Fate proved most fickle, bestowing a welcome blessing after extracting an excruciating toll. Philomena could find no other explanation for her and Giles staying in the Duchess of Daventry’s luxurious home while he battled for his life.

The duchess’s wholly unexpected generosity and kindness knew no bounds. Immediately upon spying Bradford carrying Giles’s limp form into Wimpleton’s manor, she’d sailed to the entrance, called for her coach, and insisted Giles be transported to her much closer house rather than the humble—more aptly, tumbledown—cottage Philomena and Giles rented on London’s outskirts. The colorful dame had also sent for her personal physician and insisted on paying Doctor Singleton’s fee as well.

“You’re my guests, Miss Pomfrett. I won’t hear another word about paying Singleton. That crusty, old barnacle ought to tend your brother for free considering how frequently I’ve needed his services of late.” She’d winked, a mischievous youthful glint in her eyes, despite the wrinkles etching her once handsome face. “Aging is not for the faint of heart.”

“I’m sure that is true,” Philomena murmured politely, uncertain what else to say.

“Besides, I quite anticipate seeing my nephew at sixes and sevens with you underfoot. That cocksure boy could do with a good rattling. I remember how eagerly he anticipated visits to Bromhamshire, my dear, and I know it wasn’t anticipation of seeing his cantankerous uncle or wastrel cousins at Bromham Hall that had him gallivanting to the country at every opportunity.”

With a painful pang to the region near her heart, Philomena remembered too. Blinking back tears, she forced her lips to turn up. She couldn’t retrace her steps and relive the past few years. Her only choice was to move forward, wherever that obscure path might lead her. “I’m not positive his lordship’s affections are what they once were, Your Grace.”

“Hmph. More fool he then.” The duchess’s expression grew solemn, though kindness brimmed in her eyes. “My dear, if things shouldn’t work out between you and my nephew, I would be honored if you would consider becoming my companion. My son’s wife prefers that I not visit often, and once Olivia marries ... well, this drafty old house gets lonely. And I dearly want to visit my daughter in Spain but have hesitated to take the journey by myself.”

Glad tears blurred Philomena’s eyes. An answer to one prayer. “Your offer is very generous, Your Grace, and one I gratefully accept.”

“Excellent. You’ve made me very happy, though in truth, I hope that boy comes to his senses.” After kissing Philomena’s cheek, her grace had set off to the kitchen to ensure a hearty broth was prepared in the event Giles awoke.

Now, whether he lived or died, Philomena wasn’t compelled to wed. Profoundly relieved, the closest thing to peace she’d experienced in long while engulfed her. She smoothed the rich satin counterpane across his chest again, then—holding her breath—tentatively rested her palm upon his gaunt chest. Yes, he still breathed, though shallow and weak, his lips blue tinged and his pallor as white as the sheets he lay upon.

Ten days he’d lain here, rarely rousing. Ten trying, yet wonderful, days as Giles struggled for his life, and she and Bradford became reacquainted. Fate’s capriciousness again, bringing Philomena’s only love back into her life just as she faced losing her brother.

She’d fallen in love with Bradford all over again. More accurately, she’d never stopped loving him, but in recent days, she had dared to allow the emotion she’d deliberately buried so long ago, to reemerge—perhaps foolishly, and she would regret her lapse later. Her love had grown and bloomed into something wondrous and magical, way beyond a young girl’s adoration into the permanent binding of her soul to his.

How could it not? Loving him came as easily as the sun rising or rain falling.

There would be no other man for her. Ever.

He, on the other hand, had given no indication, not the merest hint, whether he returned her affection, and the uncertainty kept her lips sealed. Especially, since there’d been no further mention of them wedding either—not that she’d hold him to the absurd bargain Giles had negotiated, rather demanded, in the bower.

Nonetheless, that knowledge, added to her despair about Giles, had become an almost unbearable ache. She was at once, her happiest and gloomiest, a jumble of conflicting emotions.

Giles stirred, mumbling something incoherent before stilling once more. Only a trace remained of the purplish, egg-sized bump on his forehead and the ugly scrape along his left cheek from his tumble. With each new dawn, she praised God that he still lived.

A regretful half-smile tipped her mouth as she examined the chamber.

