he left me, I’ve been living as only half a person. Waiting…” Her mouth curved in a small, rueful smile. “You wonder that I refused every offer of marriage. How could I wed any of the gentlemen who offered for my hand when I knew that the other half of my heart may yet come back to me?”
“But he didn’t come back.”
“No. I’ve always assumed that he became a soldier.” There was a slight tremor in her voice. “I believe he must have gone off to fight on the continent and…died there.”
“A cheerful thought,” St. Clare said.
“It’s been easier for me to bear than the alternative.”
“And that is?”
“That I never meant anything to him. That after we parted, he went on with his life and forgot all about me.”
“Impossible.”
“Is it?”
“No man who loved you in the way that you describe could ever forget you.” St. Clare brought the horses to a halt. “I believe you’re right, Miss Honeywell. This childhood friend of yours is dead. Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences on your loss. Enzo!” he shouted abruptly to his tiger. “Hold their heads.” St. Clare turned at last to look at her. “Will you walk awhile with me on the grass?”
Maggie searched his face. His expression was cold, his features as hard and unyielding as granite. Only his eyes—those dearly familiar gray eyes—betrayed the smallest flicker of emotion. It was fleeting. Practically nonexistent. But it was there. “I’m a bit tired from shopping this morning, but if you don’t mind my leaning on your arm, then yes. I’m pleased to walk with you.”
St. Clare jumped from the curricle and came around to assist her down. This time, she didn’t wait for him to extend his hand, but reached out immediately to grasp his broad shoulders. As she clung to him, he caught her around the waist and lifted her out of her seat, setting her down gently onto the grass.
He held her there a moment, his strong hands resting on the flare of her hips and his gaze locked interminably with hers. Any passerby seeing them would have mistaken it for an embrace. The result would be gossip. Scandal. Damage to Maggie’s reputation. And worse, to poor Jane’s.
Maggie knew she must put a stop to it. It would be easy enough. St. Clare wasn’t forcing himself upon her after all. A word or a gesture would be sufficient to discourage him. Indeed, with one firm backward step, she might be out of his arms.
But Maggie couldn’t bring herself to move away from him. She stood there, staring up at him as if in a dream.
And then she lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek.
A tremor went through St. Clare’s large frame. He closed his eyes briefly as he leaned into her touch. “Don’t,” he said gruffly.
Ignoring his halfhearted protest, Maggie brought her other hand to his face and gently caressed the side of his jaw. In response, she felt St. Clare’s arms encircle her waist. It was the only movement he made. He held himself still as she touched him, his head half-bowed. A muscle worked in his throat.
Slowly, she reached up to smooth a lock of golden hair from his forehead, her gloved fingers tracing a delicate, soothing path over his brow.
His arms tightened reflexively around her. “Margaret—”
“Maggie,” she whispered.
St. Clare’s breath caught as if he had received a blow. “Maggie,” he repeated. And having said her name, he bent his head and captured her mouth in a kiss so fierce and full of longing that Maggie’s knees weakened beneath her.
She wound her arms around his neck, pressing her body close to his as she returned his kiss with soft, half-parted lips. He was warm and strong, and even after ten long years, so wonderfully, achingly familiar. “Nicholas,” she breathed. “Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas. I knew you’d come back to me.”
For the barest moment, St. Clare held Maggie tightly, crushingly against him, and then—before she fully understood what was happening—he removed her arms from his neck and gently but firmly set her away from him.
His face was taut and white, his expression void of all emotion. “Miss Honeywell,” he said with excruciating civility. “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension.”
Maggie’s lips were still swollen from his kisses, her body still warm from being held against his. She was slow to register the change in his demeanor. He’d drawn himself up to his full, intimidating height. He looked every inch the disdainful, cold-blooded aristocrat. He sounded like