From Eype to Torquay had been a grueling sixty miles. Today, they went only fifty miles, passing through the busy naval port of Plymouth to end their day’s journey at Portwrinkle. Portwrinkle was the merest speck of a fishing village, but it possessed something that Plymouth, with all its bustle, didn’t: a cliff with fossils.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Lord Dalrymple asked. “I know the inn’s rustic, but—”

“It’s a charming inn,” Georgiana said firmly. “I’m glad to be staying here.” Her eyes sought Alexander’s.

He responded to that silent plea. “It’s a hundred times better than Plymouth, so I beg you don’t make us go back there, sir.”

Alexander didn’t care how rustic the inn was. He didn’t even care if he had to sleep on the floor; what he cared about were Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple, and right now Dalrymple was alight with excitement.

He left his valet unpacking in the small chamber they’d been assigned—the narrow pallet with the horsehair mattress was his bed for the night, the even narrower truckle was Fletcher’s—and accompanied Dalrymple and Georgiana to the shore. The landlord’s young son, a freckled urchin missing his front teeth, trotted ahead of them, promised a penny if he could show them where the fossils were found.

It was a pure pleasure to be out of the rattling, lurching box of the carriage, a pure pleasure to be stretching his legs, to see the glittering ocean spread out before him, to have a brisk breeze on his face. The horizon was almost impossible to see, the ocean blending into the sky, and his problems dwindled before that wide silver-blue vista. Alexander inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. He felt a little lighter, as if he’d shed several pounds.

They walked along the clifftop for half a mile, then took a steep path down to the beach. The sand was finer than Alexander was used to at Eype, the vegetation greener, but the cliffs and the long stretches of pale beach reminded him of Dorsetshire.

Whitsand Bay, the boy called it.

“Where’s the best spot for fossils?” Lord Dalrymple asked. He had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Alexander had seen that satchel many times during his life. He was intimately familiar with its contents: the little brushes, the hammer and chisel, the awl, the tweezers, the magnifying glass.

The boy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Over there, sir.”

Lord Dalrymple glanced at Georgiana, who nodded.

Dalrymple produced a penny from his pocket. “This is for guiding us. There are more for you if you help me find some fossils.”

The boy’s face lit up. “How much more?”

“A penny for every fossil.”

“Deal,” the boy said, spitting on his palm and holding his hand out.

Lord Dalrymple gravely shook it.

The boy scampered across the sand, keen to earn his pennies.

“Why don’t the pair of you go for a walk?” Dalrymple said. “Take your time. I imagine I’ll be a couple of hours.” He gave them one of his sweet smiles, and headed for the cliff, his strides long and loping.

Georgiana tucked her hand into the crook of Alexander’s arm. “Thank you for not minding about the inn.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Alexander said.

They strolled silently for several minutes, the sand crunching beneath their feet, the waves sighing softly, the breeze fresh and clean and pure. It was a perfect moment, their footsteps matching, Georgiana’s hand tucked into his arm. The sense of quiet harmony between them was strong, the feeling that they understood each other perfectly, that more than just their footsteps matched, they matched.

A wild urge grew in him—to halt right here on the sand and say, Georgie, marry me.

But he didn’t, because of last night.

At Thornycombe, in London, at any of his estates, surrounded by a blaze of candles, he could pretend that he controlled his fear. But last night he’d had to face the truth: he didn’t control it; it controlled him. More than that, it conquered him, so that when confronted by darkness he ended up on the floor of a scullery, wheezing and shaking and trying not to vomit.

Alexander felt a hot rush of shame—and a stomach-clenching surge of relief that no one had witnessed his ignominy.

“What’s wrong, Vic?” Georgiana asked quietly.

He glanced at her.

“It’s the diaries, isn’t it?”

It was a lot more than that, but he couldn’t tell her about last night.

Georgiana halted. “You’re still exactly the same person you’ve always been. It doesn’t matter who your parents were. You’re still you.”

She was correct: he was the same person he had always been. And that was the problem, because the person he was wasn’t the person Georgiana deserved to marry.

He looked down at her face, shaded by the brim of her bonnet, and felt a painful mix of emotions: tenderness, longing, love, regret.

“I should have lied to you, shouldn’t I?”

