58. The Colour of a Confession

Susan tried to breathe with dignity. It came out more like a startled sip.

He stepped back—only slightly, only enough to make her aware of the space he wasn’t occupying. His eyes lingered, full of amusement and something warmer.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head, “if I’d known rescuing a lady would result in such... disarray, I’d have worn gloves with more grip.”

Susan blinked.

“And here I thought the green in your riding habit was fashion,” he murmured, gaze drifting slowly, “but no—it was envy, wasn’t it?”

“Envy?” she managed, dazed.

“Of the saddle,” he said, leaning in again, just enough to set her heart hammering. “It had the pleasure of holding you first.”

The blush wasn’t confined to her cheeks now. It swept like fire across her throat, her ears, her very soul.

Emily cleared her throat—pointedly.

Tarquin exhaled like a man just shot.

Susan? She could’ve melted through the stone.