Page 91 of The Wallflower Takes All

The sound of her name undid her nearly as much as the kiss.

“Yes?”

His throat moved. “I cannot pretend this is merely imprudent.”

She tightened her hand in his coat. “Then do not pretend.”

“I want you.” His voice was low, scraped almost bare. “That is the truth. I want you, and I have wanted you longer than I have permitted myself to admit.”

Her heart lurched.

He had said he appreciated her.

Now he had said this.

He had spoken of her wit, her loyalty, her courage. He had looked at her and seen first the very things everyone else overlooked. And now his face told her, with devastating clarity, that he wanted the woman attached to all of it.

No gentleman had ever done that.

Lord Rillington had admired her wit until Mama embarrassed him.

Lord Ketterham had admired her practicality until he understood it came attached to a household requiring patience.

Gabriel had seen the whole of it.

And he had kissed her regardless…or perhaps even because he knew.

The thought made her bold. Her hand slid from his lapel to the side of his neck, where the edge of his cravat met warm skin. His pulse beat hard beneath her fingertips.

Poppy stilled. So did he. For one breathless moment, they looked at one another. The knowledge of it passed between them quietly. And she had a perfectly delicious thought. He was not composed…not entirely…not with her.

A delightful sense of power unfurled low in Poppy’s stomach. “Your cravat is still very orderly,” she whispered.

His brows lifted. “Is that a criticism?”

“I had begun to wonder whether anything could disturb it.”

Something heated in his eyes. “Poppy.”

Her name in that tone sounded almost like a warning. Poppy gave him a wicked smile. “Gabriel.”

His eyes flared and he kissed her again before she could say anything more.

This time, his restraint frayed. His hand tightened at her waist, drawing her closer with an urgency that made her breath catch. His mouth moved over hers, warm and certain and far too persuasive. Poppy had the wild thought that she might happily stand on this path until nightfall, kissing a solicitor beside a muddy spaniel while half of London passed within view.

Then Gabriel released her.

Not entirely. His hands remained upon her for one heartbeat longer, his body slower than his conscience to surrender the contact.

He stepped back.

Poppy felt the loss of him at once. The cool air touched her face. Her lips tingled. Her pulse raced so violently she wondered whether it could be seen beneath her pelisse.

He glanced toward the curricle. His groom continued studying the horse with heroic concentration.

Gabriel dragged one hand over his mouth, then seemed to realize what he had done and lowered it sharply. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “For taking a liberty.”

Poppy’s delight dimmed. “A liberty I specifically requested.”