She did not reply, but gave a slight bob of her head in understanding. He wished so very much to cup her cheek and coax her to look at him. To tell her that everything would be all right.

“Your petit diable is enjoying his stroll,” Avers said instead, as Lutin made a lunge for a pigeon that had been pecking at the ground close by.

“I think he’s felt cooped up,” Emilie replied, and then added quickly, “Though your aunt has been very good about him, letting him on the sofas, and feeding him all manner of treats.”

Her tone had turned to one of loving affection, and a joyful smile hovered over her lips as she watched her petite companion trotting here and there on the end of his lead.

“I instructed her cook to bake liver biscuits for the little sprite.”

Emilie glanced across at him, surprised gratitude in her eyes. “You did? I thanked your aunt for her thoughtfulness.”

Avers laughed. “And I expect she accepted the compliment without demure. Devil take her—she is a slippery one, that aunt of mine.”

“I should not say it, for she has been very kind to me,” Emilie said, looking behind them to check that the maid was out of earshot, and then whispering conspiratorially to Avers. “But she is the greatest gossip I have ever known. I find it hard to comprehend just how much information she has on every individual of consequence in Society. Even the servants.”

Avers laughed without restraint, having to stop his stroll and clap a hand to his thigh. “Has it taken you four days to realise that?” he asked, wiping his eyes, a broad grin on his face.

“Non,” Emilie replied, shrugging. “Only one. But I have not had the opportunity to tell you until now.” She began chuckling, the sound so sweet and refreshing that it made Avers’ heart ache. He pressed a hand over hers which rested on his arm, his smile becoming more tender as he looked down at her.

“You handle her very well, you know. I actually think she likes you. The way you ask open questions—she thinks herself in charge of the conversation, with no notion that you’re staying relatively silent.”

Emilie smiled, her eyes twinkling at him. “She may be a gossip, but she is very fond of you.”

Avers only grunted at that. He didn’t wish to talk about his aunt. He wished to talk about Emilie. About her future. About his…

“Have you given any thought as to what you wish to do now?”

The question asked now hung between them, and every fibre in his being tensed in anticipation of her response.

“Do?” Emilie asked, puzzlement in her voice, and then she laughed humourlessly. “You say that as if I had choices.” Then, apparently aware of the bitter sound of her words, she added, “It is thanks to you I am even here—safe and well. I don’t take that for granted.”

“I know you don’t,” Avers said, drawing her to a stop so he could turn to face her. He searched her face and saw so many emotions there. They were spoken by the shape of her mouth, the expression in her eyes and the furrow of her brow—apprehension, fear—he wished to wipe that all away.

Without thinking, he brought up his gloved hand to her cheek and ran a gentle thumb across the smooth skin. He’d forgotten they were in public, that others could see this intimate action, because all he saw before him was her. Emilie. The woman who he had come to care for so very deeply. The woman whose strength and goodness had given him hope for a future he had not expected.

“But what do you want for your future?”

Her brow furrowed and he saw the shining mist of tears gathering in her eyes. He did not want to make her cry.

“What do you want?” she asked tentatively, flipping the question back at him, her expression one of nervous hope.

A crease appeared at the corner of his mouth, deepening as his lips curved into a private smile meant just for her.

“You,” he said simply.

“Oh.” Her mouth formed that perfect, silent exclamation, but instead of happiness in her eyes he saw a rise in anxiety.

“I did not mean to upset you,” he said, watching with concern and guilt as tears began to spill down her cheeks. He had been a fool. He shouldn’t have answered her so honestly. Perhaps he had misread her feelings and she didn’t love him as he had hoped. “Forgive me. I should not be telling you I love you—that I wish to marry you—so soon after all you’ve been through.”

“Marry me?” Emilie’s voice asked in shocked accents. “I thought—the Comte—Dartois—they offered me…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence and Avers didn’t want her to.

He felt sick to his stomach at what she was implying. That he too was asking her to become his mistress. He was the stupidest man in England. How could he not have foreseen her assumption?

“No, Emilie,” he said forcefully. “I offer you my name along with my heart if you will have me.”

She made a choking sound, pulling away from him, and starting to wring her hands as her breath came in quick gasps.

“Oh, my darling,” he said, still holding one of her hands, as she caught her breath.

“You cannot want me.”

It came out in such a small broken voice Avers almost missed it. But as the words sunk in he felt a lance of pain straight through the middle of his chest.

“Cannot want you?” he asked incredulously. “Cannot want you?” He put his hands on either side of her face, cupping her cheeks, and staring deeply into those soft eyes of hers. “You, Emilie Cadeaux, have given me hope. You have caused me to fall in love again. You have helped me to forgive and to move on. You have shown me what strength of character, and goodness, and beauty, truly is.”

Her tears came thicker and faster, coating her cheeks with wetness, making his gloves damp.

“But that is how I feel,” he said gently—tenderly, “not you, my dear Emilie. You are free to make your own decisions. If you wish to return to Paris I will aid you in any way I can. You do not have to… to…”

“Love you?” she asked, brow creased with concern for him, her eyes now searching his face.

“Yes.”

“I am not worthy of a gentleman.”

“Oh, my darling.” He kissed first her forehead, and then each eyelid, and then hovered over her mouth looking deeply in her eyes. “My sweet Emilie—it is I who feel unworthy of you. I thought my heart too wounded to live or find love again, but you have renewed it, and with you I see a bright, new future.”

She began to smile through her tears. “So do I—” Her voice cracked, but she swallowed, determined to carry on. “With you.”

The simple words were all that Avers had hoped to hear. They sent a spark of joy through him. A smile broke out across his mouth and any concern that Emilie did not return his feelings evaporated.

“My darling Emilie,” he murmured, his lips now very close to hers. His gaze flicked to them, then to her eyes, and reading there an invitation, he dropped his mouth to hers. Their lips touched, warm and soft, and feelings of pleasure rolled out through his body. He lowered one hand to her waist, pressing on the small of her back, pulling her into him. Their bodies fit together so perfectly and the yearning he had felt to do this for days, weeks, months, was finally satisfied with her in his arms.

“John!”

The couple pulled reluctantly apart, but Avers wouldn’t let Emilie go completely, even if they shouldn’t have been kissing in such a public place. He turned with vexation to see his aunt, leaning out of her halted landaulet, peering at them with a quizzing glass.

“What are you doing, John? In public, no less. The scandal!”

Not content with knowing everyone else’s dramas, apparently his relative was determined to create her own, her volume far louder than it needed to be. One person had already stopped to look over.

Instead of answering his aunt, Avers turned back to look down at Emilie, his arm tightening around her waist.

“Marry me, Mademoiselle Cadeaux?” he asked, leaning down to place a roguish kiss under her ear. “Please?”

“Yes,” she said, letting out a sigh, and to his delight, he felt her shiver against him.

“John!” Lady Goring cried.