“I am not lying,” he said firmly. “Yes, perhaps you do not have the greatest poise in the world, but that does not equate to anything that truly matters.”

  “You were about to call me unladylike!”

  “I fumbled my words,” he insisted, hurrying to get through what he was saying now. “Hardly the first time around you. Dorothy, after all that has happened between us on this trip, do you imagine that any part of me could actually hate you?”

  “You argue with me. Constantly.”

  “We bicker. We jibe at one another, and yet we keep hanging around each other, do we not? You keep coming back for another argument.” He leaned toward her, his voice suddenly husky and deep. His hands were soft on her arms, and her hands found the edges of his frock coat.

  What are we doing? What does he mean by this?

  “Just as I keep coming back to you,” he whispered, his lips moving closer to hers.

  I am not imagining it this time. It is no trick of the light.

  “It seems I cannot stay away, not after any disagreement there has ever been between us. So, do not imagine for one minute that I dislike you, Dorothy. Please, do not think that.”

  “But…” Dorothy wished to remind him of what he had said when Allan had arrived, about how the only reason he had come this close to her before was that he had been hit across the head. “You cannot mean this. I embarrass you.”

  “To hell with being embarrassed, Dorothy. Don’t despair of the ton’s whispers. Not for anything.” He leaned toward her even further.

  “Stephen…” She moved one of her hands to the center of his waistcoat. “The last time you came this close to me, you called it a mistake.”

  “Hang mistakes.”

  His movement was so swift that she staggered back on her feet yet clung to his frock coat even harder than before as his lips crashed onto hers.

  It was the first kiss Dorothy had ever known and beyond what she could have imagined. It was no small thing, not gentle either, but a clattering of lips as they kissed the way they argued—with fervor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Stephen was lost in that kiss. The press of his lips against Dorothy’s was like nothing he had ever experienced before. He was all too aware of the way her hands clung to the lapels of his coat, and how his hand was now wandering, moving from the top of her arm to the back of her head, urging her to arch into him a little more and part her lips.

  For a minute, he shut down all other thoughts. He blocked out that Dorothy was Allan’s sister, that out here in the middle of the night, what they were doing was no doubt scandalous, just as he blocked out how Dorothy was not a woman who would gladly take on the role of being a duchess.

  For a wild minute, he pictured that woman he had so often seen, the woman who walked down the aisle toward him, her face covered in a thick veil. He lifted that veil and saw Dorothy before him, but she wasn’t smiling. She was fidgeting with her bouquet, her green eyes wide, before she glanced back at the congregation.

  In the pews, he saw everyone his Duchess would be responsible for. He saw his tenants and housekeeper, not to mention all the other servants who stared at him expectantly. In his mind’s eye, Dorothy glared back at them.

  She is a free spirit.

  With sudden realization, as if he had been struck by lightning, he pulled back from her. One of his hands was still on her arm, and the other moved back down and rested softly on the curve of her waist. He struggled to let go of this intimacy, this warmth, even as he knew he must.

  Dorothy would hate being a duchess. It’s a life of responsibility and propriety, every second of every day. She longs for freedom! A partner in crime! And… I cannot be that.

  Yet, she clearly knew nothing of his thoughts. She was smiling up at him, her smile so broad that he was tempted to forget his thoughts and beg for another kiss. But he could not.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly. “I was weak.”

  Her smile faded at once. She tilted her head to the side in confusion, her wild hair even madder now as he realized that he was the one who had messed it up as he’d angled her head for their kiss, indulging in a fantasy of toying with her wild tendrils.

  “What did you say?” she whispered.

  He was shaking his head already, struggling to put his thoughts into words. He released her and stepped back, turning on the spot and thrusting his hands into his hair in distress.

  What have I done?

  “Stephen?” Dorothy murmured, her voice soft. “Did you just say that you were weak?”

  “I was.”

  He sharply turned back to face her, lowering his hands from his face. He had to stop this, had to make her turn away from him. If he told her the truth, the knowledge that if he asked her to marry him now, she would be trapped, she would not accept it. He knew that.

  I need to take control of the situation.

  “Stephen.” She stepped toward him and took hold of the lapels of his coat again, tugging softly on them. “Why do you look as if you are about to run away from me after a kiss like this? You cannot kiss me in this manner and not mean it—”

  “It was a weakness.”

  “What does that even mean?” she asked, her voice growing louder.

  “I… I cannot marry you, Dorothy,” he stuttered. Tongue-tied, he stared at her. She abruptly released his coat, though she didn’t step back. Not yet.

  “Strange,” she muttered, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “I do not remember asking you to.”

