Page 60 of The Wallflower Takes All

The words slipped out before she could weigh them.

His face hardened around the struggle he refused to name. “Do not say that.”

“Why?”

“Because I am already having difficulty remembering it.”

From upstairs, Freddie barked.

Gabriel flinched, almost laughed, then stepped back. The retreat looked less like composure than punishment.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, though she did not mean it.

He bowed. “Good night, Miss Montfort.”

“Good night, Mr. Ashby.”

He turned and walked out into the lamplit street, his stride a little too quick to be untroubled.

Poppy remained in the open doorway until he disappeared.

Then she closed the door and stood with her fingers at her cheek, where his mouth had touched her and where her skin still remembered the shape of his restraint breaking.

A little thrill shot through her.

Chapter Nine

Gabriel scarcely slept, which was both irritating and inefficient. By morning, he had formed a profound dislike for bonnet ribbons.

Ribbons, in general, were harmless things. They tied hats, trimmed gowns, and occasionally held papers together when string could not be located. They did not trouble rational men. They did not hover in the memory like a test one had failed by passing too near temptation.

Miss Montfort’s ribbon, however, had proved singularly destructive.

He had kissed her.

A restrained kiss, yes. A brush against her cheek, close enough to her mouth to haunt him through the small hours. A gentleman determined to defend himself might argue that he had stopped before the true abandonment of sense. Gabriel had spent the entire night attempting that defense and finding it shabby.

He had touched her because he wanted to. He had kissed her because restraint had failed. Freddie’s bark had merely prevented failure from becoming disaster.

Gabriel stood in his office the next morning, marriage contract in hand, and instructed himself to be grateful for canine interruptions.

It did not work.

He could still see Miss Montfort in the dim foyer, the open door at his back, her face tilted toward his. He could still feel the slight brush of ribbon against his glove and the reckless, astonishing certainty that if he kissed her once, one kiss would not be nearly enough.

Which was precisely why he must think of the matter no more.

His duty was clear. He would deliver the reviewed marriage contract. He would advise Miss Montfort about terms, protections, debts, and whatever provisions might be secured on Lady Viva’s behalf. He would continue to seek time from Lord Montague. He would do what could reasonably be done.

And he would help Miss Montfort marry another man.

A titled man.

A wealthy man.

A man whose life could absorb Lady Viva, Freddie, unpaid tradesmen, poets of unreliable mortality, and Poppy Montfort’s brave, impossible smile.