Page 25 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Water dripped steadily from the eaves, the rhythm slow and insistent. Eliza was acutely aware of her breathing, the way it matched the quiet rise and fall of his chest.

“You stood your ground,” Thomas said at last.

“I did what was necessary.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You usually do.”

The words were simple. The meaning was not.

She turned her head slightly, enough to see the line of his jaw, the concentration in his expression. He was not looking at her. He was looking ahead, as though giving her the space to decide what to do with the moment.

“I don’t always know when that is,” she said.

He glanced at her then, his gaze steady. “You do. You just don’t always like the cost.”

Something in her chest tightened.

Rain brushed against her cheek where the wind carried it beneath the shelter. Thomas reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing her glove, then stilling.

The contact was brief. Barely there.

He withdrew his hand at once.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She did not move away. “Don’t be.”

A shift of wind pressed the rain beneath the overhang, and she stepped instinctively closer. He did the same in the same moment, a quiet adjustment to keep her within shelter.

Their movements collided.

Her cheek brushed his jaw. His hand lifted to steady her elbow. And in that half second of misjudged space, her mouth touched his.

Not a kiss in intention. Not planned. Barely more than breath. But their lips met, soft, startled, impossibly warm.

Thomas froze. Eliza did too.

The world seemed to narrow to the point of contact, the scent of rain, the heat of him just beneath the chilled wool of his coat. Then, as if waking, they both drew back a fraction. Not enough to sever the moment. Just enough to feel its absence.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and roughened.

“It was an accident,” she replied, though her pulse carried the truth that something in her had not found it accidental at all.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Yes,” he said. “An accident.”

But he didn’t move away.

Eliza realized then that this was the danger. The kind that asked nothing and therefore offered everything.

Nothing had ever felt more dangerous to her than wanting something that carried no obligation to remain. Hartleigh itself had taught her how quickly certainty could vanish. And yet standing beside Thomas, she understood with terrifying clarity how easily she could begin depending upon the simple fact of his presence.

“I should go in,” she said.

“Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

Then, deliberately, Thomas stepped back.