  “Yet, it is what you expect me to ask you now, is it not? Understandable after I…” Stephen trailed off and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Let me guess.” Dorothy smiled, though there was no humor in it, more a sad sort of triumph. “You lost your mind again for a minute? That is the only reason you would consider kissing me?”

  “Not exactly.” He considered telling her the truth, that he didn’t want to trap her, but he wasn’t sure how to put it into words. “When I marry, I am searching for a duchess, Dorothy.”

  “Ah, I see.” She looked down between them and backed up so fast that he stumbled forward, not wanting her to go so quickly. She tripped on a nearby tree root and turned once more, walking away from him.

  “Dorothy?” He couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving, not like this. He followed her, and the two of them tripped on the tree roots further down the path. “Look, when I say I am searching for a duchess—”

  “Pray, do not say anymore.” She held up a hand, stopping him from taking her arm again. She averted her eyes. “I do not need to stand here and listen to you spell out every way in which I am not the Duchess you are searching for,” she said firmly.

  “Dorothy…”

  You’d hate it. You’d hate the position you were in.

  Stephen stepped in front of her, desperate to look her in the eye. She nearly lost her balance in the effort to stop herself from colliding with him. She stumbled back, clutching the shawl around her shoulders.

  “You have spoken plainly enough,” she hissed.

  Lifting her chin high, Dorothy looked him in the eye, and once more, Stephen was reminded of how much she had changed over these last few years. She looked at him quite imperiously, with standing and a certain degree of dignity—even furious dignity, but it was there all the same.

  “I am not the lady you are seeking. I already know it. The quiet mouse, the obedient ornament that you want to marry is hardly me, is it? I am wild. I talk. I have a voice!”

  “It’s not that.”

  “You are a coward,” Dorothy muttered and walked around him.

  “A coward?” he spluttered and hurried after her again. This time, he didn’t even look where he was putting his feet and slipped in the damp mud. He barely managed to right himself as he caught up to her once again. “I’m a coward?”

  “You are!” she tossed over her shoulder. “You are so obsessed with what people think of you, of performing to the ton’s standards, that the idea of giving me anything more than a kiss horrifies you, does it not?”

  “Horrifies? Dorothy, that is strong language.”

  “Yet, it is true.” They reached the edge of the garden, and she rounded on him, facing him sharply, her face shining in the moonlight. “Marry me? God forbid!” she said, mimicking his tone. “How could you marry such a woman who would argue with you, use the wrong cutlery at dinner, and prefer the outdoors and adventure to sitting neatly at home with her feet tucked under her as she applies herself to her embroidery?”

  “Dorothy, please.”

  Stephen felt pain in his chest. She hated him, and rightly so after what he had said, but all he wanted was to make this right again, to turn back the hands of his pocket watch and change the words he’d uttered to her.

  “No more.” Dorothy shook her head and stepped out from beyond the tree line. “No more, Stephen.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I will not dance around you anymore. I will not be confused by you, drawn in by you one moment only to be cast aside the next, like a muddy boot you have no care for.”

  “I would never describe you as such!”

  “No, no, course not,” she drawled. She lifted her chin high, and Stephen felt the words die in his throat as he looked at her, impressed by the power of her glare. “You just described me as a woman who would never be suitable to be a duchess.”

  Stephen blinked at her, lost for words. Uncertain what to say, he just stared back at her. Was this not what he wanted? To ensure Dorothy did not expect a proposal? Yet, the anger with which she looked at him made him want to skulk back into the trees and hide for good.

  “Goodnight, Your Grace.” She used his title. Not his name, as they had addressed each other for years, but his title! She curtsied as if there had never been anything informal between them at all. “Rest assured, you will not hear me talking of this subject again.”

  “Dorothy. Dorothy, please,” Stephen hissed, stepping toward her, but she was marching away fast. She gave no sign of hearing him at all as she walked through the garden. “Let me just explain myself better. When you see it from my perspective, you’ll understand. I know it. Dorotheo!”

  Dorothy halted on the doorstep and turned back to face him. Yet, if he hoped that her nickname would capture her attention and make her talk to him, he was wrong. Her eyes flashed silver in the moonlight, her jaw set firmly.

  “Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said with finality. “You and I have behaved inappropriately enough for one night. I am sure your strong sense of propriety and to do what’s expected of you means that you will not follow me into the house now.” She opened the door and stepped into the house, shutting it hurriedly behind her.

  Stephen stood on the doorstep, shaken to his core and staring at the wood that had come close to knocking him in the nose. Bracing his palms against the wood, feeling the dew of the cold air bleed across his skin, he was tempted to defy her and follow her. Let him abandon every rule just to follow her and explain himself better.