He’d never slept in finer bedding, yet he couldn’t appreciate the quality of the luxurious ivory and gold coverlet or the opulent room. That couldn’t be said of the Kingsleys’ rotund, orange-striped tabby. Socrates, his nose tucked beneath a white-tipped paw, lay curled against Giles’s legs, snoozing contentedly.

Sitting beside Giles, she lifted his limp hand and closed her eyes in silent prayer. Please God. She pressed the back to her cheek then kissed the cool flesh.

“You must get better, Giles. You’re all I have. I know it’s selfish of me, and would extend your suffering, but I cannot bear losing you. I’m not ready to be alone yet. It’s too soon.”

I shall never be ready. How can I let him go?

A tender touch to her shoulder made her eyelids fly open.

“You have me, Philomena.”

Bradford had slipped into the chamber, leaving the door ajar. His taut-fitting emerald jacket emphasized the breadth of his wide shoulders, and his ivory pantaloons accentuated his ridiculously long, muscular legs. An emerald stickpin winked from the folds of his cravat, and sooty stubble shadowed his strong jaw. Was he one of those men who needed to shave twice daily? She longed to rub her cheek against the roughness and inhale his unique, manly scent.

Her heart turned over, or perhaps the peculiar fluttering centered in her stomach—so difficult to tell which, when her breath snagged and her pulse stumbled momentarily.

He’d never looked more striking, and a flash of awareness dampened her palms.

The youthful Bradford had been such a charming scamp. The mature man, a dangerously rakish rogue. Both had captivated her heart, although the latter proved the more formidable.

He’d always been deft of foot and used to creep into the vicarage’s gardens too. He relished surprising her with a new ribbon, a handful of posies, a book, or even on occasion, La Bell Assembleé or Ackermann’s Repository he’d filched from his mother.

How Philomena had delighted in perusing Ackermann’s fashion plates and reading the latest on dit. And gleaning every useful morsel that might help her be a wife worthy of him when the day finally came. Moisture pooled in her eyes as much for the loss of their innocent, uncomplicated love as for her brother.

“Do I have you, even though Giles meant to coerce you into wedding me?” She searched Bradford’s face. How she adored him.

Compassion deepened his eyes to midnight blue. His handsome mouth tilted sympathetically, and he squeezed her shoulder, leaving his sturdy hand there, the possessive gesture infusing her with his strength. “You always have and always shall.”

Unbidden warmth welled in her chest, spiraling outward, the heat spreading into her veins, giving her hope. Did he mean it? Could he truly care for her still?

Had time diminished her feelings for him?

No, but unlike a besotted schoolgirl blinded by giddiness, a woman clearly recognized love’s poignancy and fallibility, and the risk it took to surrender oneself to the emotion. To love with abandon meant relinquishing part of your soul to another, trusting unreservedly. The pain she’d endured when she thought Bradford had betrayed her had been a thousand times worse than her burn-ravaged flesh, and she never wanted to endure that agony again.

She wouldn’t survive.

To hide the maelstrom of regret assailing her, Philomena busied herself tucking Giles’s hand under the bedding, atop his chest. After smoothing the covers once more, she plucked the faded gingham skirt of the well-worn dress Bradford had retrieved from her cottage this morning.

“Thank you for this. I’m rather self-conscious about others seeing my scars, else I would have gratefully accepted Olivia’s sweet offer to borrow a gown.”

Which would have been several inches too long, and probably too snug around as well. Olivia sported a tall, lithesome figure, whereas Philomena was of average height and much rounder curves shaped her form.

“Understandable.” His attention dipped to her chest for a fraction, no doubt curious what, precisely, the gown hid. Except the appreciative gleam in his eyes gave her pause. Mayhap he speculated about something other than the scars, and for the first time since the flames had ravaged her flesh, womanly awareness puckered her breasts.

His penetrating gaze again swooped downward again. Could he see the pebble-hard tips? “Do they bother you?”

My nipples?

“Do they hurt?”

Not hurt exactly, more of an ache.

Jaw slack, and in an unaccustomed dither, Philomena struggled for an appropriate answer. How did one respond to a gentleman discussing your bosoms?

A set down and a sharp slap, that’s how. She couldn’t muster the vexation for either, or more on point, didn’t want to. His impertinence should outrage her, and that it didn’t revealed just how deeply, and absolutely he’d captured her. Again.

