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H enry knew Miss Fernside wanted this. He knew it as perfectly as he knew he wanted it himself.

And though he’d fought a good fight for as long as possible, her touch and the look in her eyes broke down any remaining barriers until he was finally ready to admit that his will had lost—and his heart had won.

He knew the consequences to their actions. She had to, as well. But clearly, they were past the point of caring. Clearly, it was now time to act.

He stared down at her, her eyes wide and receptive, her lips pink and parted. How he’d kept himself from her for so long was beyond him.

With her hair wet from the rain, her cheeks rosy from the cold, he’d never seen anyone so alluring—so stunning. His greatcoat draped over her shoulders caused her to appear even more petite, and his desire to protect her, to defend her, amplified.

Learning what she’d endured as an impressionable young woman had been almost unbearable to listen to. And now, Henry simply wanted to hold her. To cradle her. To show her how a true man treats a woman for whom he has feelings.

But he could not continue. Not unless he knew she was absolutely certain this was what she wanted, as well.

“Miss Fernside…”

“Yes?” she breathed, her eyes fluttering as she looked at his lips.

Desire for her swirled in his stomach. “I cannot proceed unless I know…this is what you truly wish for.”

The stalwart look in her eyes ended any remaining concerns.

“It is,” she stated.

His heart tripped. That was all he needed.

He stepped toward her, using every ounce of strength within him to move slowly, to prolong the moment he’d dreamt of for weeks.

He reached up, sliding his right hand across her lower jaw, ending when the tips of his fingers reached the nape of her neck. She raised her chin to maintain contact with his eyes, and he bent low to do the same, so drastic was the difference in their height.

He leaned closer. She wet her lips, and he was gone. Their eyes closed, and he pressed his lips to hers. He was finished fighting his desire, fighting his thoughts, fighting his longing for Miss Fernside. Instead, he breathed her in.

She was soft, though warm. Gentle, yet sure. He leaned his head to the side, pressing his lips more firmly upon her own, and she responded with a sigh that caused his legs to tremble.

This woman was everything. And he was nothing without her.

Lark had never known such euphoria as being kissed by Henry Branok.

Henry Branok, of all people. Never in her wildest dreams, never in her greatest desires, would she have ever guessed this would occur. Not only that she would get to kiss him, but that he would want to kiss her .

For he did. She could feel it in her very soul. His right hand cupped her jawline and neck, his left slipping beneath his greatcoat still about her shoulders. As his fingers slid along her waistline, the warmth from his hand seared through her pelisse and dress to heat her skin.

She’d kept her hands to herself, not wishing to pressure him further, but as he drew her closer, his fingers pulling gently at her side to move her nearer, her heart raced, and she leaned against him, resting a hand upon his chest where the rain made his shirtsleeves so thin, she wondered if it was still there.

Their mouths remained still, moving occasionally as one, though they remained present, deeply aware of one another. His breath tickled her cheek—warm, comforting, living—just like the heat radiating from his rapidly beating heart against her fingers.

She opened her eyes for but a moment, slowly moving her fingers up his chest and noting his brow flinching with emotion as she did so.

This was what she’d wanted for so long. Not only his kiss, not only the affection, but the attention—and the sure knowledge that Mr. Branok felt something for her. Something beyond friendship.

And it was the same for her. Unfortunately, that knowledge frightened her as much as it excited her.

What were they to do now?

Mr. Branok must have felt the change come over her, her question coming through her kiss, for after another lingering moment, he pulled back, slowly, yet intentionally.

He moved his hand away from her neck first, then his fingers from her waist, and the cold enveloped her.

Lark didn’t know what to say. Neither of them spoke, neither of them looked at one another. Only the sound of the rain surrounded them.

Finally, she dared a glance up at him, his brow no longer furrowed, though raised in a somber manner. She did not have to ask why, for deep inside, she felt the very same.

Their time together had ended.

“You must be cold,” she said, motioning to his wet shirt.

He merely shook his head.

Even still, she knew he had to be. Slowly, she removed his greatcoat and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed in the process, the connection from before sparkling between them, but he looked to the ground instead, retrieving his hat and her bonnet.

As he extended it to her, he was careful not to touch her this time.

Was he upset with their exchange? Or upset that it wouldn’t happen again?

Lark accepted the bonnet, keeping it in her hands as the awkwardness between them grew, neither of them daring to ask what the other thought.

“I…I’d better return indoors. Aunt will be wondering where I am.”

Mr. Branok nodded. “If you go in first, I shall remain out here for a moment to avoid the suspicion from others.”

She nodded with gratitude, backing away. “Thank you for your help with the owl.”

“Of course.” He paused. “That moment was…unforgettable.”

“I’m certain the owl will remember it, too.”

His eyes bored into hers. “I was not speaking of saving the owl.”

Her breath caught in her throat at his meaning.

Silence once more punctuated the air between them. Lark couldn’t put off leaving any longer. She curtsied in departure and turned away.

That kiss had done the exact opposite of what she’d expected—allowing her some form of satisfaction. For now, she knew she would never be satisfied until she was able to kiss Mr. Branok for the rest of her days.

Once safely in her bedchamber, Lark changed into dry clothes, did what she could to fix her hair, then retrieved her stitching, intent on returning to the women in the drawing room.

But just as she was headed out, a maid delivered a note to Lark with the invitation from Uncle to meet him in the library.

Fear tightened her throat. Did Uncle know what had just occurred? Had he somehow seen or been told what she and Mr. Branok had just done? Or was she merely spotted in the rain and would now be instructed to rest for the remaining days of the week?

