the chance to speak anymore, for he pressed his mouth to hers, and actions became more important than words between them.

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