“I beg your pardon.” His gaze snared hers before he rolled his head, his sheepish expression that of a rascally child who knew he’d overstepped the bounds. “That was much too forward. I but worried the scars yet caused you discomfort.”

“Oh.”

See, nincompoop. He wasn’t talking about your breasts at all.

Thank goodness she hadn’t scolded him. His intent had been solicitousness. Then why did she feel mildly disappointed he hadn’t been ogling her? She raised a shoulder and fingered a loose thread at her wrist. “They itch at times, and I dislike how they feel when I touch them. I don’t think I shall ever become accustomed.”

She wouldn’t. Would he or any other man? How could she expect them to?

That was one reason she’d been reluctant to encourage her undesirable suitors, despite her promise to Giles. Nevertheless, she retained the smallest iota of hope that a man would yearn to wed her and not be disgusted by her scars. If only that man could be Bradford.

“I imagine it would take time.” No hint of distaste registered on his face or in his deep voice, only sympathy. “Are there many?”

“Several. You do know the viscount started the fire?” Focusing on a Blue John vase atop the fireplace mantel beyond his shoulder, she relived the horror. The scorching heat and acrid smoke. The agony and the terror. She veered Bradford a sideways glance. “Giles told me he confronted him. Your uncle claimed he accidentally dropped a candle near the altar when he kneeled to pray.”

“That damn—” Nostrils flaring and jaw taut, Bradford smothered the vulgar curse.

He needn’t on her behalf, for she had condemned Herbert Kingsley to every kind of hell imaginable, particularly in those first horrendous weeks. She hadn’t forgiven him entirely either, perhaps never would be able to. Every glimpse of herself unclothed in a mirror reminded her of her parents’ needless deaths, Giles’s suffering, and the loss of Bradford’s love. She rolled a shoulder in an attempt at graciousness. “Perhaps he truly had sought God’s guidance.”

“What utter rot.” Bradford took a deep breath. “Forgive me, but my uncle hadn’t set foot in a church for decades, and if that spawn of Satan prayed, it wasn’t to God Almighty, I assure you.”

“I supposed as much.” Nodding, she blinked drowsily.

Sleep had eluded her these past weeks. Anxiety for Giles, apprehension about their finances, and dread of an inevitable marriage robbed her of slumber nightly. Though she needn’t worry about the latter two anymore, Giles’s condition still kept her tossing and turning. She yawned behind her hand, weary to her bones’ marrow. “I’ve always wondered why he hated us so.”

“That we’ll never know.” Bradford cupped her nape and rubbed her knotted neck muscles, the long strokes and gentle kneading bringing much-needed relief. “How does Giles fare? Any improvement?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Though, he’s no worse either.”

Bradford made a short sound in the back of his throat. “I had hoped for better news, for your sake.”

For the life of her, she couldn’t form a single protest at his impudence, or the impropriety of his caresses, but instead, closed her eyes and bowed her neck, breathing out a silent sigh. She’d missed his touch, and like a long-parched plant, soaked the sensation into every arid pore.

“That’s it. Relax. You deserve a modicum of respite. You’re half asleep on your feet.” He brushed her hair aside—tied back with a ribbon rather than knotted properly atop her head—

before setting both hands to massaging her neck and shoulders.

Could he feel the few irregular, hardened ridges through her dress’s thin fabric? The worst scars, the ribbons of unsightly, rigid flesh, marred her front and her upper arms. She sighed as errant flickers pulsed in places she had no business noticing with her dying brother lying beside her, and she shifted, edging away from Bradford.

Socrates raised his head and, citrine orbs barely open, eyed her disdainfully for disturbing his nap before yawning and resuming his slumber.

“When was Doctor Singleton last here?” Bradford’s voice, velvety and warm, hinted that touching her had affected him too.

Examining the bedside clock, she frowned.

Three o’clock already? Where had the day gone?

Her stomach rumbled and contracted. She’d forgotten to eat from the tray a servant had brought up hours ago. “He was here just after twelve, and said he would return this evening with different medication.”

Bradford pulled an armchair up beside the bed and, after flipping his tails out of the way, took a seat. He rummaged in his pocket, and his mouth edged upward as he removed a velvet case.

