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In the life he proposed, her social status, her past, wouldn’t matter. Her experiences in Irish Town could even help. It seemed too good to be true. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Instead of answering, he leaned forward and pressed a quick, firm kiss to her lips. It was different from the lingering kiss they’d shared at the wharf. This was over before she had a chance to respond. Yet she felt the heat of it like a shock through her body, making her gasp.

He pulled back and they stared at each other, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to offend...”

“It’s all right.” She smiled, surprised to find that it was all right.

The fleeting touch of his lips made her want to put her hands on either side of his head and bring him close for another kiss.

“It’s more than all right. I mean—” Heat rose in her cheeks.

“We are going to be married.” Now why would she bring that up?

He’d said it was a marriage for Evie’s sake. That probably meant—

“But we agreed it was a marriage of necessity.” He took another step back, balling his hands into fists.

“Oh,” she said, looking down. He didn’t want her as a real wife. Well, she could live with that. Once she got over this embarrassing desire to throw herself into his arms. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, looking everywhere except at her. “It’s not that I don’t want—that is, it’s not you...”

“Then what is it?” They needed to clear the air. Establish the boundaries so she could teach her heart to stop racing every time he came close.

James squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as though he were concentrating on each word that came out of his mouth. “It’s... me. I can’t make you happy.”

Sara moved her head back to look him full in the face. It wasn’t what she expected him to say. “How do you know what will make me happy?”

“I don’t, not exactly. But I know I don’t have it in me.

It’s only a matter of time before I start disappointing you.

I’m not good at being a husband. Amelia—” He ran his fingers under his collar where a flush of red spread up his neck.

He cleared his throat, his voice recovering its calm authority.

“Look, I think we could be excellent partners, Sara. Partners in raising Evie. Partners in bringing change to this country. But more than that... it wouldn’t work. ”

Sara nodded. When he put it that way, it seemed so simple.

The tangle of attraction and yearning she felt for him clouded her judgment, but.

.. she wanted to believe the picture he painted.

Wanted to be part of this family more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

“If you’re certain this is what you really want. ..”

“It is.” He grabbed her hands, his expression serious. “You only have to be sure it’s the life you want as well.”

Sara nodded. It was more than she’d ever dared hope for. A blessing, even. A blessing. She’d all but given up on those.

“That’s settled then.” He kept a firm grip on her hands when she moved to step away. “Now you can tell me what happened at Sproule’s today.”

He caught her off guard. “Pardon me?”

“You didn’t answer Evie’s questions about your shopping trip at supper. Didn’t offer to show her your purchases, either.” He crossed his arms.

She sighed. There were drawbacks to living with a barrister. “I... couldn’t access your credit.” She saw the gathering frown on his face and hurried to explain. “It’s fine. I bought a dress at Proudfoot’s.”

“Proudfoot’s?” He looked doubtful. Perhaps he knew the kind of simple fare on offer there. Still, she had no desire to go back and face the humiliation of Sproule’s again.

“It’s fine. I needed a dress and now I have one.”

He looked at her, his gaze intent and searching. “But Proudfoot’s...” He let the thought trail off. “You’re certain it’s what you want?”

“I’m certain. I’m plain Sara O’Connor. A simple dress will suit me fine.”

James left the courts the next day with his mind still full of Sara.

Before her, he’d never considered changing the course of his career.

Never considered marrying again, either.

Now a new life opened before him, one richer and more purposeful than any he’d led before.

True, there was that sizzling pull between them that muddled his thinking and threatened his equilibrium, but he had that well in hand now.

They’d set the boundaries. As long as he kept his emotions in check and a healthy distance between them, it would work out just fine.

He turned the corner onto King Street, the late afternoon bustle fading into the background as he stopped in front of a small house of whitewashed clapboard. A simple sign hung over the door, one he’d passed hundreds of times. Madame Cloutier—Dressmaker.

A dress. He could still hear the humiliation in her voice when she admitted what happened at Sproule’s. A dress from Madame Cloutier’s could wipe that memory from her mind. Besides, he’d promised her a new dress. Whatever cheap gown she’d purchased at Proudfoot’s didn’t count.

