“My world?”
“Lords, ladies, balls.” A lump formed in her throat despite his proximity.
“I’m not sure,” he answered, sounding so sincere he stole her breath. “You might be just different and strong enough to be all that you hope.”
Her mouth opened and closed as she blinked several times. “Really?”
And then be bent down, his lips grazing her cheek, stopping at the corner of her mouth. “Really.”
“You don’t mean it.”
He laughed, a soft sound that she felt as much as heard reverberate through his chest. When had her other hand rested on the taut muscles there?
“I do.” And then he slid his mouth just a bit closer, kissing at the very corner of her lips. If she turned just the smallest bit, their mouths would press together. She drew in a trembling breath.
She was supposed to be here to check on him. Instead, he was bolstering her. “Thank you, Ken.”
His mouth brushed over hers, not a kiss exactly, more like a graze, but everything inside her tightened, the place between her legs giving a fluttery ache.
“You’re welcome, Mirabelle.”
“Can I get you anything for your face? I could ask the innkeeper’s wife.”
“I’m fine,” he whispered, a moment before his lips brushed past hers again. She found herself chasing them, rising up on her toes the littlest bit before he straightened away. “But you should return to your room and get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she said with a sigh. Who wished to think about tomorrow when she was here now?
* * *
Boxby satacross from Somersworth and Upton, the silence nearly insufferable. Then again, if would have been worse if he’d ridden with Mirabelle.
His stomach twisted to think of her.
He’d kissed her last night. Barely, but still…
What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
He was going to ruin his carefully crafted plans for freedom. And his friends, already angry, were sure to be insufferable if he cancelled their tour.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Somersworth asked from across the carriage, his jaw set in a hard line.
Upton gave his head a stiff shake. “Somersworth.”
“What?” Somersworth said, his voice so hard, it practically cut through Boxby. “Why am I wrong here?”
“Because—” Upton started.
But Boxby cut him off with a slash of his hand. “You were rude to Mirabelle in front of her entire family.”
“Those brothers of hers are heathens.”
“And our partners,” Upton said, ignoring Ken’s request for silence.
“Which is why we men can handle our conflicts ourselves,” Somersworth growled out.
Ken did not like his tone. “The only reason we stayed at the inn last night was because she intervened.”
Somersworth snorted. “Without the women, we could have just kept going and been in London by now.”