“But not too late,” she whispered. She looked up. The clouds had blown off. She hadn’t felt the wind—she hadn’t felt anything except for him, and he hadn’t even touched her. But somehow the sky was clear. The stars were out.

That was important. She didn’t know why, but it was.

“Thomas,” she whispered, and her heart was skipping. Pounding.

Breaking.

“Thom—”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say my name.”

Why?

It was on the tip of her tongue, desperate to be voiced, but she didn’t ask. Somehow she knew she shouldn’t. Whatever the answer was, she didn’t want to hear it. Not now, not when he was staring down at her with such a hot, sad intensity.

“No one is here,” she whispered. It was true. Everyone was asleep. And she wasn’t sure why she was saying something so obvious. Maybe she just wanted him to know…without saying it so clearly. If he leaned down, if he kissed her…

She would welcome it.

He shook his head. “Someone is always here.”

But he was wrong. It was the middle of the night. Everyone was asleep. They were alone, and she wanted…she wanted…

“Kiss me.”

His eyes flared, and for a moment it almost looked as if he were in pain. “Amelia, don’t.”

“Please.” She smiled, as cheekily as she could manage. “You owe it to me.”

“I—” First he looked surprised, then amused. “I owe it to you?”

“For twenty years of engagement. You owe me a kiss.”

He slid into a reluctant smile. “For twenty years of engagement, I should think I’d owe you several.”

She wet her lips. They’d gone dry from the fast rush of her breath. “One will suffice.”

“No,” he said softly, “it wouldn’t. It would never be enough.”

She stopped breathing. He was going to do it. He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her, and by God, she would kiss him back.

She stepped forward.

“Don’t,” he said, but his voice was not firm.

She reached out, her hand coming within inches of his.

“Amelia, don’t,” he said roughly.

Oh no. He was not going to push her away. She would not let him. He was not going to say it was for her own good, or that he knew best, or that anyone knew best except for her. This was her life, and her night, and as God was her witness, he was her man.

She launched herself at him.

On him, really.

“Am—”