Slowly, she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the oyster bisque.

“Do you like it?” Nicholas asked, once she’d taken a very small sip.

She nodded, a tiny, jerky motion. “It’s very good. Thank you.”

Andrew could no longer restrain himself. Under the table he reached out and took her hand.

She did not pull away.

Softly, he asked, “Do you think you might want more?”

Her neck seemed to go rigid, as if it was taking every ounce of her will just to hold herself steady. And then she seemed to snap. Her chair lurched backward as she ripped her hand from his.

“I really really love the soup,” she cried out. “But I also hate it so much .”

And she ran from the room.

Poppy had no idea where she was going. She’d never been to Crake House, but weren’t all these grand homes somewhat the same? There would be a long row of public rooms and if she just kept running through them she’d end up . . .

Somewhere.

She didn’t even know why she was running. She only knew that she couldn’t remain in that dining room for one second longer, with everyone looking at her, and Andrew saying how much he loved the soup, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about soup, and it was all just too much.

He was alive.

He was alive and—goddamn it —he was a Rokesby. How could he have kept that from her?

And now—and now—

Had she just told him that she loved him?

Had she just said it in front of his family and hers?

Either that, or the entire county of Kent would soon think she’d gone stark, raving mad.

Which was also possible.

To wit: she was running blindly through the home of the Earl of Manston, she could not see a thing for the tears streaming down her face, and she had just wailed something about soup.

She was never eating soup again. Never.

She skidded around a corner into what looked like a smaller drawing room and paused briefly to catch her breath. The rain was still coming down, hard now, and it beat against the window in a furious tattoo.

It beat against the whole house. Zeus or Thor or whatever god was in charge this miserable day hated her.

“Poppy!”

She jumped. It was Andrew.

“Poppy!” he bellowed.

She looked frantically around the room. She wasn’t ready to see him.

“Poppy!”

He was getting closer. She heard a stumble, then a crash, followed by “Bloody hell.”

She almost laughed. She might have smiled a little.

She was still crying, though.

“Pop—”

Lightning streaked through the sky, and for a split second the entire room was illuminated. There was the door!

Poppy ran toward it, flinching when thunder cracked the night open. Good heavens, that was loud.

“There you are,” Andrew growled from the opposite doorway. “Jesus Christ, Poppy, would you hold still?”

She paused with her hand at the door. “Are you limping?”

“I think I broke my mother’s favorite vase.”

She swallowed. “So it’s not from . . . Portugal?”

“No, it’s from chasing you through the bloody dark. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I thought you were dead!” she cried.

He looked at her. “I’m not.”

“Well, I see that now.”

They stood there for several moments, watching each other from across the room. Not warily, just . . . with care.

“How did you get free?” she asked. She had so many questions, but this seemed the most important.

“Mr. Walpole arranged it. It took almost a fortnight, though. And then I needed several days in Lisbon to settle my affairs.”

“Senhor Farias?”

“He is well. His daughter had the baby. A boy.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. He must be so pleased.”

Andrew nodded, but his eyes stayed on hers in a way that reminded her that they had other things to discuss.

“What did everybody say?” she asked. “In the dining room?”

“Well, I think they’ve figured out that we know each other.”

A horrified laugh welled up in her throat. She looked over at the door—the one both she and Andrew had entered through. “Are they coming after us?”

“Not yet,” he said. “George has it minded.”

“George?”

Andrew shrugged. “He nodded when I looked at him and said his name as I left the room. I think he knew what I meant.”

“Brothers,” she said with a nod.

Another bolt of lightning shot through the air, and Poppy braced herself for the thunder. “My aunt is going to kill me,” she said.

“No.” Andrew waited through the boom. “But she’s going to have questions.”

“Questions.” Another hysterical bubble of laughter jumped within her. “Oh dear God.”

“Poppy.”

What was she going to say to her family? What was he going to say to his?

“Poppy .”

She looked at him.

“I’m going to start walking toward you,” he said.

Her lips parted. She wasn’t sure why he was saying this so explicitly. Or why it made her so nervous.

“Because,” he said, once he’d halved the distance between them, “if I don’t kiss you right now, I think . . . I might . . .”

“Die?” she whispered.

He nodded solemnly, and then he took her face in his hands, and he kissed her. He kissed her so long and so thoroughly she forgot everything, even the thunder and the lightning, which flashed and crashed around them. He kissed her until they were both breathless—literally—and they pulled apart, gasping as if they didn’t know which they needed more—air or each other.

“I love you, you stupid man,” she mumbled, swiping her arm across her face to mop up the tears and the sweat and God knew what else.

He stared at her, dumbfounded. “What did you say?”

“I said I love you, you stupid man, but I’m just so . . . bloody . . . angry right now.”

“With me?”

“With everyone.”

“But mostly with me?”

“With—” What? Her mouth fell open. “Do you want it to be mostly with you?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what I’m up against.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

He reached out and took her hand, twining their fingers one by one. “You did say that you love me.”

“Against my better judgment, I assure you.” But when she looked down at their hands, she realized she didn’t want him to let go. She didn’t want to let go.

And sure enough, his fingers seemed to tighten around hers. “Saying it was against your better judgment? Or actually falling in love?”

“Both. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. It’s just—I thought you were dead.”

“I know,” he said solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know what that feels like.”

“I do,” he said. “A little. I did not know if you’d reached Mr. Walpole safely until I was rescued nearly two weeks later.”

Poppy went still. It had never occurred to her that he might have gone through the same anguish that she had. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m so selfish.”

“No,” he said, and his voice shook just a little as he brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss. “No. You’re not. I’ve known you were safe since I spoke with Walpole. I was on my way to find you. I was going to leave in the morning. I thought you were in Dorset. Or maybe Somerset.”

“No, I was here,” she said, even though it was obvious.

He nodded, and his eyes glistened as he said, “I love you, Poppy.”

She wiped her nose inelegantly with the back of her hand. “I know.”

A surprised smile touched his face. “You do?”

“You’d have to, wouldn’t you? To have run after me? To argue with me like this?”