“I will, sir.” Clara clasped Bertie more firmly to her chest, standing in tense silence as Mr. Archer and Teddy exited the room. She felt the weight of Neville’s gaze on her face—a physical sensation, as affecting as if he’d touched her cheek with his hand, just as he’d done yesterday in the moments before he’d kissed her.

She brought her eyes to meet his. A blush threatened. “I won’t keep you a minute. I only wanted to reassure myself on a few counts about Bertie.”

Neville remained where he was. His jaw was set, his hands clasped behind his back. She wondered how a gentleman who was so kind, so very warm, could suddenly look so cold and imposing.

“He sleeps most of the day,” she said. “And he prefers a place in front of the fire. If you could see to it?”

He nodded.

“And you won’t always be taking him to the stables, will you? I hate to think of him being subjected to the elements for any length of time.”

“I’ll look after him.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. “Of course you will.” Somehow she managed to smile, though she was certain it must look more like a rictus of pain. “What a ninny you must think me. Just like the day we met. All of my strictures about Bertie. As if you don’t know dogs better than I.”

“Clara…”

“I don’t regret any of it, you know. I daresay I should, but I don’t. If you—”

“There you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice rang out from the doorway. “The carriage is in the drive. You mustn’t keep the coachman waiting.”

Clara forced composure on herself. “No, indeed.” She pressed a trembling kiss to Bertie’s head before passing him into Neville’s arms.

As Neville took him, his hand brushed against hers. He tucked something into her fingers. It was a small, folded envelope. The very one he’d been sealing at his desk.

She looked up at him with a start.

He stared back at her, an expression in his eyes that was hard to read.

“Come, my dear,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “Time is of the essence.”

Clara discreetly slipped the letter into her sleeve. Her pulse was racing. “Goodbye, Mr. Cross.”

Neville stepped back from her, Bertie in his arms. “Goodbye, Miss Hartwright.”

It seemed as though he might have said more. But there was no time, and with Mrs. Bainbridge looking on, they had no privacy. Clara could do nothing but take her leave.

It wasn’t until later that she was finally able to open his letter. Alone at last inside the carriage, careening down the cliff road in the driving rain, she withdrew the small envelope from her sleeve, broke the seal, and began to read.

My dearest Clara,