When she didn’t reach for it, he set the box on her thigh. “Here.”

“What is it?” A jolt of awareness spiraled outward. Philomena eyed the maroon square guardedly.

“A betrothal ring. It belonged to my grandmother, and Aunt Muriel was adamant you should have it.” He gave her another lopsided grin and arched a raven brow. “One does not tell the duchess no.”

Definitely not. Philomena’s mouth twitched into a nascent smile. “Yes, I gathered that, but she is a dear, if somewhat formidable.”

“If you don’t like the style, we can purchase another.” He patted his coat, his signet ring flashing in the candlelight. “I have the special license, too, and I have arranged for a cleric to perform the ceremony.” A grin lit his eyes, the same deep azure of the horizon at sunset. “I even found a suitable house to rent until we can find something permanent to purchase. It’s small but will suffice for now.”

He had a license as well? Her heart somersaulted. And found a place for them to live? Happiness embraced her. He meant to honor what he said in the arbor? Giddiness capered atop her ribs. She couldn’t have known. He hadn’t spoken of it.

He hadn’t mentioned love either.

Doubt poked its beastly head up, quashing her internal celebration.

Did Bradford want to marry her, or did guilt and obligation compel him?

Her joy plunged to her scuffed half-boots, and lay there wallowing pathetically. He mustn’t marry her out of duty or a misplaced sense of honor and forgo his chance at love. She must tell him, make him understand that it was all right if he didn’t wed her. She would be fine.

Turning, she faced him square on.

“Bradford, you don’t have to marry me. I know I’m not your first choice, and now that Giles is ...” She blinked away the fresh sting of tears and swallowed past the lump clogging her throat. “Well, not meeting anyone on the field of honor anytime soon, there’s really no need to bother to see this through to the end. I do thank you for the noble gesture, nonetheless.”

Though curiosity screeched in umbrage at being denied a glimpse of the ring, she placed the unopened jewelry box in his palm. Better not to know, for all that stood between her disintegrating into a weeping ninny was an eyelash’s width of pride.

Bradford stared at the case for a long moment before lifting his thick-lashed eyes to hers, and her heart gave a painful flip. Love shouldn’t be simultaneously agonizing and glorious.

Unblinking, he looked at her.

She could get lost in those beautiful pools. He’d always had the most vivid eyes, and his lashes caused many a lady to jealously gnash her teeth.

“Philomena, I know we haven’t seen each other in almost seven years, and much has happened in our lives to change us. But, these last days, I thought ... had begun to believe ...” He pointed his attention ceilingward and puffed out a short breath. “Isn’t there even a spark of what we once had?”

“I ... I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. Probably.”

Liar. You know blasted well there is.

Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she strove to order her scattered thoughts. “It’s more complicated than that. I’m not sure we can simply resume where we left off.”

She could, but could he?

Did he love her?

“I truly did not know you lived.” He took her hand and entwined their fingers like he used to. So natural and comfortable. “I was almost grateful Father decided to drag us off to the Caribbean, because it meant escaping England and the memories of you. They haunted me, tortured me, nearly driving me mad.”

“You truly grieved for me?” Searching his striking face, the planes harsh with remembered sorrow, her resolve slipped.

Shutting his eyes, he compressed his lips and gave a terse nod. “For months. Years.” His deep voice rumbled, and he opened his eyes, a glint of moisture confirming his words. Pressing her hand to his firm lips, he murmured against her palm, “I wanted to die.”

Needing to comfort him, Philomena brushed a lone droplet from the corner of his eye and offered a tremulous smile as she caressed his cheek. “Hurts bloody awful, doesn’t it?”

“Most excruciating thing I’ve ever endured.” Bradford bent nearer, until inches separated their mouths, the smoldering smile on his lips only slightly less heated than the scorching luster in his eye.

Sliding her hand to the back of his head, Philomena smiled. She spread her fingers in his silky hair and pulled him closer. “Me too.”

His lips settled on hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him. This kiss, each nibble and touch of their tongues, spoke of sorrow and forgiveness and pledged healing and hope. Their mouths meshed, she scooted onto his firm lap and gave herself over to the experience, reveling in the momentary joy.

A pillow softly smacked her.