59. The Art of the Bow

He hadn’t meant to lift her. Not really. But the opportunity had presented itself—a flame-haired lady with fire in her step and thunder in her voice.

How could he resist?

Now, standing close enough to feel the heat rising off her blush, he allowed himself a moment—just a moment—to admire the spectacle he’d created.

Red-gold hair in disarray. Eyes wide. Lips parted in disbelief.

Perfect.

He dipped into a slow bow, not the stiff, ceremonial sort—no, this one lingered, precise and sinfully smooth. His eyes never left hers.

“Hawksley,” he said, voice like velvet dragged through whisky. “At your service, my lady. Though I believe I already was.”

Susan said nothing.

She couldn’t.

A breeze stirred the air between them, lifting her hair like a lover’s breath.

Behind her, the world stirred—Emily, amused. Tarquin, undone.

But Hawksley saw only her.

And her blush, blooming like a confession.