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smelled of ale, she thought. But those eyes were as blue as they had ever been, and as intent. His fingers squeezed around her own.
    “Mr. Thompson, it would not be proper at all.” She kept her voice light, for she knew he liked smiles and blushes and sideways glances.
    “Do not tell me I must wait. How long will you keep me in agony?”
    “Agony?” This was new, and she felt herself smile. There were only so many times one could repeat the same words before they became boring.
    “I am on fire for you, Cecelia. I think of you day and night. You are locked away in your tower, and I must have you or I will go mad.”
    “It is only the first stirrings of spring,” Cecelia told him lightly. “You are not mad at all, Mr. Thompson, only bored of winter and seeking distraction.”
    “No,” he said roughly, and before she could protest, before she could draw away, he crushed her into his arms and his lips came down on hers.
    Cecelia felt herself pushing against his chest, and he groaned as he overpowered her, holding her close effortlessly. She could feel him pressing against her, and his lips moved urgently.
    “Mr. Thompson!” She pushed him away at last, flushed, breathing hard—and knowing, beyond all doubt, that he had chosen to release her. Her heart was pounding, like she was a rabbit in a snare.
    “You cannot blame me,” he told her, his own chest heaving. “Not when you look so beautiful, Miss Dalton. Not when you are perfection. I could...”
    “I beg you, have a care for my virtue!”
    Her words rang with panic to her own ears, but the word virtue was enough. He stopped and bowed, then knelt on the ground.
    “Miss Dalton, forgive me. I was overcome. I will be your most respectful admirer if you will only let me continue to see you. Say you will not refuse my visits.”
    “I...of course not,” Cecelia found words from somewhere. She looked to where smoke curled from the chimney. “But I am very cold. Perhaps we could go in now.”
    “Anything you wish,” he said gallantly, as if he had not just pulled her to him despite her objections, and he led her to the front door, where his groom was waiting. “I will leave you here, with a fond farewell to your mother and your sister. Until next time, Miss Dalton.”
    “Of course. Thank you very much for calling.” Cecelia stepped back until her fingers met the door, taking an obscure comfort in the thought of refuge.
    As she waited to wave him off, her eyes caught on his groom. It could not be... But it was: Isaiah Rourke, his hair shining bright as copper in the sunlight, the freckles on his nose lost in the pink of wind-burned skin.
    She smiled before she could stop herself. Her lips curved, and her heart leapt in her chest. You , her smile said, and she could feel her heart beating wildly once again, but there was only joy, and no danger.
    And you, his smile agreed. But Abraham, having missed the smile between them, only gave a stern order and turned to blow a kiss to Cecelia.
    She held her smile, trembling, her fingers out before her as if to hold his kiss in the air, until they were well away, and then she leaned in the shadow of the doorway and waited, even shuddering with cold, until she could no longer see the auburn gleam of Isaiah’s hair in the distance.
    Chapter 5
    “...Forever and ever, amen.”
    “Amen,” chorused the congregation.
    As the strains of the postlude rose through the air, Cecelia unfolded her hands and looked around herself at the church. In the spring chill, everyone was glad of the crush of bodies—something that would become nearly unbearable in July and August. Now, woman wore heavy shawls over their winter gowns, and men pretended to have forgotten to take their scarves off.
    “Mother. Mother? I’ll only be a moment.” Cecelia eased her way out of the pew and made her way along the side of the sanctuary, avoiding the throng who made their way out into the entrance hall for hot tea. Everyone was anxious to be home for