It was a slow-burning kind of dusk, the kind where golden light pooled in corners and shadows stretched like secrets. You had stepped out into the garden to escape the closeness of drawing room talk, only to find yourself under the wide eye of the sky—and his gaze, already waiting.

“Miss Dashwood,” came his voice, deeper in the quiet. Not stern. But something was bracing in it, like cold air laced with smoke.

You turned, startled but not surprised. Of course, he had followed. He always did, though never without intention.

“I’d thank you not to vanish without a word again,” he said, his voice a low current. “You cause more unrest in me than I’d care to admit before others.”

Your breath caught.

He took a measured step toward you—one gloved hand already bare, as though he had anticipated needing touch to speak where words might falter. “I know well what is expected of a man in my position. And I have obeyed every rule… save one.”

His hand came to rest at your elbow, and you felt the heat of it even through the fabric.

“I will not watch you let others turn your head simply because I must bite my tongue in public. I have stood silent long enough.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

And then—deliberate, sure, but soft—he kissed you. As though he had imagined it a thousand times and could no longer suffer imagination alone. His mouth was warm, coaxing, and when he drew back, it was only by a breath.

“I’ll beg your forgiveness if I must,” he murmured, lips still near, “but I will not pretend I haven’t already made you mine in my heart.”

His fingers trailed down to your wrist, holding it gently.

“Tell me… must I keep waiting in silence, or will you let me claim what I already feel belongs to me?”