Instead of allowing her thoughts to run rampant, Lark made straight for the library, finding Uncle with his hands behind his back as he stared at the rows of books before him.

“Uncle,” she began, “you sent for me?”

He turned to face her with a kind smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Thank you for coming so swiftly.”

He eyed her wet hair with suspicion, so she rushed forward to distract him.

“Did you enjoy your walk this morning?” she asked.

“No, the weather was abysmal. Come. Sit with me.”

Together, they sat beside one another on the sofa. Lark did her best not to wring her hands in her lap, instead wriggling her toes—just as she’d done right before first meeting Mr. Branok.

Never in a million years would she have guessed that they would have ended up as friends…if not more than friends.

She bit her lip to hide her smile.

“How have you been?” Uncle asked. “Remaining indoors, I mean?”

“I’ve been faring well enough,” she replied, then her guilt nudged her further. “Though I will admit to walking out in the rain a time or two to maintain my sanity.”

“I assumed you would do as much,” he said with a motion to her wet hair.

She felt better already being honest with him, but when his features fell again, she hesitated. “Is something wrong, Uncle?”

He released a heavy breath. “Yes. I called you in here to tell you that I must return to London this morning.”

Lark pulled back. “London? Is something wrong? Mother?”

He shook his head, quelling her worries. “No, nothing like that. I only have…business to attend to. Answers I must seek.”

He fell silent, deep in thought.

“Answers to what questions?” she asked.

He blinked, drawing out of his reverie and facing her squarely. “You are aware that Mr. Branok is a member of Blackstone’s Club in London.”

Lark nodded, a pressure falling on her chest. “Yes, you and I have spoken of it, if you recall.”

“I do. However, I must ask if you are aware of the reputations that come with being a member of said club.”

Her uneasiness grew. “Only that those who are members have been blackballed from other clubs due to simply not belonging in Society.”

“That is only part of it, I’m afraid. More than anything, Blackstone’s houses those who have been excluded from other clubs for very specific reasons.

You see, a gentleman is only blackballed—at least in my experience—due to despicable or otherwise appalling behavior that cannot be tolerated by the ton . ”

Lark’s ears began to ring. Despicable? Appalling? Mr. Branok was neither of those things. But then, he’d merely said they were a group of misfits. He hadn’t told her exactly how he’d been blackballed, had he?

“I have known only a handful of men who are members of Blackstone’s,” Uncle continued. “But the most concerning member…is that of Mr. Sebastian Drake.”

The breath rushed from her lungs. Mr. Drake? The fortune-hunting, propose-after-a-week Mr. Drake?

She swallowed hard. “Does Mr. Branok know him?” she asked, attempting nonchalance.

“Yes,” Uncle stated gravely. “Not only are they acquainted, but Mr. Branok defended the man’s character.”

Lark stiffened at the worlds colliding around her. The men knew one another? Did that mean Mr. Branok was aware that his acquaintance was the very man Lark had mentioned that morning?

“Does he…” she began, “does he know of my history with Mr. Drake?”

“I do not know,” Uncle said with a wince. “I could not ask without betraying what happened to you. Though his knowing what had occurred would not surprise me.”

Her head began to spin. If Mr. Branok did know, he would have already suspected Lark to be an heiress, but he was sincere in his surprise earlier. It was far more likely that he knew of no connection between her and Sebastian Drake.

Still, how could Mr. Branok defend a fortune-hunter’s character? Unless, of course, he was unaware of the man’s actions altogether.

“Lark? Are you well?”

Lark nodded, though her worry threatened to boil over. If only she had mentioned Mr. Drake by name that morning. All of this would have been resolved.

Or…or matters would have gotten worse, preventing their kiss.

Uncle took her hand in his, directing her attention to him. “Lark, I know this is difficult, but we must be vigilant. We must discover why Mr. Branok was blackballed. Sebastian Drake was prohibited from joining due to his being a fortune hunter but?—”

Lark paused. “How do you know that?”

Uncle raised his chin. “Because I was the one who did it.”

A sliver of guilt struck Lark’s heart. All Mr. Drake had really done was propose to her. True, his fortune-hunting was contemptible, but was he truly deserving of being blackballed?

Was Mr. Branok?

“As for Mr. Branok,” Uncle continued, as if reading her mind, “we must know what his offenses are if we are to continue any sort of acquaintanceship with him. Otherwise, we risk injuring our own reputations and place in Society.”

Lark looked away, unable to agree. She stood by her words from before—it was none of her business why Mr. Branok had been blackballed. But if Uncle thought he’d done something heinous, Lark would settle his concerns by asking the source directly.

“I will speak with Mr. Branok myself,” she offered.

“Heavens, no,” Uncle said at once. “That is the last thing you should do.”

Lark pulled back. “Why?”

“Who is to say he will speak the truth?”

“He is a gentleman,” she defended.

Uncle sighed. “So claimed to be Mr. Yates. And Mr. Drake.”

Lark held her tongue. Uncle had warned her of Mr. Yates from the beginning, but Lark, in her naivety of youth, had ignored the signs Mr. Yates had given early on.

Mr. Drake gave no such sign as to being despicable, only misguided.

And Mr. Branok? Mr. Branok had only ever revealed himself to be honorable and respectful.

But she knew Uncle, and he would not be convinced of Mr. Branok’s goodness until he’d received word of it from others—others aside from Lark.

“Very well,” she relented, “then what is to be done?”

“I sent an urgent letter to a colleague of mine in White’s,” Uncle said. “But he has told me no one can seem to recall why exactly Mr. Branok was blackballed, as it was nearly half a decade ago. That is why I must return to London early. And…and why I want you to come with me.”