  Why do I wish to explain myself? After all, I achieved what I wanted. She does not expect a proposal now.

  Still, he longed to follow after her. It took a minute or so for him to realize that the concept of Dorothy hating him in any way cut deep. He couldn’t bear the thought, and his chest ached so much that he turned and leaned against the wood, sliding down to sit on the step.

  He could feel the dew seeping through his trousers. No doubt, if anyone saw him in this state, he’d be unrecognizable in the exhibition he had made of himself. He tried to adjust the lapels of his frock coat as if it would make the slightest bit of difference, but that pain in his chest persisted, and his heart thudded hard.

  Come back, Dorothy. Please.

  He closed his eyes and hung his head forward, reliving the moment he had kissed her. God’s wounds, the passion had overtaken him suddenly, to show her what he felt for her, that it amounted to far more than just tension from arguments.

  What is it I feel for you, Dorothy?

  It was why he had kissed her. Unable to find the words, he had sought to act it out instead.

  A sound made his eyes fly open. Something scuffed beneath someone’s boots.

  Stephen scrambled to stand and hurried down the garden path, jerking his head back and forth. Was it possible that Dorothy had returned outside, after all? Did he have another chance to be alone with her, to try again, to persuade her not to hate him and relieve this ache in his chest?

  He thought he saw a shadow, someone moving at the far end of the path, and then the figure darted around the west corner of the building and vanished.

  Was that Dorothy?

  Stephen ran forward, hardly caring what sounds he made. His shoes scuffed loudly on the gravel before he skidded to a stop, rounding the corner, expecting to come face-to-face with Dorothy.

  There was no one there. The empty path, lit strongly by the moonlight, glowed silver and bare. Stephen turned on the spot, spinning on his heel quite madly, sure he had not imagined the figure.

  Something creaked at a distance up ahead, and he moved forward again, inching toward the sound. It took a minute or so for him to realize what the source of the noise was. Reaching the house, he found that the door to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters wasn’t shut tightly. Taking hold of the handle, he turned it and heard that same creaking whine.

  “No, no, no,” he murmured as he opened the door and looked inside.

  The corridor was as bare as the garden path behind him, though, in the distance, he could hear someone’s footsteps running somewhere, perhaps up a set of stairs to the main part of the house.

  Someone else was in the garden.

  As if he had been struck across the face, Stephen stumbled back, the fear ricocheting through him strongly. If someone had seen him and Dorothy arguing this late at night in the garden, it would have been inappropriate, indeed. In fact, by breakfast the next morning, there could be talk of scandal.

  “What do I do now?”

  Stephen stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He hurried through the house, trying to track down the person that had been in the garden. He found a speck of mud at the top of the stairs leading to the corridor where all of Lady Webster’s guests were staying. But with no further clue as to who had been in the garden, he slunk back to his chamber.

  Someone may well have seen us.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Are you well, Stephen?” Allan whispered as they sat down for breakfast. “You’re not eating. It’s unlike you.”

  Stephen stared at his plate. He could eat, he could find a reason to do so, but every time he thought of reaching for some food, he looked around the room with unease. His eyes darted from one face to the next as he hoped to discover who had been in the garden the night before.

  He was on tenterhooks, waiting to see which of the guests would spread the rumor, but to his amazement, no one seemed to know of his escapade into the garden with Dorothy the night before. His suspicions appeared to be wrong, for the conversation was purely about the changes Lord Webster intended to make to his house and Lady Webster’s plans to hold as many balls and parties as she could during the Season.

  “Stephen?” Allan hissed in a low voice. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

  “Here, take this, then.” Allan refilled his coffee cup for him. “That will help.”

  Across the table, Dorothy didn’t look up from her plate. She hadn’t said a single word to anyone yet, and she firmly refused to look at Stephen, even though he frequently looked at her, waiting to meet her eyes. He’d sat opposite her in the hope of catching her eye, and being as they were, with their easy jibes and taunts of one another.

  Plainly, they could not return to what they had once been. She wasn’t going to let it happen.

  “Dorothy, would you like to come for a walk with us today?” Lady Charlotte asked at her side.

  Imbued with sudden energy, Dorothy turned to her friend and nodded. They planned their walk together, but still, Dorothy never once acknowledged Stephen’s presence.

  This is unbearable.

  “Have you two called a truce?” Allan muttered.

  “What?” Stephen turned his head toward his friend.

  “You and Dorothy. You have not yet argued this morning.”

  Stephen chose not to reply. Arguing was normal for them. Silence was a mark of true discord.

  “Your Grace?” The butler appeared beside Stephen. “This has arrived for you.” He moved a silver card tray forward, on which a slim letter sat.

 

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