Page 89 of The Wallflower Takes All

This was precisely the kind of folly he had spent his adult life avoiding.

Poppy looked at him, no laughter remained in her face now. “Mr. Ashby,” she said quietly, “are you attempting to say that you appreciate me?”

There was no safe answer. Gabriel gave the only answer he had. “Yes. Very much.”

Her breath caught. He saw it. He saw her eyes drop to his mouth and return to his face. Saw the tiny movement of her gloved fingers against Freddie’s ribbon. Saw hope, uncertainty, and a question she had barely dared to form.

Every sensible reason to step back presented itself with insulting clarity. She had five days to secure a future. He was meant to be helping her find one. His groom waited by the curricle, the park was public, and Gabriel had already crossed one line in a dim foyer because a ribbon had defeated his judgment.

None of those reasons moved him.

For once, wanting her felt stronger than the rules he had assembled to survive wanting anything too much.

He closed the distance between them. He had meant only to touch her cheek. Perhaps he had meant to say her name. Perhaps he had meant to warn them both.

Instead, his hand rose to the side of her face, and he bent his head and kissed her.

For one suspended second, she did not move. Then her lips softened beneath his, and every sensible thought Gabriel possessed vanished.

The kiss had nothing of propriety or caution in it. It had none of the restraint he had demanded of himself since the moment he stepped into the Montfort house and found her standing in the hall with yolk on her gown and mortification in her bright blue eyes.

His thumb moved along the curve of her cheek. Her free hand came to his coat, fingers curling into the cloth. The small sound she made undid him.

Poppy, with her laughter and ledgers and impossible household. Poppy, who straightened vases when frightened, apologized for everyone’s failings but her own, tasted faintly of tea and something sweeter, and opened her mouth beneath his with a trust he had done nothing to deserve.

Gabriel drew back sharply.

His breath had become uneven. Her gloved hand remained curled against his coat. Her lips were parted, her eyes dazed and vivid beneath the brim of her bonnet.

He released her as if the touch had burned him. “Forgive me,” he said.

The apology sounded hoarse and wholly inadequate.

Poppy blinked.

For one dreadful moment, he thought she might step away. Might look wounded. Might remind him that he was her solicitor, and she was a desperate young woman with five days to find a titled husband.

Instead, her fingers tightened in his lapel. “No,” she said.

Gabriel stilled.

Her cheeks had gone pink. Her breath had not yet steadied. But when she looked at him, there was nothing uncertain in her expression.

“No?” he repeated.

She lifted her chin. “Kiss me again.”

Chapter Fourteen

For one suspended instant, Mr. Ashby stood utterly still. Wait. No. Not Mr. Ashby. Gabriel. She’d kissed the man, for heaven’s sake. She ought not to call him Mr. Ashby any longer.

Poppy remained before him with one hand curled in the lapel of his coat, Freddie’s wet ribbon looped around the other, and her entire sensible future hanging somewhere beyond recall.

She had told him to kiss her again. She had said the words aloud. More astonishing still, she felt no regret. The tiny kiss in the foyer had been a crack in the glass. This was the shattering.

Gabriel searched her face, as if offering her one final chance to become prudent before both of them abandoned the effort.

Poppy lifted her chin. “Do you want to kiss me?”