Iris wasn't like that anymore. She had taken too many emotional blows. She'd barely survived Attie's birth and her recovery had been long and difficult. Then Worthington Manor on their Shropshire estate had burned nearly to the ground, and they had all moved to their current home, bringing only what they could rescue from the manor. The books, some furnishings, yes, but the home of their combined memories was lost. Iris had regained her health but in Lysander's recollection, she'd remained fragile.

And then he himself had died. That's what his family had been told. The name Lysander Worthington appeared on the list of the deceased. A simple wartime mistake. Only Lysander was aware of the hidden irony of that cosmic error.

That younger man was gone. He'd never come home from the Peninsular War. The things he had seen, the things that he felt, the things that he had done.

His mind slid away from that thorny thought, that knowledge that existed within him like a fistful of bramble, unable to be held by any fashion without experiencing piercing pain.

Gemma was humming. The sun had set outside and she was cooking by the light of the lantern. Some women were their most attractive by daylight. Some women seemed more beautiful by candlelight.

Lysander held very still as she glanced in his direction and caught his intent gaze. Her clear gray eyes widened and her soft lips parted slightly. His headache and the soreness in his body disappeared at the shimmer of awareness in her guileless eyes.

Gemma Oakes was lovely in every light.

She looked away quickly, but Lysander saw the blush creeping up her neck and heating her cheeks.

He felt rather overheated as well. And it wasn't just because he come in from the crisp, invigorating evening to the warmth and golden light of the kitchen. It was the memory of her achingly hungry gaze this afternoon. It was the sight of her now. She made his heart beat faster. She made him conscious of the blood rushing through his veins. It was startling and alarming. He had felt nothing for so long. His body had seemed like a mechanism that he had little interest in operating. He'd sometimes felt as if his soul floated just outside of his body, bound by only the most tenuous tie to his physical form.

Now he felt fully dressed in his own skin. His pulse pounded. His skin prickled. His throat felt tight and his palms tingled. His hands wanted to reach for her and slide his fingers up her soft bare neck, over her soft cheek, and to tip her chin up and slide his tip of his thumb across her lower lip.

I am awake.

It came as a startling notion.

Whirling back to her bubbling pot, Gemma banged the wooden spoon against the side of the pot so hard she knocked it out of her own grip.