Page 64 of Lady Arabella’s Reluctant Hero

John grabbed her hand and they ran.

She saw the maid behind them run in the opposite direction toward a small rock wall with an overhang just big enough for one.

Meanwhile, Arabella and John reached the gazebo in seconds and ducked inside. Both of them were drenched, and she⁠—

She was laughing. She wasn't entirely sure when she had started, but the rain and the running and the absurdity of it… His hair plastered to his forehead, her dress dripping onto the wood floor. The laugh had escaped before she could catch it.

And then he was laughing too. Quietly, but his gaze was filled with genuine amusement.

The rain hammered on the dome above them and for a moment the downpour grew so fierce, it looked like a heavy curtain, blocking out the rest of the world.

Her hand was still in his. He hadn't dropped it, and she'd made no move to pull away. Their laughter faded as quickly as it had started, and it was replaced with that thick tension she'd become so familiar with of late.

It was the same crackle of electricity that filled the air before a storm, and it seemed to be a living thing between them now.

"You were saying," she said. Her voice came out breathless. But she couldn't bring herself to care as she searched his eyes.

He'd said it. She'd heard him. But…had he meant it?

He tugged on her hand gently, and she stumbled forward a few steps. So close she could smell the wet wool of his jacket and feel the heat from his body.

He dipped his head down, the look in his eyes mesmerizing. "I think you know what I was saying."

Her lips parted but she could hardly breathe. "Perhaps I want to hear you say it."

Perhaps I need to.

He took a step even closer until her skirts were brushing against his legs and his coat scraped against her gown. "Arabella."

She tilted her head back. "Yes?"

Oh goodness. There was breathless, and then there was whatever on earth that was.

His throat worked, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. "I am trying very hard to be sensible about this."

A nervous laugh bubbled up in her chest. "How is that working for you?"

"Badly."

Oh dear. His voice was so low it was practically a growl. And her heart was clamoring so loudly, it nearly drowned out the rain. "Then perhaps…" She took a breath and tried again. "Perhaps you should stop trying."

He reached out and pushed a wet strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered at her temple, and she closed her eyes, just for a moment, because the tenderness of the gesture was almost more than she could bear.

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with an expression that made her chest ache.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to step forward and put her hands on his ruined shirt and kiss him the way she had kissed him on that London street—fiercely, recklessly, without thinking about consequences.

But she was thinking about consequences. The duchess's letter was still folded in her pocket and suddenly her actions now seemed to carry far more weight.

Freedom meant choices. Freedom meant possibilities, and a future, and⁠—

She could see it. All of it. A home, a family, a life—with this man. And for the first time in two years…

It wasn't impossible.

But while she could not bring herself to move, any action bearing more weight than she could handle⁠—

John did not hesitate. The fingers at her temple curved around her chin and tilted her face up. He lowered his head slowly. So slowly she had every opportunity to back away.