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He lifted his face. “I hope that’s not a question.”

He wasn’t teasing. He was solemn, a vulnerable softness in his gaze.

She shook her head.

“You’re sparkling,” she whispered, in wonderment, before realizing that her eyes had filled with tears.

“There’s so much I want to give you,” he murmured. “Nights of exquisite pleasure. Early mornings of exquisite pleasure. Midafternoons, if you’re not teaching, and I’m not in the studio, although—let’s be frank—I’m not opposed to giving you exquisite pleasure in the studio. I like a well-furnished studio, upholstered chairs, lots of fringe. Where was I? Evenings of exquisite pleasure. Exquisite pleasure in the Catskills, surrounded by fairy rings of toadstools. Exquisite pleasure at the shore as we sample America’s bathing machines.”

She was laughing in his embrace, which made the tears slip down her cheeks. He kissed the damp skin below her eyes, and the salty corner of her mouth.

“I want to give you my name,” he said. “Or we can invent one together. Kit and Muriel Pengriff. I think it has a certain dash.”

She stared. “Pengriff.”

“Griffindrake?”

“But you’ve begun to build a reputation as Kit Griffith.”

“I can begin again. New beginnings keep me young.”

“We can see.” She swallowed hard. “We have time to decide.” All of August had been a race against time, the sands running down, and then, just as she’d thought the end had come, there was so much more.

She trembled, and his grasp on her tightened.

“I have something to give you now,” he said.

“Exquisite pleasure?” She glanced to the left and the right. The street was quiet, but it was a street in Bloomsbury and hardly deserted. On cue, a curtain twitched in a window.

“Don’t tempt me.” Kit growled it against her ear, and her skin heated everywhere.

She wiggled away, smiling, and he pulled a stone from his pocket.

“Our badge,” he said. “Rather, the design for the badge. We won’t wear painted rocks. I’m thinking sterling silver and enamel.”

She took the stone. He’d painted a wheel, spokes threaded with daisies and buttercups. She traced the letters with her fingers. K&P, the stone read.

He cleared his throat. “The final version will say FPTC, for the Flower Pedals Touring Club.”

“I like this one,” she said. “For Kit and Penny.” Her heart overflowed, and he was sparkling again. The world was sparkling.

“We should pedal on,” he said thickly. “They’ll have started to worry.”

She looked up at him, brow flexing.

“Raleigh and Ponsonby.” He gave her an adorably sheepish smile. “They’re waiting at the Serpentine with a celebratory picnic. Champagne. Strawberries. I think Raleigh’s selected a poem or two, so prepare to be regaled.”

“Oh,” she said, and then: “Oh.”

“I got to town yesterday,” he admitted. “And did a bit of scheming.”

His face blurred. She had a ticklish feeling in her throat.

“You were overconfident,” she breathed.

“Not overconfident, as it turns out.” His smile was widening.

She laughed and gave him a push. He caught her wrist, trapping her hand against his upper chest.