“Not like that,” she whispered furiously. “In an intimate way. That is, not in an intimate way.”

Every meeting they shared proved intimate; intimacy was an emotional connection, and one he feared more than any other kind.

“I don’t think that is a good idea, Myrtle,” he said quietly. In fact, he knew it was a deuced bad one.

The worst. It was a manner of temptation far greater than the mere apple held out in that fated garden.

“Please,” she whispered. “I . . . We will never see one another again.” And then she proceeded to ramble. “I will have my London Season and you will certainly not attend any of those balls or soirees.”

The truth of that, the realization, cleaved him straight through like a battle-ax, slicing through his middle and rending his heart right in half. And if that weren’t further reason to politely decline and urge her back inside that room alone, he didn’t know what was.

“And I’ll marry Lord Who Knows, who won’t understand me or my Miss Austen”—she let her hand fly through the air, slashing at it, cutting close to his chest—“but some gentleman who wants me to be nothing more than an arm ornament.”

Oh, God. And he wanted desperately for her to stop, not because of the earlier annoyance he’d felt from having his solitude stolen by her, but because of the words that fell from her lips, ones that painted a scene of her married to some other man.

“And then I’ll go . . . Lord knows where.” Pain twisted her features, and he keenly felt and shared in that misery. “I mean, it might be the wilds of North Yorkshire or Wales, or mayhap even Scotland.”

And she’d be far away from Val, and beyond his reach forever.

He should be relieved.

So why, then, did he want to toss his head back and snarl like a feral beast?

“Fine.” He flung that harsh capitulation out to make her just stop with the scenes she painted. Alas, he was hopeless where this woman was concerned. At some point, somehow, he’d cracked open the door to feeling just enough for this one to wend her way in. “Fine,” he gritted out a second time. “I’ll . . . join you.”

Myrtle smiled widely. “Splendid!” And spinning on her heel, she all but floated into the rooms and headed for the fire.

Val entered, turned, and closed the door, locking it, using the action as a moment to put his thoughts to rights, fighting to free himself from the torturous imagery she’d painted of her off in London, dancing with some undeserving fellow who’d make her his wife and take her away and . . . He growled and turned angrily back, determined to tell her he was not staying. Because this was both improper and a mistake and—

The words stuck on his tongue.