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After several minutes without conversation, John said in a voice so low, Emma almost missed it, “I already have. Asked her to dance, that is.”

For the second time that night, Emma stumbled in her steps.

Fortunately, John’s arm around her waist steadied her, and he pulled her closer against him.

Her heart beat hard in her chest, and Emma was certain he could feel it.

Sick dread tore at her stomach, and Emma didn’t understand why.

And yet, she had to know, “And what did the lady say?”

“She said yes.”

“Then why have you not pointed her out to me?” she demanded hotly.

“There’s no need. You already know her.”

“Fine. Be mysterious. I shall see who she is when you dance with her later,” Emma replied, cross with him and with herself.

“I don’t think that will be possible, as I’ll be dancing with you all night.”

“Enough of your riddles!” Emma snapped. “Why do you delight in teasing me about this lady so much?”

“To see you work yourself into a fit of jealousy,” John replied with his first honest smile since they came out onto the dance floor.

Emma opened her mouth to respond, to deny the charge of jealousy, to insist he had it all wrong.

Before she could utter any of those sentiments, though, he added, “And because you are the lady in question.”

Emma came to a halt in the middle of the dance floor.

Other couples continued swirling around them, but Emma’s eyes were locked on her partner.

John’s expression was open and honest, with none of the teasing he had previously shown.

Her lower lip trembled with emotion. She didn’t know what to say, so she settled on a simple, “Excuse me,” before fleeing the dance floor and the ballroom entirely, tearing off her Venetian mask as she went.

She needed air. The ballroom was too close, too crowded, too hot, too noisy. Such things had never bothered her before. But now… Now, she couldn’t hear herself think, let alone breathe. Let alone feel.

She found her way outside to the garden. Lady Whitney had extensive grounds, even in town, and was known for her gardens. Emma took solace in that fact now and quickly lost herself among them, hoping to outrun her fiancé and her own confused, racing heart.

The idea that John Davenport had loved her from afar for so many years was simply too incredible to conceive.

Her mind rebelled against it, even as she searched for memories of him from her first season out—the season she had met and married Lord Renfrew—but there was nothing.

There had been so many gentlemen, so many balls, and it had all been overwhelming.

Her aunt had urged her to focus on titles, rather than the men who bore them, and those who had no title—like Mr. John Davenport, the second son of a country gentleman—were discouraged from gracing Emma’s drawing room, let alone her dance card.

That season had been a whirlwind of faces and names, and Emma found herself humiliated to realize that John’s was not among them in her memory.

As she rounded the corner, she came face to face with the subject of her thoughts. John stood there, slightly breathless. She could see the steam from his exhalations in the slightly cool night air. His eyes were wide, and his mask pushed back up onto his head. “Emma, I’m?—”

She held up a hand to forestall further conversation. She needed to think.

Emma paced past him and only then noticed that he held her cloak. He must have known where she was going and hastened to grab it for her. Gratitude warmed her, and she paused in her step. Her eyes darted to the cloak, and he automatically held it up for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes on the ground.

“May I walk with you?” he asked, all politeness.

To Emma’s surprise, she found she didn’t mind his presence, even though her thoughts and emotions were a jumble—and they all led back to him. “That… would be acceptable.”

He fell into step beside her, and they continued on through Lady Whitney’s gardens.

“Why did you tell me?” she heard herself asking before she even planned to say anything.

“The truth was nagging at me,” he answered, his tone honest. “I felt you deserved to know… should you wish to continue our engagement.”

“Should I wish?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to continue an engagement with someone whose feelings make you… uncomfortable.”

At that moment, Emma realized he was giving her an out. He had laid his heart at her feet and recognized that she might not want it.

When she didn’t respond after several moments of silence, John prompted, “The choice is entirely yours, of course. And if you do wish to continue our engagement under our prior terms, I will understand. I won’t… I won’t ask for more. All I want is your happiness, in whatever form that may be.”

A silver knife twisted in Emma’s gut. What I want…

what I want… The choice was the key. She could do what she wished with this information.

She could cast him aside and find another willing pawn for her inheritance game.

She could proceed as planned, marry John, and live her life as she had these past ten years. Or she could… I could what?

“Love… never worked out for me before,” she admitted haltingly. “It was a poison full of false promises that resulted in nothing but heartbreak.”

“I know,” John said. “I can’t offer you any promises.”

At that, her head shot up.

He continued, “All I’m offering you is a heart that has been constant and true these past fourteen long years… if you’ll have it.”

Without thinking, Emma pressed up onto her toes to claim his lips.

John responded eagerly, immediately, his arms wrapping around her to pull her close.

He tasted of punch and desire and the heat of the ballroom and the chill of a rose left out in the cold for too long.

Emma didn’t know her mind yet, but her heart—and her body—decided for her.

And they both knew that accepting John’s offered heart would do her no harm.

If anything, it would do her some good and help her own wounded heart learn to love—for the first time.

She pulled back from the kiss just enough to speak, her lips ghosting against his as she proposed, “Would you like to do something scandalous with me?”

He smiled, his lids lowered and seductive. “What did you have in mind?” His own lips tickled hers with tiny kisses as he spoke.

“You and I. My bedchamber. Now.”

“Before the wedding?” he asked, faux shock doing nothing to hide his delight.

She kissed him again, greedily, hungrily, eager to have his body laid out before her.

He hummed into her mouth. “You’re a dangerous woman, you know. I was planning on courting you properly.”

“I had a proper courtship. It was rubbish,” she whispered, her voice low. “What I want… is to be seduced by a rake. Seduced body and soul and…” she hesitated for a moment, then finished, “…and heart.”

John stilled against her and drew back just enough to see her eyes. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I can’t claim to have carried the same feelings for you all these years. But I find I’d quite like to explore these new feelings you’ve been inspiring these last few days.”

He crushed her to him again, his lips hot and eager and desperate and celebratory on hers. But then, he stepped back, a gentleman once more. “I’d very much like that as well,” he said, grinning. “But no need to rush on my account. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”

She smiled saucily up at him. “I appreciate the gallantry, but I’m a woman of two-and-thirty, not a blushing maid. And I would quite like to do that exploration in my bedchamber. Now.”

She didn’t have to tell John twice. He was escorting her toward his— their —carriage and to her— their —home before she could utter another word.

As they hurried along the garden path, Emma found herself quite looking forward to exploring every inch of his body…

and of her own heart. So long as John was by her side, the prospect did not frighten her.