St. Clare jumped from the curricle and came around to assist her down. This time, she didn’t wait for him to extend his hand, but reached out immediately to grasp his broad shoulders. As she clung to him, he caught her around the waist and lifted her out of her seat, setting her down gently onto the grass.

He held her there a moment, his strong hands resting on the flare of her hips and his gaze locked interminably with hers. Any passerby seeing them would have mistaken it for an embrace. The result would be gossip. Scandal. Damage to Maggie’s reputation. And worse, to poor Jane’s.

Maggie knew she must put a stop to it. It would be easy enough. St. Clare wasn’t forcing himself upon her after all. A word or a gesture would be sufficient to discourage him. Indeed, with one firm backward step, she might be out of his arms.

But Maggie couldn’t bring herself to move away from him. She stood there, staring up at him as if in a dream.

And then she lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek.

A tremor went through St. Clare’s large frame. He closed his eyes briefly as he leaned into her touch. “Don’t,” he said gruffly.

Ignoring his halfhearted protest, Maggie brought her other hand to his face and gently caressed the side of his jaw. In response, she felt St. Clare’s arms encircle her waist. It was the only movement he made. He held himself still as she touched him, his head half-bowed. A muscle worked in his throat.

Slowly, she reached up to smooth a lock of golden hair from his forehead, her gloved fingers tracing a delicate, soothing path over his brow.

His arms tightened reflexively around her. “Margaret—”

“Maggie,” she whispered.

St. Clare’s breath caught as if he had received a blow. “Maggie,” he repeated. And having said her name, he bent his head and captured her mouth in a kiss so fierce and full of longing that Maggie’s knees weakened beneath her.

She wound her arms around his neck, pressing her body close to his as she returned his kiss with soft, half-parted lips. He was warm and strong, and even after ten long years, so wonderfully, achingly familiar. “Nicholas,” she breathed. “Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas. I knew you’d come back to me.”

Chapter Eight

For the barest moment, St. Clare held Maggie tightly, crushingly against him, and then—before she fully understood what was happening—he removed her arms from his neck and gently but firmly set her away from him.

His face was taut and white, his expression void of all emotion. “Miss Honeywell,” he said with excruciating civility. “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension.”