If she hadn’t told him, he’d have proposed by now. They’d be betrothed.

Alexander shook his head. “No. It was best that you didn’t.” He managed a smile.

Georgiana didn’t smile back. She looked solemn, almost sad.

Alexander wished they were betrothed, so that he could take her in his arms and hug her tightly, but he wasn’t and he couldn’t, so instead he said heartily, “Come, now, that’s a long face for such a beautiful day. Let’s see if we can find some rock pools. That looks like the perfect spot.”

Ahead, a crumbling headland interrupted the beach. At its foot a shelf of rock pushed out into the sea. Alexander clambered up on that rocky shelf. It was damp, but not slippery, and riddled with rock pools.

“Here.” He crouched and held out a hand to Georgiana. “Up you come.”

Georgiana took his hand and scrambled up onto the rocks.

They explored. Georgiana didn’t let go of his hand. Alexander knew how nimble she was, knew that she didn’t really need to hold onto him to keep her balance, but it felt so good to be holding hands, so right, that he didn’t protest.

They found anemones with waving red tentacles, and tiny, transparent shrimps, yellow starfish and red starfish, limpets and crabs, spiny urchins and darting little fish.

At the very apex of the rock shelf, with the sea lapping on both sides like the prow of a ship, was the largest and deepest of the rock pools. “Oh!” Georgiana said, releasing his hand and kneeling. “Look, Vic!”

Alexander knelt, too, but he didn’t look at the rock pool, he looked at Georgiana. She was absorbed by the miniature world contained in the pool, taking it in silently, her eyes wide, her lips parted, spellbound.

At that moment, his love for her was so strong that it hurt.

Alexander looked away, at the silvery horizon. He heard the soft slap of waves against the rocks, heard the gentle heave and sigh of the sea, the far-off cries of seabirds—and the voices in his head.

One of the voices said, I am not Alexander St. Clare, but it wasn’t the loudest or the most important; it was like the background swell of the sea, low and persistent. The voice that said, I am afraid of the dark was louder. It was like the waves, slap, slap, slapping. And, like the waves, if he didn’t pay attention to it, if he wasn’t careful, it would sweep him away. But the loudest and most important voice of all was the one that said: I can’t marry Georgiana.

Alexander stared at that distant horizon and felt despair.

“Vic . . .” Georgiana said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

He turned his head and looked at her.

Georgiana wasn’t staring at the rock pool, she was looking at him, and she was so lovely, with her clear, keen eyes and her thoughtful brow, so purely Georgiana, that his heart clenched in his chest. I love you. I can’t marry you.

She reached out and touched him, laid light fingers on his cheek. “It’s going to be all right,” she said again, and then she rose on her knees, leaned close, and touched her lips to his.

Alexander froze. He knew he should gently push her away, but he couldn’t make himself do it.

“Blast this bonnet,” Georgiana said, and she tugged at the ribbons and wrenched it off, and kissed him a second time.

This time Alexander surrendered to it. He didn’t think about right and wrong, didn’t think about consequences, didn’t think at all. He just crushed her in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her with everything he had in him—all his years of longing, all his years of love—kissed her until he was breathless, kissed her long past that point, and Georgiana kissed him back, matching each deep, desperate kiss with one of her own.

It was a perfect moment. Quite the most perfect moment of Alexander's life. A moment that he wanted never to end. He wanted to kiss Georgiana forever—but he couldn’t, and so finally, reluctantly, he tore his mouth from hers. He didn’t release her, though. He held her tightly while he dragged air into his lungs, his face pressed into her soft hair. He heard his pulse thunder in his ears, heard his ragged breathing, heard the slap-slap-slap of the waves—and then sanity returned.

What the devil am I doing?

His joy snuffed out, a plunge from bliss to shame in the blink of an eyelid. He released Georgiana hurriedly and scrambled back on hands and knees.

They stared at each other. Georgiana’s cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy, her pupils hugely dilated.

There was a moment of silence, of expectancy, while the waves slapped and the breeze whispered across his cheek. This was when he should ask Georgiana to marry him. An honorable man would ask now. He knew it. She knew it.

Alexander remembered the cellar last night. He remembered kneeling on the scullery floor trying not to vomit.

He looked away and found Georgiana’s bonnet and handed it to her. “Come, we should walk further.”