Before he quite knew what he was about, he’d pushed open the door and entered the elegant foyer of Madame Cloutier’s.

His eyes scanned the elaborate floral wallpaper and the impossibly small settees on either side of the hall.

Not much had changed, not even the sweet, cloying scent that hung in the over-warm air.

Madame was still the finest dressmaker in Toronto, the only place women could get a dress cut in the latest style.

A woman emerged from the back in an understated yet elegant black gown. Her eyes assessed him, taking in the cut of his coat and the state of his shoes before apparently deciding he could stay. Her posture relaxed and a faint smile curled her lips.

“May I help you?”

James opened his mouth, but no words came out. It was a good question. Why was he here? “I’m looking for a dress,” he blurted out.

“Yes, I imagined as much.”

He flushed. It wasn’t like Cloutier’s offered anything else.

“For your... wife?” she prompted.

“Yes. Well, almost... That is, yes, it’s for my wife.” Worse and worse. He had to get himself in line.

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Very well. A day dress or an evening gown?” James was silent a moment too long, for she continued. “Perhaps you’d like to see some fashion plates? To get some ideas?”

“A day gown. It’s for a wedding. And I need it now.”

She sent him a pitying smile. “Sir, Cloutier’s has a long list of clientele. We don’t have...” She paused, her mouth turning down in distaste. “Ready-made.”

“But surely you have something returned, or a sample. Anything.” He sounded desperate. He swallowed and forced a smile. “Please. It’s a special day. I want to surprise her.”

This was the right thing to say, for a tender look came over the woman’s face. “Each gown at Cloutier’s is made to order. I’m most sorry, sir, but we have nothing.”

“I’d like to speak with Madame,” he said, letting a trace of command enter his voice.

“Impossible. She’s with a client.”

He took a step forward. “Tell her Mr. Kinney is here. I believe she will recall my name.” James had helped Madame Cloutier collect payment from a tardy client a few years back, and all without dragging anyone’s name through the courts.

The woman stepped back, a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. She nodded once. “Very well. I’ll return shortly.”

James smiled, calling on every inch of charm he possessed. “Thank you. You are most kind.”

She returned a moment later and motioned for him to follow her through a small door in the back that led to the workroom. Gowns in various states of completion were draped over tables and hung from the walls. She motioned to a pink gown hanging to his right.

“Considering your past help, Madame said you might have this one,” she said.

“Some of our clients live north of the city and Madame isn’t sure.

..” She shrugged, a nervous gesture that James understood.

Rebels and reformers lived north of the city.

Lately, they’d had more on their minds than new dresses.

“It’s a lovely gown. Look at the detail here.

” The skirt opened down the front, the hem artfully pulled back to reveal layers of lace dotted with tiny rosettes.

“Ah, it’s lovely, yes,” he said, sensing she was expecting an answer. “But it’s not exactly...” He paused. It was probably the height of fashion. The more ruffles the better, that’s how Amelia had chosen her gowns. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t Sara.

He scanned the room, his eyes taking in a rainbow of colors until they came to rest on a shimmer of gray in the corner. He took a step forward. It was a simple gown in a deep, rich silk, the only ornamentation a satin belt in a slightly darker shade with a gilt buckle at the front.

“That one,” he said, pointing at the gown.

The woman paused. “Oh, but sir, if you want something special, I suggest—”

“That’s the gown I want.” His voice was firmer now.

She looked at the gown, then at James, before giving in with a nod. “Very well. But we must have the measurements. The cut is everything in a gown of that style. It must fit exactly right.”

James nodded, his mind scrambling. “I’ll have them sent over tomorrow morning.” He’d have to enlist Mrs. Hobbes. “Can it be ready by Monday?”

The woman sighed. “Such short notice... there will be an extra charge.”

James nodded. “Of course.” He paused. “And include anything else a new bride might need.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Sir?”

“A bonnet, wraps, shoes...” He waved uncomfortably at the collection of corsets and petticoats in the corner. “You get my meaning.”

The woman nodded, a faint flush on her face. “Of course.”

He left the store with a lightness to his step. The dress was meant for Sara, he’d known it on sight. Suddenly he couldn’t wait for his wedding day.