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If it was not her father who had opened that door, if it was a guest or a member of the ton, she would be ruined. No apology, no explanation would suffice.

She whispered a prayer into the darkness, her voice no louder than the wind.

Let it be Papa.

Please.

Aidan was still reeling. His emotions were in disarray, his senses overwhelmed by Miss Smythe’s presence, but the intoxication was swiftly giving way to the sharp chill of reality. The terrace, which had only moments ago been cloaked in moonlit intimacy, was now peopled with onlookers. Guests had rounded the corner in a murmuring cluster and come to a halt, their eyes wide, their expressions a mixture of fascination and horror. It was as though he had sprouted horns and hooves before their very eyes.

Near the back of the group, Trafford stood frozen, his face a portrait of stunned disbelief. He raked a hand through his wheat-colored curls in agitation. A moment later, he lifted both arms in a gesture of helplessness, a silent apology mingled with acknowledgment. There was no extricating themselves from this.

Several older couples stood rigidly, the ladies pressing gloved hands to their mouths, the gentlemen straight-backed and stony-eyed. Aidan recognized none of them, but their expressions revealed that they most certainly recognized him.

“It is Moreland’s heir!” The impasse was shattered by a shrill voice. A peeress with graying blonde hair whose dismay pierced the night air like a bell.

“Who is that with him?” asked the gentleman beside her, clutching her arm with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

Trafford cleared his throat and stepped forward, trying to reclaim the narrative. “I am quite certain this is not what it appears. Lord Abbott is a nobleman of unimpeachable character.”

Aidan did not hear him. His gaze was fixed on Trafford, his mind turning with ruthless clarity. In his breast pocket, the folded list of sales crinkled with his breath. If their suspicions proved true, if Frederick Smythe’s hand could be tied to a terrible crime, then the brilliant, self-possessed woman who had just stirred something profound in him would be doubly ruined. First by the scandal of this moment and again by her father’s likely downfall.

The thought made his blood run cold. Miss Smythe—so learned, so luminous—deserved better than whispers and disgrace. She deserved dignity, protection. And that duty, however unintended, now fell to him.

The dark, he hoped, had hidden the worst of their embrace. When he had shielded her body with his own, perhaps he had spared her from the most damning implications. Yet he knew whispers would race ahead of fact.

He had kissed her. He had reached for her first. The blame lay squarely with him.

Aidan glanced once more at Trafford, who stared back with dawning horror as comprehension bloomed on his face. Aidan could almost hear the silent cry, Do not say it. Do not make it worse.

But for once, Aidan felt certain.

Miss Smythe was no flirt, no schemer. She had trusted him, and he had answered that trust with recklessness. There was only one path now that offered any form of justice, any protection for her name.

Drawing a breath deep into his lungs, Aidan turned toward the gathering. The air was hushed, the scent of box hedges and evening dew rising faintly in the space between them.

“I just offered for Miss Smythe’s hand in marriage,” he said, voice clear, firm, and steady. “And she accepted.”

The declaration landed like a thunderclap. Behind him, he heard Gwen’s soft intake of breath. Trafford visibly winced, lifting a hand as though to halt the inevitable.

But it was done.