But he’d spent a few too many hours tossing and turning these past two weeks, praying she wouldn’t. If she left now, when would he see her again? He couldn’t exactly come to call at Telford Hall or their home in London—her brother wouldn’t allow it. He knew that. She might not be engaged to Lord Sheridan, but she’d marry him or someone like him. Like that viscount who had “stumbled across” them twice already while Oliver was there—and probably many times when he wasn’t. A man with a title. Or an estate large and impressive enough that no one minded the lack of said title. Not an island vicar whose holdings on the mainland were as modest as Truro Hall, whose resources had largely been spent on ineffectual doctors for his brother.

And blast it all, but never in his life had he felt the least desire for anything more than what he had. Never the least bit of shame or regret.

But then, never in his life had he wondered if treasure hunting with a lady could be termed courting. And if so, what her family would say about it.

Libby shook her head, and it took him a moment to realize she was responding to his suggestion that she leave the Scillies, not to his silent question about whether this thing between them was a courtship. “I’m not leaving.” Flint sparked against the iron in her tone.

She wasn’t just saying it to him, he knew, about tonight. She was saying it to the invisible specter of her brother, whom she’d been half expecting to show up and demand she return home ever since the Wights’ dinner party. Perhaps Lord Scofield had forgotten to mention her to Lord Telford after all.

They could hope.

“Good. I don’t want you to leave.” A truth that warmed the back of his neck. Perhaps Enyon had been teasing him incessantly about flirting with her, but the truth was that he was a novice at such things, and while the words came naturally with her, he was also keenly aware of his own awkwardness.

He didn’t know how to court a lady. Frankly, he didn’t want to court a lady. He just wanted to get to know her better, from the inside out. He wanted the right to slide his fingers down her arm and weave them with hers. He wanted her here, at his side, indefinitely.

Heaven help him. This was all Mamm-wynn’s fault, putting ideas in his head.

No. It was Libby’s fault for being so incredibly and beautifully different from all the other girls in England.

That smile joined the moonlight again, too fleeting. She shifted a bit closer to him with one step, then back to their usual space with the next. “What time is it?”