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He cannot mean it. He is being kind.

But she pushed those thoughts away with a viciousness that surprised her, clinging to this moment, to the fiction that she might be desirable. If this was all she would ever have, if these stolen kisses were the sum total of her romantic existence, then she would not allow doubt to taint them. She would believe, if only for these precious minutes, that his words were true.

Angelo’s hands moved from her hair to clasp her own, holding them with a reverence that made her tremble. No one had ever touched her thus. No one had ever wanted to.

The thought nearly brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. She would not weep. She would not waste a single moment of this interlude on tears.

His touch was gentle and unhurried, and it left her heart racing. She leaned toward him instinctively, seeking more of this glorious feeling that was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

Then Angelo tore away abruptly, mumbling a curse in Italian, “Madonna mia,” and Isolde’s heart began to crack.

Here it comes.

The moment crashed over her like a wave of frigid water.

He has finally seen. The moonlight has revealed what I am, and now he recoils in horror.

She braced herself for the expression she knew so well. The widening of the eyes, the tightening of the jaw, the carefully neutral face that people assumed when they were trying not to show revulsion. She braced herself for the apologetic stammering, the hasty retreat, the excuses that would tumble from his lips as he tried to extricate himself from the situation without being overtly cruel.

She braced herself for the end of everything.

But then she saw him leap down to the base of the wall, landing on the narrow path beside the steps that led down to the cove. He turned back immediately, reaching up for her with both arms extended, his face etched not with horror or revulsion but with concern.

Isolde stared at him, uncomprehending. Why had he pulled away? Why did he look so worried? His expression held none of the disgust she had anticipated, none of the pity she had dreaded.

“Isolde, per favore,” he said urgently, his Italian accent thickening in his agitation. “We are sitting on the edge of a wall that drops down the cliff. It is not safe.”

Relief flooded through her so powerfully that she almost laughed aloud, the sound rising in her chest, like the quiet effervescence of champagne in the glass. He had not pulled away because he saw her marks. He had pulled away because he feared for her safety. Because, in the midst of their embrace, he had remembered what she had entirely forgotten. That they were perched on a wall with a sheer drop behind them, that one wrong movement could send either, or both, tumbling to the rocks below.

He had been protecting her.

The tension drained from her shoulders as she accepted his help, allowing him to grasp her waist. His hands were warm even through her clothing, strong and sure as he helped her down from the wall. She had never been lifted by a man before, had never been touched by a man at all until Angelo. The sensation made her feel both fragile and precious, like a piece of fine porcelain being handled with exquisite care.

He lowered her slowly to the ground, and she rested her hands on his shoulders as she descended. Isolde’s breath caught in her throat at the care in every movement.

And then her eyes widened in shock when she realized how he was looking at her, his gaze full of wonder. She had read about this, of course. Some of her novels were quite eloquent in their descriptions of a gentleman’s devotion, but reading and experiencing were two entirely different things.

He cares for me.

The thought was so foreign, so utterly unexpected, that she almost could not believe it. And yet the evidence shone in his eyes, unmistakable and undeniable.

He truly cares for me.

The moment her feet touched the ground, they fell back into each other’s arms as if the brief interruption had never occurred. Angelo’s kiss was no longer tentative, no longer careful. He cradled her face in his hands, gazing at her as if committing her features to memory.

He murmured endearments in Italian, some of which she understood, others she did not, but the tone told her everything she needed to know. His voice was rough with emotion, almost hoarse, and each word he spoke sent fresh waves of joy cascading through her heart.

“Tesoro mio,” he breathed softly, his forehead resting against hers. She gasped, her fingers curling into the wool of his coat. “Sei tutto per me. Ti adoro.”

My treasure. You are everything to me. I adore you.

This was what it meant to be cherished. Her heart seemed to know things her mind did not, reaching toward him, seeking warmth and connection. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the fine wool of his coat as she held on, desperate never to let go.

She had spent so many years believing herself undesirable, believing that no man would ever look upon her with anything but horror or pity. She had resigned herself to a life of solitude, had built walls around her heart as surely as Grimsfell Hall was built upon the cliffs. And now those walls were crumbling, falling away beneath the onslaught of Angelo’s kisses, his touch, his whispered words of devotion.

It was glorious to lose herself in his arms, to forget for these precious moments that she was the phantom of Grimsfell Hall. To simply be Isolde … a woman kissing the man she was falling in love with.

I love him.