Simon strolled into the Rosecrest Manor library to find Whitley pressed up against the window, peering through the hazy glass.

He cleared his throat. "Is there anything to see out there?"

Whitley jumped, spinning around with wide eyes, her hand flying to her chest.

"Simon!"

He smiled. "Whitley."

"You startled me."

"It was not my intention, my lady." Simon closed the space between them and sat next to her on the window seat. A quick glance through the panes told him there wasn't much to see out on the Rosecrest lawn.

Whitley seemed to notice the direction of his gaze.

"I was merely waiting for Blair to return. Everyone else arrived back from the morning ride except for her...and your brother."

She flashed a mischievous grin at Simon, and he couldn't contain himself. His smile grew even further.

"You are ridiculously delightful, Whitley Ash," he said.

A rosy flush came over her cheeks then, and Simon tried to ignore the deep-seated pride that something he said or did could cause her to redden so. She was affected by him, at least in some way. Simon should really like to learn of all the ways in which he could affect her, but it was probably best if he did not think of that.

Not now, anyway.

Later. Definitely later.

Whitley glanced shyly down, and Simon noticed for the first time that she was holding a journal of sorts. It was open in her lap, her neat penmanship scrolling across the pages.

"Practicing for when you have your very own gossip column?" Simon asked with a tilt of his head.

Whitley was fast to slam the journal shut and blink up at him with round, innocent eyes. "You could say that, yes," she muttered, her words coming out far too quickly, the sounds of each letter blending together in a sigh.

Simon rose a brow. Her eyes might be innocent, but everything else about her—how she was strumming her fingers against the closed journal, how her body leaned awkwardly forward as if attempting to hide the little book from view, how she was biting her bottom lip—it all told Simon that Whitley was quite guilty. Of something. But what?

"What are the chances that you should allow me to read it, Whitley?"

Her eyes grew rounder, wider, and decidedly less innocent.

"Quite slim."

Simon repressed an amused grin.

"Perhaps you would like to show my mother? She would love to read it, I am sure. She could share some advice on the matter, I suppose."

Whitley appeared conflicted now, her face contorting in the funniest of expressions.

And it all made Simon abundantly curious, indeed. "Do tell, Lady Whitley, what is it that you are gossiping about in that journal of yours?"

She looked away, out the window, avoiding Simon's probing gaze. "Simply idle talk."

"Of going-ons at Rosecrest? Or elsewhere?"

Whitley gave a little sniff. "Rosecrest."

"Such as?"

"Nothing that you are not already aware of, Simon."

The lady said his name with a bit of angst, hissing on the first letter. It betrayed her feelings on the topic of conversation, of his insistence. But Simon could not lie and say he wasn't eager to hear her say his name again. Perhaps with a different tone, however. Like last night, when she'd sighed his name, encouraging his lips downward.

Unfortunately, Whitley was not currently looking at Simon as though she wanted him to kiss her. Simon would need to rectify that.

The first step was to let her keep her secrets regarding whatever was in that journal of hers.

The second step was to lean toward the warmth of her body, taking advantage of their proximity and the stir of desire it caused within him. And hopefully within her as well.

And the third was to pay her a compliment. What lady does not wish for a compliment?

"If your writing is any bit like the rest of you, I am certain it is perfect, Lady Whitley."

Whitley rolled her eyes, proving Simon entirely wrong. Apparently, not every lady wishes for a compliment.

"Perfect?" She scoffed. "You say I am perfect, Simon, but you have no basis for that claim. In fact, I believe you are finding, little by little, that I am not as ladylike, not as pristine, not as well-mannered as you likely formerly thought."

Simon moved in closer, and he could feel a grin dancing on his face whilst he placed a finger beneath Whitley's chin. He wanted to encourage her to look away from her hands and look instead at him.

"I have always thought you were perfect, Whitley. For over a year now, I have thought you perfect. But not because of your manners. I could care less about those."

She sucked in a breath. "Why, Simon? I do not understand why you have wasted your time harboring affections for me."

Waste his time? Simon could have scoffed as well. He would have waited years to have the chance at this moment right here—this moment when he was so close that he could feel the softness of her skin, so close that he could see her quickening breaths, so close that he could smell the flowery scent of her hair and skin. And not a single second, minute, hour of those years would have been wasted. Because this moment was everything Simon had ever wanted.

"The first time I saw you was at Lord and Lady Claremont's ball," Simon began, dropping his hand from Whitley's face. She didn't look away from him, though. She kept her gaze and chin steady, watching Simon intently.

"I do not recall that," she replied softly.

"No." Simon shook his head. "No, we did not meet. I merely saw you from afar, but yet I couldn't look away. You were a level of beauty that I did not know existed on earth, Whitley, and I internally cursed the men who approached you for their turn at a dance. Especially once I realized."

"Realized?" Whitley breathed.

"Once I realized that you were more than just beauty. I watched you laugh with them, those men. I watched you apologize to them for making a misstep in the dance even when it was they who made the error. I watched as you tried to console Lady Blair about something, and though I could not tell what, it did not matter. Because it was clear you loved your family as I do mine."

Whitley gave the tiniest of nods in acknowledgment. It was all she could apparently manage. "I do."

Simon grinned. "See? You have always been perfect to me. Even when you were trying to trick and deceive me on our morning strolls, I couldn't help but adore you."

