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There had been something … more on the terrace. A resonance. A quiet magic that had settled over them like grace from the heavens. In those moments, she had not felt reckless, but safe. Utterly and entirely herself. As though the rhythm of her soul had suddenly aligned with another’s. There had been a symmetry between them, a silent understanding that required no words. Not only desire, but recognition.

Despite her current dread, Gwen knew with a strange certainty that she would carry the memory of that encounter like a locket tucked close to her heart. A cherished thing however inconvenient.

Relief stirred in her chest at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall. The erratic parade of thoughts swirling in her mind had become unbearable. With luck, her father might bring a measure of calm. Direction. She needed guidance, a path forward through the tangle she had created. Her misstep had not endangered herself alone, but unsettled the entire household.

The footsteps halted. The door opened.

Gwen straightened abruptly, her hands clenched together in her lap, her thoughts scrambling to form some coherent explanation, some defense of her conduct, however feeble.

But the man who entered was not her father.

It was the stranger from the terrace.

Tall, commanding, broad of shoulder and straight of bearing. In the lamplight, he looked impossibly handsome. Rich brown hair, warm eyes the color of polished mahogany, and features that seemed sculpted by a divine hand. For a moment, she wondered if her senses deceived her. Surely, such a man could not have sought her out? A man so clearly bred from privilege and elegance? It defied reason.

And yet he stood before her, hesitating, his gaze resting on hers with a depth that made her breath catch. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the settee beside her.

Gwen remained stiff, hands folded tightly, the edge of the cushion barely bearing her weight. She did not move. She could scarcely believe that, even after seeing her plainly in full light, he had chosen to sit near her.

Turning to glance at the door, she saw her father enter.

And her heart dropped.

Frederick Smythe was beaming. Positively glowing with delight.

Gwen recognized the expression instantly. It was the same look he wore whenever he believed fate had gifted him a triumph. Her father did not merely approve. He was elated. No counsel of reason would come from him tonight. No quiet support if she wished to deny the man beside her.

He believed, with complete conviction, that the right man had at last appeared.

Aidan was still reeling from the tumult that had played out only moments ago beyond the very doors now shut behind him. He had never conducted himself in such a reckless fashion. From the earliest days of his youth, his father had ingrained in him the value of restraint, of dignity, of upholding their name with honor. Yet he had been caught beneath the night sky, with his hands upon the person of a gently bred young lady.

The memory made him wince.

Later this evening, he would be duty-bound to confess his folly to the viscount. That, too, was a galling prospect.

Never in his life had he done anything so disgraceful.

What about leaving Lily alone on the night of the coronation?

The bitter thought pierced his reverie. He closed his eyes briefly as the weight of that night returned to him. The reason he was in the Smythe household this very evening had been almost forgotten in the swirl of other sensations.

Apparently, poor judgment was becoming a rather unwelcome theme in his life.

And yet, sitting here now, beside the very woman whose kiss had undone him, he could not deny the undercurrent of something far more potent than shame. There was excitement, yes, but also reverence. A humbling sense of awe.

She was unlike anyone he had ever met.

There was something timeless about her. A figure born not of society’s artifice but of classical beauty and intellect. A Renaissance muse come to life. Perhaps The Birth of Venus, in all her striking singularity. The flame of her long red hair framed her delicate features like a halo, and though he tried to temper the thought, it stirred him deeply.

He chastised himself for the sudden flash of imagination. The inappropriate thought of her posed upon a shell as in Botticelli’s famed painting. Just how far did that celestial constellation of freckles travel?

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to return to sense.

When he had first entered and she had turned toward him, meeting his gaze directly, he had been struck by the clarity of her eyes. Deep blue, like her father’s, but softer somehow. More thoughtful. In the golden hush of lamplight, her skin had glowed like rich cream, and it had taken effort not to stare. The impulse to sit beside her had been undeniable. She drew him in not only with her appearance, but with her mind. Sharp, eloquent, composed.

And now, sitting beside her, close enough to catch the subtle citrus scent that clung to her skin, Aidan found himself tangled in a far more troubling question.

Was she involved?