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His warmth invaded her senses first, followed by the pleasant notes of citrus and pine. It was rather like being taken into his embrace. But she couldn’t linger on that disturbing thought long, for the rain picked up, pelting them with punishing sheets. Prestwick took her hand in his and hurried through the last of the maze, bringing them out the other side and to the orangery door as he had promised.

Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. He swept it open and gestured for her to precede him as the unrelenting rains all but destroyed his poor hat. She rushed inside, her skirts heavy and damp, Prestwick’s jacket still wrapped around her. He followed her, his white shirt sleeves stuck to his muscled arms, his dark hair slicked down his neck where the brim of his hat had failed him.

The rain pelted the glass windows overhead as they stared at each other, both dripping and somewhat bedraggled. No one else was about, neither domestic, nor guest. The air was warm and musty inside the orangery, redolent of soil and lemons and growing things.

A raindrop trickled down her cheek, catching in the corner of her lips. He reached for it in the same moment she instinctively flicked out her tongue to catch it. She licked up the wetness, but her tongue also grazed over the pad of his thumb.

She froze, staring up at him. He gazed back at her, his eyes the blue of a glorious summer sky, laden with unabashed sensual intent. The mask didn’t detract from his beauty. Nothing could. He cupped her jaw in a gentle touch. Her breath caught.

Ophelia thought she ought to say something. Perhaps thank him for his gallant rescue. For lending her his coat. But she couldn’t force her lips to move for fear it would break the spell that had somehow been cast over them both, chasing his touch away. She very much wanted to keep his hand just where it was.

Indeed, she never wanted to move again.

She could happily stay thus, in the orangery with him, water dripping down his throat over the protrusion of his Adam’s apple, his decadent scent mingling with fresh rain and damp earth and lush vegetation. And there was more: his thumb on her lips, the taste of him on her tongue, his hand on her jaw both tender and compelling.

No touch had ever been so profound.

And that made it dangerous.

Made him dangerous.

She stepped away, ending the contact between them, attempting to shatter the hold he seemingly had on her. Ophelia had to think of Reggie and Catherine. Her children were of the utmost importance to her. They came first, before anyone else, and that included herself.

“Forgive me,” she said, voice hoarse from the furor pent up within her. “I didn’t mean to… That is to say, I never should have… I’m afraid I cannot.”

A shadow flickered in his eyes, but his expression remained tender. “You cannot what?”

He was going to make her say the words aloud. Her cheeks went furiously hot as she tried again with as much deliberation as she could muster in her flustered state.

“I am here as a hostess, not to indulge in the…pursuits of the houseguests.” Her lips felt stiff and numb.

She remembered she was wearing his coat and unwound it from about her shoulders, offering the sodden garment to him. “Thank you.”

Prestwick shook his head, making no move to take the coat from her. “Keep it for now.”

If she did that, she wouldn’t want to surrender it. Not ever. It was rapidly becoming apparent he was her weakness—and one she couldn’t afford.

“You’ll catch your death,” she protested.

The coat was heavy, still warm from their body heat combined, and it felt like something so much more than a mere cut of cloth. It felt intimate. Like a love letter she had found by mistake and yet read anyway, even though it hadn’t been meant for her.

He grinned, the full effect of his dimples making her knees threaten to buckle. “I’m of hardy stock. I assure you I’ve endured far more than rainstorms in my day.”

“In your day?” Her brows knitted together before she could stop herself. “But you are so very young. What burdens can a man in his twenties possibly have shouldered?”

Belatedly, she recalled that she wasn’t meant to know how old Prestwick was. But if he caught her revealing error, he gave no indication.

His expression sobered. “I reckon I’ve had my share, my lady.”

Had he known heartbreak, then? The possibility was as sharp and sudden as a pinprick to her senses. Or was it something else he referred to? Ophelia didn’t know much about Apollo’s and Aphrodite’s relationship with their father, who had passed away some years earlier. Their mother was a cool and aloof figure, and she disapproved of Aphrodite’s insistence upon remaining unwed. Aside from that, Ophelia wasn’t aware of any dissension in the family.

“Of course,” she managed with an awkward smile. “If you insist, then I will see it returned to you by one of the domestics later.”

“I do. I’ll not be responsible for you taking ill with a lung infection.” He was serious now, his gaze inscrutable, his air almost somber.

“Thank you,” Ophelia murmured. “Your concern is most kind. I never should have accompanied you to the gardens, let alone here to the orangery. I’m not ordinarily so lacking in circumspection.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” he told her softly, still watching her from beneath hooded lids.