"I do apologize for that." And Whitley honestly looked as though she very much meant it. "But why did you not ask me to dance at the ball, Simon? I could have laughed with you. I could have apologized to you when you stepped on my feet." There was a sad flicker in her eyes as she studied him. "Even when I first met you, you were shy, hiding yourself from me. But you are actually sweetly confident, smart, funny." She paused, tilting her head. "We could have danced long ago, Simon. If you had asked."

He shrugged. "I did not try to hide myself. It has simply taken me until now to feel sure of myself around you, my lady."

Whitley slowly slid her body toward Simon. Her head was tilted to the side, resting against the window. Her shoulders were forward, giving Simon an entirely full display of her decolletage, which he was trying very hard to ignore. She peered up at him beneath long lashes, and Simon was certain that her eyes were no longer innocent. And he was also certain that his body had never hummed so loudly, yearned so profoundly.

She didn't say anything for a long moment. And then finally, Whitley spoke in a low voice. "You are quite positive that you feel sure of yourself around me, Simon?"

He nodded.

She rolled her eyes.

"Then why have you not kissed me as you wish to? It is no wonder that your brother believed he needed to do it for you."

Simon could have laughed. He could have, if not for the fact that he was too busy with walking away from Whitley, crossing the room in stiff strides so he could close the door to the library. And then Simon turned on his heel so he could return to Whitley and pull on her hand. The lady sprung up from the window seat and flew toward Simon, who was all too happy to catch her in his arms. "Dance with me, Whitley."

She smiled.

Looking down at her, he then took care to cup the back of her neck, tipping her head toward his. He tried to ignore how his heart was surely going to explode in his chest within the next minute. Or perhaps sooner, because then Whitley's lips parted, and she whispered, "Only if you kiss me, Simon."

So Simon kissed her.

And then they danced, swaying as Simon continued to kiss her long and slow. His lips moved across hers in a savoring way, trying to memorize every bit of her perfect mouth. His tongue swept between her lips, wanting to taste her perfection, and she parted the way for him to do so. And that was all it took for Simon's kisses to become thrusts inside her mouth. That was all it took for Whitley to begin gripping his hair and making these moaning noises that set Simon's entire soul on fire.

"Tell me this is not how my brother kissed you." Simon's breathing was ragged as he mumbled against her mouth. He refused to part from her lips for even a moment.

"No one has ever kissed me like this," Whitley confessed before pressing her lips firmly against his again.

This was all Simon had ever wanted, and yet, he wanted more.

And it was damning, because apparently, so did Whitley.

She pulled Simon down on the sofa beside them, and before he could help himself, Simon was atop her. Even then, he tried to pull back, gasping across her lips his attempts at control. "Whitley, we should—"

But she cut him off, covering his mouth with her own soft and pliant one. God, it was pliant. Molding to Simon's, consuming him as he was doing to her.

His hands fell to her body beneath him. The body that was writhing against his, making Simon so wholly aware of her every curve as she arched upward. And even though he felt her, felt everything pressed into the length of him, Simon wanted to feel her in his hands. He wanted to memorize her shape like he was memorizing the feel of her lips.

He started by cupping her face, tracing his fingers along the curve of her jaw as he continued to kiss Whitley desperately. And then his hands continued lower, smoothing over her collarbone, gracing the swell of her decolletage, until he finally had her breasts within his grasp.

Whitley moaned his name, encouraging him further. And it was a terrible, terrible idea, but Simon could not help but give the lady what she desired. His lips slid from hers, trailing down the path that his hands had just made. It was similar to how he had tasted her last night, but this time Simon had no intention of stopping.

He pulled back his head, just for a moment. He wanted to watch as he tugged on her bodice, baring her to him. And then he did just that, and Simon groaned. His desire for her threatened to flood him completely, and he was certain she could feel just how much he wanted her. But she was so perfect. Everything about her was so perfect. And Simon's mouth hovered over her nipple, his lips barely a breath away from her rosy skin.

"Simon," Whitley whimpered, and he closed the distance, sucking her into his mouth. She let out a small cry, arching her back and giving him all the access in the world to her body.

But hell, it wasn't his to take. Not now. Not yet.

"Whitley," Simon groaned, somehow managing to pull away from her breasts. "Whitley, I shouldn't be doing this."

"It feels very much like you should be," she protested, looking up at him with wild eyes, daring him to continue.

"Let me court you," Simon managed to choke out, clutching her sides so that he wouldn't let his hands wander elsewhere. "Formally."

"Yes, yes, fine," Whitley's breathy voice agreed. "Just do not stop, Simon."

He couldn't help but smile and drag his lips against her delicate skin. She gasped. "I do not intend to ruin you, to take your virtue in the Rosecrest library."

"Take it now or after we marry, it does not matter in the end," Whitley breathed out.

Simon froze.

Had he just heard her correctly?

"I have not given you a proposal yet, my lady," Simon managed to say teasingly. "Merely courtship."

Whitley's eyes sparkled. "I know, but considering how long it took for you to kiss me, I wasn't about to wait for one."

And then she did, quite literally, take things into her own hands, letting those fingers of hers run up Simon's back, sending a shiver through him despite the hot air in the library.

"Lord, Whitley. You will kill me."

"I should very much hope not, Simon."

He shook his head, leaning forward to settle his mouth in the crook of her neck, right next to her ear. Simon kissed there and said, "I had to wait quite a very long time for you. For this. Perhaps now it is your turn to practice patience, my dear."

But then Whitley took the opportunity to roll her body up against Simon's, and he felt all of her through his clothes.

And that was when Simon decided that patience was very much overrated.

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