Tender.
Her breath trembled.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, she looked down at herself.
Her hands drifted to her thighs, fingers skimming over the curve of them beneath her shift. Strong from riding. Solid. Soft where they met at the center.
Not delicate.Neverdelicate.
He’d smoothed his hands over them, as though…
As though he could not quite believe she was there.
Her pulse fluttered painfully at the memory.
The way he had touched her had not been hurried. Not reluctant.
It had been hunger—yes—but also wonder.
And it had felt like a… beginning.
Only, it had been just the opposite. Why did Charles have to come along and ruin everything?
No…This mess wasn’t his fault. It was her own. Her lies.Shewas the one who’d ruined everything.
She pressed her palm briefly against her sternum, as if she could quiet the splintering beneath it.
Only… she knew.
Knew with a clarity that hurt. She didn’t regret it.
Because none of it—not the mornings at sunrise, not the conversations on horseback, not the feel of his hands steadying her reins, not the way he had looked at her in green silk—would have happened if she had told the truth from the start.
Not the fallout.
But not the wonder either.
If she had arrived as Lady Rosamund Harrington, daughter of a duke, she would have been received with politeness. But she’d have immediately been turned away.
She would never have been allowed to get close.
Never would have seen him unguarded in the workshop.
Never would have heard the catch in his voice by the river.
Never would have felt his mouth on her…
The lie had cost her dearly, but it had also given her something honesty wouldn’t have.
She straightened slowly.
Furthermore, it had still given her everything she needed to publish the article.
Slowly, she pulled her nightdress over her head and let the ruined green gown remain where it lay. When she looked at herself in the mirror once more, she saw herself—not as her mother would see her, not as society might judge her, but as she had been in the forest.
Alive.
Wanted.