Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

Oh, don’t, she chided to herself. Don’t act like a flighty storybook heroine. The poor man had been subjected to enough drama.

“If Miss Caro agrees to sheath her sarcasm, we may actually contrive to enjoy a walk without either of us suffering a grievous injury,” he added, leading her away from the others.

As they rounded a row of stone pillars and crossed into the ancient transept, Caro murmured, “I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

Alec turned, and the fluttery shadows from the overhanging ivy deepened the blue of his eyes to the color of the ocean in winter.

Beautiful, but forbidding. Hinting at depths and hidden currents that could drown anyone who took the danger too lightly.

“Neither was I,” he replied.

“Oh.” Her insides gave an erratic little lurch, though she wasn’t quite sure why. “I thought perhaps you were angry with me.”

“Angry?” He sounded surprised. “Good God in heaven, why?”

“For… for…” She had been thinking of the story Isobel had confided, and a horrible thought had taken hold in her head. Perhaps Alec thought her no different from his late wife—a heartless seductress who took pleasure in toying with men.

“For throwing myself at you,” she finally stammered. “For forcing you to hold me and comfort my hysterics.”

Alec stopped, and before she quite knew what was happening, he placed his big hands on her shoulders and spun her up against one of the mortised walls. Trapped between cool, solid stone and a warm, thrumming mass of male, Caro felt her pulse begin to skitter.

“Let us clarify a few things between us,” he said softly. “Firstly, you did not throw yourself at me.” A pause. “It was more of a floppy little roll.”

Was that a glint of amusement in his eyes? Or were the tiny sparks dancing on the tips of his golden lashes lit by some other emotion?

“Secondly, I am not in the habit of letting myself be forced into doing anything.”

Her face must have betrayed her misgivings, for she felt a rippling of muscles as his shoulders tensed.

“Ah. I see that my sister has seen fit to tell you the story of my youthful folly in all its sordid detail.”

She dropped her gaze, knowing he would hate to see any speck of sympathy in her eyes.

“Well, be advised that I am no longer a callow schoolboy.”

“No one would ever mistake you for that.” Caro knew the sensible thing was to say no more. However, being the least sensible of the Sloane sisters, she added, “But I think that sweet and sensitive schoolboy shouldn’t be ashamed of believing in love.”

She heard the harsh intake of Alec’s breath, which only goaded her to go on.

“And I’ll have you know that I didn’t throw—or roll—myself at you for any Machiavellian reason. I did it because I think you are… nice.”

The lungful of air came out as a strangled wheeze.

“I know, I know, ‘nice’ is a rather lame word,” she muttered, “but I can’t seem to think of another right now.” His closeness—his scent, the curve of his collarbones showing through the sunwarmed linen of his shirt, press of his broad palms—was making her mind a little lethargic right now.

“Nice will do very nicely,” he said, leaning

in close enough that she could see the stubbling of gold on his jaw. “I think you’re rather…”

A cough.

Was that better than a wheeze? She was still uncertain of how to interpret his sounds.

“Nice, as well,” he finished.

It was an awfully ordinary word, and yet it set her insides to doing a slow, spinning somersault.

“That’s n-n-nice,” said Caro.