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D inner passed by slowly, despite Lark being actively engaged in conversation with Mrs. Chumley for the majority of it. Fortunately, Mr. Branok was seated at the opposite end of the table again, though his eyes continuously flitted away from Lark’s each time she caught him watching her.

After dinner, Lark was sorely tempted to leave before the gentlemen joined them in the drawing room, but Aunt Harriet must have known she would have attempted to do such, for she kept Lark the center of attention until the men came through.

To her relief, Uncle Francis occupied the standing space to her left—and Aunt sat beside her on her right—so once again, Mr. Branok had no chance to speak with her.

Lark sat near the fire, feeling cold and tired despite her proximity to the flames. The drawing room was comfortable enough with its maroon walls, the wooden flooring covered with large, red and gold tapestries, but she still longed for her warm bed and the privacy of her bedchamber.

The crackling fire in the small, dark hearth punctuated the air between the soft murmur of voices around her, and she felt her attention waver as her eyes grew heavy and dry until she slipped in and out of consciousness.

She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off fully until a shuffling on the couch beside her jarred her from her sleep. Her eyes opened, and she straightened from her slightly slumped position to stare at the fire.

“Feeling tired from the journey here?”

Lark stiffened. Mr. Branok’s voice spoke beside her instead of Uncle’s. That must have been the shuffling she’d heard. How often was this man going to pounce on her when she was unaware?

“I am a little weary,” she responded truthfully, though it was not due to the journey.

She glanced around the room. Aunt Harriet spoke on the opposite couch with Mrs. Shepherd, and the rest of the gentlemen stood away from the fire on the other side of the dark, wood-paneled room—Uncle included.

Lark pulled in her lips. Mr. Branok must have been watching her until she’d been left alone, then seized his opportunity to…to what, exactly? Why did he insist on speaking with her, even after she’d been more than clear that they needed to stop?

“I trust you had a pleasant meal,” he said next.

She placed her hands in her lap, leaning slightly away from him. “I did, thank you.”

She wouldn’t ask him how his meal was in return, no matter what politeness demanded.

She faced Aunt and Mrs. Chumley, striving to hear their words so she might join their own conversation to dissuade Mr. Branok from continuing, but the women spoke so quietly, Lark had no hope of hearing them.

“You must be looking forward to your morning walk tomorrow,” Mr. Branok said. “Especially in a new location.”

Lark pushed aside her conscience. He was trying so hard and seemed earnest in his endeavors. But she would not give in. Doing so would only open her up to more disappointment.

“I am looking forward to it,” she replied. “But I suppose I should retire now so I might awaken early enough. If you’ll excuse me.”

She made to stand, but his whispered words, soft enough for no one else to hear, reached her ear.

“Miss Fernside, please.”

She was going to pretend she hadn’t heard him, protect her heart and her peace of mind. But when she made to stand, the subtle movement of his leg made his knee press up against hers, and she paused.

Heat seared through her thin gown, and the desire to feel that warmth for longer grew so strongly within her, she could not pull back.

Instead, she peered up at him, the firelight dancing in his eyes and highlighting the look of pleading within them so brightly, she found herself nodding before sense could convince her to do otherwise.

Mr. Branok glanced around the room, no doubt to ensure their conversation remained unheard, but he kept his knee against hers as his voice dropped lower.

“I shall be succinct, but if you still wish for our friendship to end, I will, of course, respect your decision.” He waited for another nod of understanding from her before continuing.

“Firstly, allow me to apologize for my behavior on the”—he cleared his throat—“stairs.”

Lark blushed at the mention. More than a week and a half had passed since that night when they’d nearly kissed, but still, the memory was forever branded in her mind.

The look of desire in his eyes, the heat blazing through her limbs at his touch, the stirring in her heart to feel him closer. It was as if it had happened yesterday.

“I thought it best to keep away from you after that,” he explained, “hoping that would prove my respect for you, but all it did was make me more and more irritable—resulting in my frustration with you falling into the nettles. But I must clarify that I was in no way upset with you and solely upset with myself, for if I had merely behaved as your friend, you would have come to stand beside me when observing the redstart instead of getting caught in the nettles. For that also I must beg your forgiveness, as well as for not keeping you safe to begin with.”

Lark listened to his reasoning, each word another salve to place upon her wounds.

Her confusion over the last week, her frustration and anger over the man’s behavior, slowly seeped away until she was left with nothing but a stirring in the base of her stomach at the knowledge that he had wanted to protect her—that he had wanted her to respect him.

Of course, his actions weren’t the best way to go about that, but truthfully, she could see his logic and could not deny that she wouldn’t do something similar.

“So,” he finished, “shall I leave you alone or…or can you find it in your heart to forgive a fool such as I?”

Lark sighed. “As foolish as you are,” she whispered, “you are too charming not to forgive.”

His shoulders visibly lowered, and the lines in his brow grew faint.

“But,” she continued, “the question remains…are you foolish enough to forgive my own intolerance and curt words?”

“Surely you must know I already have.”

They shared a smile, and the tension between them faded.

The fire popped beside her, and Lark turned her attention to the flames, watching them lap at the logs within the hearth, though her thoughts were centered instead on her burning skin that was nearly numb now due to Mr. Branok’s leg still pressed up against hers.

She sent a quick glance to Aunt, though Mrs. Chumley still spoke with her animatedly, which meant Lark’s proximity to Mr. Branok remained unnoticed in the dim light of the room.

That was more than a relief, for Lark would hate for Aunt to notice—just as greatly as Lark would hate to pull away.

Was Mr. Branok feeling the very same? Was that why he remained with his body shifted toward hers? Or was her spirit longing to be near an ever-unattainable soul?

After another moment, he shifted beside her, moving his leg away from her in the process, and she struggled to keep her spirits up.

“I know we cannot ask after specific numbers,” he began in a whisper, “but I have been dying to know, how fairs your list?”

Lark chewed on her lower lip. “You wish me to be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I nearly threw it out a hundred times last week.”

His lips parted in surprise. “My dear Miss Fernside, how dare you? My being ungentlemanly is in no way an excuse for us to sever the binding agreement we have made for this challenge. We signed the papers, after all.”

She attempted to hide her smile at his overt teasing. “Yes, well, I was perfectly ready to accept the consequences of my forfeit.”

He paused, holding his chin with his forefinger and thumb in a thoughtful gesture. “You know, I think we quite forgot to establish what those consequences would be.”

“You’re right. Somehow, I overlooked it. I thought I had been so thorough.”

“Not thorough enough, I suppose.”

He winked, and she shook her head, though within her, the fire of competition had been relit—as well as another flame within her heart. But this one was sparked by the gentleman beside her and was already growing so brightly, she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to douse it again.