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He rested his forehead against hers and laughed, his dark eyes shining like gemstones.

Lydia didn’t know what he was laughing at—but she couldn’t help but laugh, too.

If anyone came across them now, standing in the middle of the street and laughing in the pouring rain, they’d think them mad.

And perhaps, in that moment, they were.

“Come.” Thorn tugged her toward the carriage, a smile still on his lips.

Lydia hesitated. She couldn’t go with him. She needed to leave London. She couldn’t afford to delay her escape.

He turned back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“I can’t go with you,” she had to shout over the rain.

“Why not?”

The downpour intensified, drumming against the ground with such force that small splashes rose around their ankles.

“I have to leave.”

“No, you don’t.” He stepped toward her, squeezing her arms gently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her skin. “I won’t lose you again. You’re coming with me, and that’s that.”

“My identity has been revealed,” she protested. “People will be looking for me now. I have to go.”

He frowned. “They won’t be looking for you at my house. You’re safe with me. Besides, the way you’re soaked to the bone, you’ll be sick by morning. And with the roads washed out by the rain? You won’t get far. Please, just come with me.”

He had a point. If anyone was searching for her, Thorn’s house would be the last place they’d look. And even if she tried to escape now, she’d likely get stranded somewhere in the mud. It made sense to wait.

The thought of warmth, of dry clothes, made her knees weak with longing.

Was this logic speaking? Or was she just looking for an excuse? Thunder rumbled again, closer this time as if answering her question.

Thorn didn’t rush her, didn’t push—he simply held her hand, waiting for her to give in. Rain dripped down his face, but patience shone in his onyx eyes.

He looked gorgeous in the rain. Who would have thought?

“Just for one night,” she finally whispered, barely audible over the downpour.

Thorn smiled, triumph bringing color to his cheeks. He pulled her close and kissed her.

“Just for one night,” he echoed, clasping her hand as they dashed toward his townhouse.

* * *

Thorn banged on the door of his townhouse, waiting for a butler to let them inside. They had sprinted the short distance down the street, rain soaking them to the bone, the bottom of Lydia’s skirts heavy with mud and water.

Thorn’s heart raced, but not from their sprint through the downpour. It was Lily—Lydia—pressed against his side as they ran, her hand clasped in his, that sent his pulse hammering. He could scarcely believe she was real, that after years of searching, she was here.

Thorn had insisted they take his carriage, but Lydia dug in her heels, refusing to muddy his velvet seats. Relenting, he sent his driver home, instructing him to collect Lydia’s driver along the way and offer him food and shelter for the night. In the meantime, he and Lydia made their way home on foot.

She had been right, he realized, as he took in her reddened nose from the cold, the damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead, and the fire in her golden-brown eyes. But not because of the seats.

In that short dash through the rain, he had felt more alive than he had in the past decade.

Cecil opened the door, and even a seasoned butler such as him couldn’t hold in his shock at the view of his master soaked to the bone and muddy, standing on the threshold, clutching the hand of an equally drenched woman as if she might dissolve back into the rain if he let go.

“Order the maids to warm some water for us, would you?” Thorn asked, his voice rough.