Yet she remained aware enough to know that she wasn’t alone in that storm; Wick’s large hands were trembling as they slid down her back, rounded onto her bottom, and pulled her up and against his body. Which wasn’t a bit like Rodney’s doughy anatomy. In fact, he didn’t feel in the least like Rodney . . .

It was Wick who pulled back, Wick who stepped away, leaving Philippa trying to catch her breath. His chest was heaving too, and she could see the wildness in his eyes. She had never felt more feminine, more desired, and more powerful, in her life.

“I can’t marry you,” he said, low and fierce. “You’re a lady. I cannot marry you.”

“I haven’t asked you to,” she rejoined, her voice catching.

She had to stop him before he said anything, before he said he regretted kissing her. “Good night,” she whispered, pushing her hair back from her face.

Wick stepped forward, his hands reaching toward her as if he couldn’t stop himself. She turned quickly and walked to her bedchamber door, pausing to glance over her shoulder.

He was gazing after her, just as she’d thought—and hoped—he would be.

“I just want to point out,” she said, “that not only am I in the service of your brother, but I gave away my most prized possession, my chastity. As anyone in polite society would confirm, a woman in my situation could never marry a gentleman.”

Then, before he could respond, she whisked herself through the door. Because . . . Because she had, for all intents and purposes, just asked him to marry her.

And if that wasn’t enough to disqualify her as a lady, she didn’t know what would.

Chapter Seven

When Wick appeared in the portrait gallery the following night, he didn’t say a word about her implicit proposal. Instead he inquired about Jonas’s belly troubles, and then told her a story about his Great Aunt Sophonisba. Philippa nodded and smiled, but inside, she was wild with frustration.

Was he never going to mention what happened between them? She had lain awake half the night searching for magic words that would overcome his comment about her birth, and he wanted to talk of trivialities? Then, quite suddenly, Jonas stopped fussing, gave a little snort, and fell asleep.

And just as quickly, Wick snatched the baby from her shoulder and carried him back to the nursery.

Philippa trotted along behind, her heart pounding. She was having trouble remembering her lines, just like an actress about to enter the stage. What should she say? What should she—should she . . .