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that she wasn’t alone in that storm; Wick’s large hands were trembling as they slid down her back, rounded onto her bottom, and pulled her up and against his body. Which wasn’t a bit like Rodney’s doughy anatomy. In fact, he didn’t feel in the least like Rodney . . .
    It was Wick who pulled back, Wick who stepped away, leaving Philippa trying to catch her breath. His chest was heaving too, and she could see the wildness in his eyes. She had never felt more feminine, more desired, and more powerful, in her life.
    “I can’t marry you,” he said, low and fierce. “You’re a lady. I cannot marry you.”
    “I haven’t asked you to,” she rejoined, her voice catching.
    She had to stop him before he said anything, before he said he regretted kissing her. “Good night,” she whispered, pushing her hair back from her face.
    Wick stepped forward, his hands reaching toward her as if he couldn’t stop himself. She turned quickly and walked to her bedchamber door, pausing to glance over her shoulder.
    He was gazing after her, just as she’d thought—and hoped—he would be.
    “I just want to point out,” she said, “that not only am I in the service of your brother, but I gave away my most prized possession, my chastity. As anyone in polite society would confirm, a woman in my situation could never marry a gentleman.”
    Then, before he could respond, she whisked herself through the door. Because . . . Because she had, for all intents and purposes, just asked him to marry her.
    And if that wasn’t enough to disqualify her as a lady, she didn’t know what would.

Chapter Seven
    W hen Wick appeared in the portrait gallery the following night, he didn’t say a word about her implicit proposal. Instead he inquired about Jonas’s belly troubles, and then told her a story about his Great Aunt Sophonisba. Philippa nodded and smiled, but inside, she was wild with frustration.
    Was he never going to mention what happened between them? She had lain awake half the night searching for magic words that would overcome his comment about her birth, and he wanted to talk of trivialities? Then, quite suddenly, Jonas stopped fussing, gave a little snort, and fell asleep.
    And just as quickly, Wick snatched the baby from her shoulder and carried him back to the nursery.
    Philippa trotted along behind, her heart pounding. She was having trouble remembering her lines, just like an actress about to enter the stage. What should she say? What should she — should she . . .
    In the end, she said nothing, because—the baby having been tucked in his bed—Wick pinned her against the wall and kissed her until she was melting against him, and instead of carefully crafted questions designed to make him realize that he should marry her . . . well, he seemed to like those soft sounds she made when he kissed her, which was good because the way he kissed her, put together with the way he touched her, made her intoxicated. Even more intoxicated than old Fettle, when he was lying in the road singing.
    The next night was the same, and the night after that. All during the daylight hours, she mulled over ways to make Wick marry her. Somehow. Because if he didn’t ask her soon—well, she really did have to write her father. She had begun to feel horribly guilty, certain that he was worried to death about what had become of her.
    But when the nighttimes came, and Wick found her in the portrait gallery, their eyes would meet, and all those anxieties would fly from her mind. The world would shrink to fit that room. She would shiver if his arm touched hers, bite her lip at the look in his eyes.
    And then, when Jonas was in his cradle, she would slip into Wick’s arms as naturally as the baby had settled down to sleep. Once she was there, the world disappeared entirely, and the only thought in her mind was a dazed wish to know more of him. Wick was like the best present she’d ever received, a gift wrapped in hundreds of different layers.