“I don’t think you heard me.”

“I heard you. I’m just not sure what it is you have to be sorry for, because all of this”—she waved her hand around her—“has exceeded my wildest expectations. And if you think I fault you in any way for being unable to uncover the history behind this collection or my grandmother’s connection to it, please know I do not. The work you’ve done on my behalf has been worth every penny—”

“I need to apologize for lying to you.”

Her fingers dropped from her pendant. “Lying to me? About what?”

“About kissing you. I’ve made a great many mistakes in my life, and kissing you was not one of them. The mistake I made was lying about it.”

“Mmm.”

He still couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“You were right that day. I was—am—hiding. From the possibility of failure.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded paper, the edges worn. “I want to read you something.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a letter Sophie wrote to my grandfather. It was in the envelope you found in the attic at Millbrook.”

Her lips parted, and he heard her inhale. “You don’t have to do that. That is a private family matter—”

“No. You deserve to hear it.” Gabriel took a deep breath and began.

When he was finished, he folded the letter back into its square. “My grandfather got his sister back, if only for a moment.” He held the letter out to Lia. “And he was proven right. She never stopped fighting.”

Wordlessly, Lia took the letter from his outstretched fingers.

“Sophie may have been writing that letter to William but the words she wrote spoke to my heart. I, too, have safely insulated myself because it was easy. I haven’t had the courage to live as she did. I haven’t really made each day count.”

“Gabriel—”

“Hear me out. I am going to try to change that. Put myself in a position where I might fail. And maybe the paintings that you bought will be the only two pieces I ever sell in my life, but I won’t know for sure unless I try, right? I won’t know if I—” He stopped abruptly as Lia went up on her toes and kissed him.

Her lips brushed his with a butterfly-light touch, and she tasted of champagne.

“For the record, that was not a mistake either,” she said.

“No,” he whispered.

“Do you trust me?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then come with me.” She put her empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter and caught his hand in hers, twining her fingers through his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.