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He stepped closer to settle her bonnet back on her head, careful with the bent ribbon. They were near enough now that she could see the darker ring of color around his irises, the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the sheen of exertion at his throat where his cravat had come just slightly askew.

His fingers brushed her hair as he adjusted the brim. The touch was feather-light, but her whole body answered as if he’d rung a bell inside her.

The world narrowed to the soft rush of the sea, the hush of wind, the feel of damp sand sinking under her toes—and his gaze on her.

He didn’t step back.

He stayed there, too close to call polite and not close enough to be anything else. His eyes dipped, for the briefest moment, to her mouth, then lifted again, searching her face as if asking something he hadn’t yet earned the right to say.

If he leans in, she thought wildly, I will let him.

A clock somewhere in her mind chimed the warning Mrs. Hart had given her: one hour.

A quarter of it, at least, was already gone.

Chester drew a breath, as if coming to a decision, and bent his head a fraction nearer.

Her heart slammed once, hard enough she could feel it all the way down to the sand. For the first time, the future she’d been running from did not look like a trap; it looked like a path that led straight to him, and she wanted—desperately—to follow it.

Chapter 21

Chester stopped a whisper short of her mouth.

The wind tasted of salt. His feet sank a little into the damp sand. He should step back—should remember the promenade above, the rules, the ways a moment could become a story that hurt her.

Instead he stood and watched her.

She smiled, breathless and bright, hair escaping in loose strands. Hers was not the sort of smile a lady wore for rooms full of people but it felt as though it were one just for him. And the reason was small to the universe but the world to her because she’d done it—run, and stayed upright. Chester knew it meant more than he could imagine and yet he was proud of her. And also of himself for being privileged to witness her breakthrough.

His lungs stalled. He had to remind himself to breathe.

“You ran,” he said, because it was safer than I wanted to catch you.

She laughed, still catching her breath, and shoved hair back beneath her bonnet with her gloved hand. “I did,” she said. “And I did not fall on my face. It’s a miraculous day.”

His gaze dropped to her feet—pink from the cold, dusted with sand—and his throat tightened. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling in his chest, except to hold very still so it didn’t spill out as something reckless.

He wanted her to have a life where that wasn’t miraculous. Where moving didn’t require bravery.

“Come,” he said, nodding toward the flat rock where his coat lay. “Before the tide decides you belong to it.”

Her toes flexed, curious, and she pressed her heel into the firm sand as if testing a promise. “Easier to roll off and still sink into the sand like a cushion,” she admitted. “More forgiving than stone, at least.”

“Good.” The word came out rougher than he meant. He tried again, lighter. “Excellent.”

I sound like a green boy.

She glanced at him, and something wry tugged her mouth. “I suppose you have earned a pastry,” she said. “You did buy me an indecent amount of vanilla.”

Indecent.

I’d like to do much more indecent things… Must. Stop. Now.

He swallowed and forced his attention back to the basket before his imagination embarrassed him into silence.

“You brought pastries?” he asked.

He lifted the cloth of the basket.