Her heart thumped hard. She was standing on the precipice. It wasn’t too late to step back. To choose a different course. But for all her feminine resolve—all her determination never to repeat past transgressions—she seemed powerless to stop herself.

“You’re very tall. I shall have to stand on something.” She glanced about the beach, trying to ignore the fact that a scalding blush was burning its way from her throat all the way to the roots of her hair. “Is there a boulder hereabouts?”

Mr. Cross was staring at her, his expression intent. His throat contracted on a swallow. And then he turned his head, scanning the beach. “There.”

A few yards from the path, a rock formation as high as her knees protruded from the base of the cliffs. She crossed the sand and climbed atop it, her skirts clutched in one gloved hand.

Mr. Cross came to stand in front of her. He continued to regard her with that same intent gaze. Alert. As if she were a wild Dartmoor pony who might bolt at any moment.

She was assailed by a surge of self-doubt. “You did mean me, didn’t you? That I’m the one you wish to kiss? I wasn’t imagining it, was I?”

His neck had gone faintly red, and twin banners of color stood out on his cheekbones. He was still taller than her, despite her stance on the boulder. “I meant you.”

Her lips trembled on a faint smile. “That’s a relief.”

She waited, but he didn’t move to embrace her. He merely looked at her. Watchful and patient, just as he was with Betty. So she did precisely what she most yearned to do. She took his face in her hands, cradling it tenderly. And, stretching up, she pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

His arm came around her waist then, and he bent his head to hers. He kissed her back, gently, ever so gently. A sweet, lingering kiss that made her knees go weak.

When at last their lips parted, it was her turn to be at a loss for words.

Mr. Cross loomed over her. He was still slightly red about the collar but otherwise appeared in complete command of the situation. “May I call you Clara?”

“If you like.” She was appalled to hear a quaver in her voice. Goodness’ sake, it was just a kiss. It had scarcely lasted five seconds—a fact which hadn’t seemed to matter to the butterflies rampaging in her stomach. She dropped her hands from his face.

He helped her down from the boulder, and when the dogs came, barking their eagerness to return to the house, he assisted her back up the cliff path, one hand holding hers, and the other guiding her at the small of her back with a touch that was vaguely proprietary.