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“Here, let me.” Ian was next to her in a second. He reached out and wiped a few drops from her chin with his handkerchief.

He took her hand and wiped her leather glove. His fingers wrapped around her wrist to hold her hand steady, the pads of his fingers brushing against the skin between the glove and the sleeve of her gown.

Her pulse slammed rapidly against her skin, reverberating against his fingers. Her skin grew hot, almost scalding him. She was excited by his touch, he realized.

Ian raised his head and met her burning gaze.

She had beautiful dark, brown eyes. So dark that he could see his reflection in them.

Her lips were partly open, wet with the shrub she’d just partaken in. He’d asked his chef to make it specifically for this outing. He knew it to be sweet. But he wondered if the taste of her lips would perhaps make it taste even sweeter. Or would the taste have a salty tang?

She licked her lips as if she read his mind and liked the thoughts she saw there. Ian’s insides tightened, his body heat rising, and his thoughts losing a coherent thread.

It wasn’t time to lose his mind. Not yet. Not here.

“There you are,” he said with a good-natured smile. “And nobody will ever know what a rebel you are.”

Mrs. St. John blinked and her lips curved in a smile. “Thank you for helping me rebel.”

Ian tipped his hat and turned back toward the path. “Any time.”

Chapter 10

Any time.

He’d said it in jest, but Helen saw the truth in his eyes.

When he looked at her, it was as if he was staring right through to her soul. He saw her need, and he was open to fulfilling it.

She might have been imagining all that. Making up the stories to make it easier for her to confess what she’d wanted from him.

But when he wiped the remnants of drops from her chin and hand, holding her wrist tightly in his fingers, her entire being was overtaken by a blazing heat.

Her heart slammed rapidly against her ribs, and Helen’s mind froze for a long moment. Only one thought invaded her mind. Ask him. It’s time. Ask him.

His eyes met hers, and for the first time, she noticed their color. They were hazel brown, with golden specks shining in the sunlight. She swallowed, all thought evaporating from her mind, only the taste of sweet, cherry shrub lingering on her lips and the feeling of warmth spreading within her body.

He quickly turned away and made a jest about her being a rebel. But that simple remark from his lips felt more meaningful than a thousand words from anyone else.

He understood her. He understood her desire for rebellion even in such a small way as drinking from a flask in the middle of a sunny day in a crowded park. And if he understood that, then perhaps he would be open to aiding her in a larger rebellion.

What she needed was to ask him.

And that was something she wasn’t certain she’d be able to do.

During her life with Greyson, she rarely spoke up about her wishes. She simply felt she didn’t deserve to. She was the sickly one. She was the one who couldn’t give him children. She didn’t deserve to ask him for things when she couldn’t fulfill her duties as a wife.

Now she was a widow.

And as Olivia said, it accorded her some freedom. If only she could muster up the courage to ask for them.

They continued riding along the narrow path in silence. Helen quite enjoyed the fact that Lord McAllistair didn’t require her to speak. He didn’t offer useless platitudes. He didn’t insist on keeping up with a polite conversation. He just left her to her own thoughts, occasionally offering the flask he’d so thoughtfully brought with him. For her.

Such a small gesture meant the world to her.

It meant he’d noticed. He remembered. He thought about her.

After an entire life of trying to mask her affliction by doing anything she could to accommodate others and hide her discomfort, this was the first time someone had told her—without using any words—that he would accommodate her.