“You have to take it now, you know.” He grasped the center of the cane and held it out so the handle was within reach. “My honesty should not go unrewarded.”

Sarah knew she should not allow him to do this. He might want to help her now, but later that day, his leg would hurt. Needlessly.

But somehow she knew that to refuse would cause him far more pain than anything his leg could give him later that day. He needed to help her, she realized.

He needed to help her far more than she needed help.

For a moment she could hardly speak.

“Lady Sarah?”

She looked up. He was watching her with a curious expression, and his eyes . . . How was it possible his eyes grew more beautiful each time she saw him? He wasn’t smiling; the truth was, he didn’t smile that often. But she saw it in his eyes. A glint of warmth, of happiness.

It hadn’t been there that first day at Fensmore.

And it stunned her to her very toes how much she never wanted it to go away.

“Thank you,” she said decisively, but instead of the cane, she reached toward his hand. “Help me up?”

Neither was wearing gloves, and the sudden burst of warmth on her skin made her tremble. His hand wrapped firmly around hers, and with a little tug, she found herself on her feet. Or foot, really. She was balancing on the good one.

“Thank you,” she said again, somewhat alarmed at how breathless she sounded.

Wordlessly, he held out the cane, and she took it, curling her fingers around the smooth handle. It felt almost intimate, holding this object that had practically become an extension of his body.

“It’s a bit tall for you,” he said.

“I can make do.” She tested out a step.

“No, no,” he said, “you need to lean into it a bit more. Like this.” He stepped behind her and placed his hand over hers on the handle of the cane.

Sarah stopped breathing. He was so close that she could feel his breath, warm and ticklish on the tip of her ear.

“Sarah?” he murmured.

She nodded, needing a moment to find her voice again. “I-I think I have it now.”

He stepped away, and for a moment all she could feel was the loss of his presence. It was startling, and disconcerting, and . . .

And it was cold.

“Sarah?”

She shook herself out of her odd reverie. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Woolgathering.”

He grinned. Or maybe it was a smirk. A friendly one, but still smirkish.

“What is it?” She’d never seen him smile like that.

“Just wondering where the wardrobe was.”

It took her a moment—she was sure she would have got it instantly if she’d not been so befuddled—and then she grinned right back. And then: “You called me Sarah.”

He paused. “So I did. I apologize. It was unconsciously done.”