Here is sweet memory #4 from Chapter 9 (What can I say? Rob likes reliving all their kissing scenes.)
“I think you,” Robert said gruffly, “the most delightful, adorable woman I have ever known. If I was so clumsy that you could not feel my love in those kisses, then I am as contemptible a scoundrel as the Earl of Strode.”
That brought Marguerite’s gaze back to his with a glow of hope that was almost painful. Her hands drifted tentatively from her lips. He was grateful for a gusting winter breeze that blew against his cheeks and cooled just a little the blood that still scalded in his veins.
She searched his face. “Do you?” she asked, in softly trembling tones. “Love me?”
He did not think he had assumed his impassive mask, but perhaps the habit had become so second nature that he no longer noticed when he donned it. “You spoke the words first,” he reminded her. “Or did I misunderstand—?”
“No. Oh, no!” She scrambled to her feet.
Another flurry of air glided over him just in time to tamp his blood down another notch before she rushed back into his arms. He pressed her head gently against his shoulder to keep at bay a little longer the temptation to kiss her again.
“You were not clumsy at all.” She sounded suddenly anxious, as though she had left the question hanging unsatisfactorily between them. “I wanted to believe I felt love in your kiss. Could you feel my love in mine?”
“Aye.” And your trust.
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