Page 115 of The Siren of Sussex

“I believe you are,” she said. “I know it to be true. The feelings we have for each other—”

“And where would such feelings take us if you gave them their head? Straight down the road to ruin. Right into the selfsame predicament that you find your sister in. Poor. Miserable. Exiled from polite society.”

Evelyn shook her head. “It wouldn’t be that way for us.”

“No. With us it would be worse.” He brought his hand to cradle her cheek. His touch made her breath stutter. He was gentle. Almost reverent. As if she were made of the finest French silk. “How would I keep you, Evie?” he asked. “How could I ever make you happy?”

“You do make me happy,” she said.

He bent his head. They were already dangerously close. The small movement brought them closer still.

Her heartbeat accelerated. She knew he was going to kiss her an instant before his lips brushed hers.

It was a brief caress. Similar to the accidental kiss they’d shared in the fitting room at Doyle and Heppenstall’s.

But no.

It was more than that—and different. This kiss was purposeful. A tender, searching inquiry. He was asking her permission.

She gave it readily. Arching up to him, her lips yielded beneath his in unspoken answer: Yes, please.

And he kissed her again, softly, gently.

It was achingly sweet. Quickening her pulse and warming her blood. And yet . . .

Evelyn recognized the feeling of leashed power. The way it coiled just beneath the surface. She knew it well enough from riding a stallion. But this wasn’t only power restrained. This was something else. Something stronger and more hazardous still.

It was passion.

Ahmad’s passion for her. And he was holding it back. Leashing it as though she needed protecting from it.

Her hand lifted to curl around his neck. Her fingers threaded in the thick hair at his nape. “You don’t have to be careful with me.”

His forehead came to rest against hers. “Yes. I do.”

“If you truly want me—”

“I do want you,” he admitted. “So much. But this . . . It can’t happen.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. He was pulling away from her. Not physically, but in every other way that mattered.

She wanted to hold him tighter. To keep him from withdrawing.

A pathetic impulse.

Gathering her dignity, she dropped her hand from his neck. “Have I made a fool of myself?”

A troubled frown shadowed his brow. “No.”

“But you’re rejecting me.”

He didn’t deny it. His thumb moved over the slope of her cheek in a slow caress. “Because this can’t work.”

“Why not?” There was a sullen flavor to her words. She hated how it sounded. But good lord, this hurt.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he said.

She opened her mouth to object, but he forestalled her.