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“But that cannot alter the facts,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I could never ask you to give up as much for me. I simply do not—and cannot, yet—possess the means to be a husband to anyone without my father’s support behind it.”

“I have a dowry, Rafe. Don’t forget what I have to offer.”

He laughed dryly, suddenly possessed of the confidence to meet her eye. “Don’t you see? I enjoy the way you think. Hell, I wish I could adopt it—save the fact it’s nothing but falsehoods. You and I … we’d be surrendering everything. There is no world in which your parents, or my father, would find us suitable for one another. They would turn cheek while we struggled to put dinners on the table. I’ll not do that to you, to Barnard, to—”

This was the best way to do it. His brain flashed that awareness as he spoke. It would be easy enough to slip the word Mother into this impassioned sentence, and wait for her sharp mind to catch it. But before he could finish his speech, Sophie stepped away from him and interrupted.

“Your father wouldn’t approve of me?” She crossed her arms. “I find that difficult to believe. You said he wants connection to a title, well I can certainly provide that. If my thinking is fanciful, I think yours must be the opposite: willfully and outrageously gloomy.”

Her words were sharp even in whisper. Rafe unclenched his jaw with effort. “He’s the devil, Sophie. The devil doesn’t need a reason. I’m telling you that he fixes his mind on a thing and refuses to stray from it; my marrying Miss Penney is one such thing.”

She turned to face the wall, her mouth contorting into a scowl. “That makes absolutely no sense. If you merely wanted to see less of me, I’d rather you just state the fact outright.”

“Less of you?” His hand was on her arm in an instant, pulling her to him. “Less of you?”

“Yes, less of me!” she hissed. Her eyes were like molten copper, ensnaring him. “You cannot teach me of parents’ expectations, Mr. Balfour.”

“Oh,” he groaned, setting free her arm. “Mister, now, is it?”

“I don’t doubt he has lofty ideas for your match—my parents are no different—but for you to assume defeat without first trying?” Her lips flattened. “It reeks of excuses.”

Rafe’s systems began to shut down, one by one. He dropped his hands and turned his back. Perhaps it would be better if she thought this of him. He could keep his secrets, remain safe in his perfect misery.

“I …” Her voice came softly at his back. “I had determined I was willing to take the risk. It seems I made the decision too late, for you have chosen differently.”

The thudding in his temples reached a painful pitch. “I already took the risk.” He looked over his shoulder and found her eyes sheeted with unspent tears. “I questioned his wishes already. He struck me.”

Three words. A simple maneuver of teeth, lips, and tongue. But they tasted like acid. The worst confession he could make, perhaps the hardest of any confession he could surrender at her feet.

“What?” Her voice was a wisp, like the pappus of dandelion sent out on the wind, hoping to seed and root into understanding.

He nodded once. Swallowing only dragged the acrid flavor further inside him. “I’ve thought of it all, Sophie. I’ll be tremendously fortunate just to make it on my own, starting on a credit. Even if you were willing to wait, and sacrifice, I’d be a selfish bastard to ask that of you.”

“And what if I am willing?” A single tear streaked down her cheek, but she did not sob. Her beautiful features stayed etched in their steadfast lines. “What if I’m the selfish one, and I won’t take no for an answer?”

His thumb dried her cheek at the same moment she placed her hands on his shoulders. The synchrony of longing.

“Even if you thought yourself equal to it,” he said, “I don’t believe you fully understand all you’d lose. What of your parents, Sophie? The way you’ve spoken of your duty to them, I know that’s of great importance to you.”

“I need you to make me a promise.” Her scent surrounded him with intoxicating, almond sweetness. “Promise me you won’t make this decision without me. Help me understand. Look for a way, for the—the freedom of choice.” Her eyes glittered. “And then, if I tell you I am equal to it, you are not to question me, Rafe Balfour.”

He wondered if anyone had ever died from tenderness, if it ever grew past the point of what a body could hold. He might be the first.

“Promise?”

He swept his fingers through her hair. Down past her temples, tucking it behind her ears, and drawing her face up to cradle the crown of her head. “I promise.”

She smiled in commiseration and leant into him. He had to tell her all, just as he’d intended. He knew that. But first, he wanted to relish this moment. All its contours.

He lightly kissed the bridge of her nose, drew in a heady breath of her unpowdered skin. This was her truest scent, the way she smelled beneath her clothes, like earth and salt. She must have washed her face before he’d come. Her skin retained a trace of cool moisture, her unrouged lips a half shade paler, like the russet-red of a Margil apple in autumn.

He kissed her. She met him softly, searchingly; perhaps the gentlest, best leashed of their kisses yet. This was how it would have been, had he not frightened her off in the carriage that first night he’d sat beside her. Unhurried sweetness, as if they were any couple embarking on a hopeful courtship. He pulled slowly away from her and found her eyes still closed, her shallow breaths audible.

“I am within shoving distance of being utterly lost to you.” His thumb brushed her chin with gossamer-like lightness. “One more command, one more kiss … and I might love you to the grave.”

She smiled, even as her brow furrowed. “Would that really be so bad?” Her voice cracked on the question.

“If I can’t have you,” he said, “it will be hell.”