She couldn't.“Break open that bottle of champagne. This time next year you could be Lady Philippa Stuart.”She didn't know why she should be so stunned. Yet she was dazed with distress, barely keeping herself together, as if all these weeks she'd been holding her breath, waiting for him to return and reclaim her, vowing never to let go of her again.He came close, too close for comfort, and sat down next to her, the light worsted wool of his summer trousers socializing insouciantly with the layers of her skirts. She became aware of the subtle scent of starch from his shirt, the spice and citron of his soap. A small part of her wanted to move away. The rest of her wanted him to trespass further, to push her down, hold her immobile, and do whatever he willed with her.He did something even more shocking. He took her hand in his and said, “I've been a cur, haven't I? Coming here and subjecting you to this impossible situation.”He played with her fingers absently, running the pad of an index finger across the inside of her knuckles.
