But he didn’t stop there.

The strings untied, he reached up and very gently lifted her bonnet from her head, revealing her rumpled hair, pinned in its haphazard chignon.

And Clara no longer felt breathless. She felt as if she had no breath at all. No lungs. Only a rapidly beating heart, and those dashed butterflies, who had chosen this inauspicious moment to open their wings and give an honest to goodness, full-bodied flutter.

“Mr. Cross,” she objected. “I really don’t think you should—”

“You’re very…”

“What?” Her voice was a whisper of sound. “What am I?”

His neck reddened faintly above the line of his cravat, but he didn’t look away from her. This time, when he spoke, he didn’t falter. “You’re beautiful, Miss Hartwright.”

Neville gazed down at Clara Hartwright, her wet bonnet held loose in his hand. He was riveted by her. By her eyes, soft and shimmering, like rich, chocolate brown satin. By the graceful arch of her dark, winged brows, and the damask rose hue of her half-parted lips.

All day he’d been aware of her. As she’d moved about the Abbey, twining pine boughs on the banister, and arranging alum-frosted holly and ivy on the shelves in the library. He’d been conscious of her soft voice, and her gentle, competent manner. Of the rustle of her woolen skirts over her starched petticoats as she walked past him. Aware of her to the point of distraction.

She was beautiful, though no one else seemed to notice but him.

She was also plainly shocked at the liberty he’d taken with her person.

“Thank you, Mr. Cross. That’s very kind of you. But…I must say, I’m not feeling very clever at the moment.” She cast an anxious glance down the aisle. There were no grooms standing about. No stable boys or other servants to have witnessed his brief breach of decorum. “I suppose I’ve ruined it.”

“Ruined what?”

“My bonnet. I’d have fetched an umbrella, but it didn’t seem necessary. It was only a light drizzle when we left the house.” The words tumbled out more quickly than was her habit. It was the only sign that he’d flustered her. That and the heightened color in her face. “Is there somewhere you can hang it to dry? And my cloak, too?”

“On the…on the door of the loose box.”

Her fingers moved to unbutton her cloak. Her hands were trembling.

Neville felt a stab of guilt. Was she afraid of him? Had he crossed some sort of line—not only in terms of social decorum, but in regard to her sense of personal safety?

They weren’t alone together. Not in the strictest sense. The grooms and stable boys might appear at any moment. But a gentleman could still pose a threat to a lady, even in the most public of settings.

“I d-didn’t mean—”

“Here you are.” She handed him her cloak. “I hope it will be dry enough by the time I return.”