Page 50 of A Modest Independence

“That’s not the reason.”

“It is,” she assured him. “An unmarried person always feels inadequate in such circumstances. It’s perfectly natural.”

“It’s not that.”

“What else could it—”

“It’s you, Jenny. All these feelings. They all started with you.”

She turned her head to look at him, brows knit in confusion. “What?”

“I felt something for you long before Thornhill and Lady Helena were married. Long before they even met.”

“I don’t understand how—”

“From the moment you walked into my office last year, inquiring after that blasted matrimonial advertisement in the Times, I felt something…” He took her hand in his and pressed it to his chest. “Here. This is where I felt the first pang for you.”

Jenny’s hand rested flat on the breast of his waistcoat. His heart thumped strong and fast beneath her palm. He was nervous. Surely as nervous and uncertain as she was herself.

“I’m not a romantic, Jenny. And I’m certainly no knight in shining armor. What I am is desperately fond of you. I believe I’d do anything in the world to make you happy.”

She swallowed hard. Her voice, when it came, was a mere thread of sound. “Oh, Tom, what am I to do with you?”

“For now? Just let me be with you. I don’t require anything else.”

“That’s easy enough. You’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future.” She brought her hand up to cup his cheek. “Whatever possessed you to board that steamship in Dover? You might be in your office now, writing up one of your legal papers.”

“Do you know, at the moment, the prospect holds no appeal at all.” He gazed down at her. “May I kiss you?”

Jenny’s throat went dry. All she could do was nod.

He took a step forward and set one arm about her waist, drawing her against the leanly-muscled length of his body.

She was at once enveloped by the heat and strength of him. Caught up in the scent of bay rum, linen, and clean male skin. Her pulse fluttered as he touched her face.

“How extraordinary you are,” he murmured.

She trembled in his arms, too overwhelmed by the moment to speak. What in the world could she possibly say when every nerve ending in her body was firing with anticipation?

But Tom was in no hurry. He was slow and deliberate, his fingers tracing down the edge of her jaw to gently cup her chin. He tilted her face up to his.

She felt his breath whisper over her lips as he bent his head to kiss her. And then—

And then Mrs. Plank’s voice echoed down the deck, as unsubtle as a trumpet blast. “Mr. Finchley, is that you lurking about? And who’s that with you there? Is that your sister?”

Tom froze, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch over her own.

For the barest instance, Jenny thought he might ignore the interruption. That he might actually press his lips to hers and kiss her.

But there was no chance of that.

He withdrew from her all at once, releasing her from his arms and moving a full two feet away from her.

Jenny suppressed a cry of frustration. Curse Mrs. Plank! The dratted busybody. “How long do you suppose she’s been there?”

“I don’t know.” Tom’s voice was grim. “Not long, I hope.”

She turned away from him, setting her hands on the rail of the ship to steady herself as he answered Mrs. Plank. The woman didn’t come and join them. That was something, at least. But not enough. Not when he’d come so close to kissing her only to draw back at the final moment.