"I beg your pardon?"

Vincent, who only moments ago had been leaning toward her with the terrifying focus of a grand inquisitor extracting a confession, froze completely.

He stared at her. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, his jaw dropped.

For perhaps the first time in his adult life, the Marquis of House Devereux looked genuinely stunned into speechlessness. His expression went entirely blank.

Not cold. Not angry.

Just blank.

As though the formidable machinery of his mind had abruptly ceased functioning.

"You..." His voice roughened unexpectedly. "The... what?"

"The... the night we spent together," Penelope continued, doubling down because she was already halfway off the cliff. She threw her hands up with a dramatic, flustered sigh. "I realized that William is... well, a "stick". A boring, limp, painfully unremarkable twig of a man. I’ve been around him enough to tell."

Vincent blinked at her.

"But you? My God, Vincent. You were revolutionary. I discovered rather quickly that after experiencing the entire "forest", it becomes impossible to return to a twig. So yes, I fell in love with your... capabilities. Is that what you wished to hear?"

Vincent remained seated upon the tiny stool before her, looking like he’d been struck by lightning for the second time that day.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then opened it again.

"You... you fell in love with me because I am... the forest?" He choked out, looking utterly scandalized and strangely flattered all at once. "What... does that even mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

Vincent fell silent.

To Penelope’s absolute horror, his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. It seemed subtle, instinctive, before he snapped his gaze away immediately, as though looking at her for even a second longer might shatter whatever remained of his self-control.

Was that even possible?

Vincent just sat there, staring at her as if she were a brand-new species of creature he had never encountered. The "ghost" he had seen in her eyes was gone, replaced by a very intentional, very bright blush.

"I... I see," Vincent finally said, his voice quieter than she had ever heard it.

He lowered his gaze to his hands.

The tips of his ears had turned unmistakably red, and Penelope caught sight of it immediately. Her eyes widened upon seeing the Marquis blush, and the realization nearly unraveled her composure.

"I had no idea..." Vincent murmured awkwardly, clearing his throat like he could still recover some fragment of his dignity. "That I was so... revolutionary."

Penelope pressed her lips together hard to stop herself from laughing.

A dangerous thought suddenly crossed her mind.

After all, she had only said those ridiculous things to distract him from prying further into her secrets.

But now...

Now she was curious.

Because Vincent, the man she had considered a nightmare, looked genuinely flustered for perhaps the first time in his life. And Penelope discovered, rather alarmingly, that she wanted to see just how much further she could push him.

The corners of her eyes curved with barely restrained mischief.

"You know... I couldn’t find my garter earlier this morning," she said innocently, tilting her head slightly. "...hmm, I wonder where it went. There’s not a chance you might have seen it, have you?"

Vincent narrowed his eyes at once, immediately sensing danger.

"Penelope."

"No?"

The warning look he gave her would have terrified most people in the Empire.

Penelope, unfortunately, found it amusing.

"Perhaps I did not praise you thoroughly enough," she said, lifting her chin stubbornly. "Should I be more specific? If you wish, I can tell you how deeply, madly, carnally the experience was for me."

Truthfully, she wasn’t lying.

She had witnessed the difference, first-hand, both in the miserable remains of her former life with William, and now here, with Vincent. The comparison had been shockingly, startling enough to make her question every decision she had ever made regarding men.

Honestly, her past self had such horrible taste.

"You know–!"

The words died abruptly in her throat.

Penelope’s breath hitched sharply as Vincent’s hand clamped gently, but firmly over her mouth.

The sheer physicality of him was overwhelming.

At some point, he had risen from the stool with a smooth, predatory grace that defied his injuries, looming over her like a shadow reclaiming his light.

His palm was warm against her skin, carrying the faint scent of bitter herbs from the medicine he had taken moments earlier. But his eyes were truly what terrified and enthralled her.

They had darkened almost completely, narrowed into dangerous stormy slits burning with something intense enough to make her pulse thunder painfully against her ribs.

"Stop talking," he commanded softly, his voice a low, vibrating growl that seemed to echo in her very bones.

For a brief moment, neither of them moved. The nearness of him was dizzying- a maddening blend of danger and devotion that left Penelope’s thoughts scattering helplessly.

Then Vincent exhaled shakily, as though struggling against himself.

"First, you return to me like some phantom risen from the dead," he murmured, his gaze flicking to where his palm covered before lifting again.

"Then you strike me in the courtyard."

A faint breath ghosted across her skin.

"And now this?"

He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she had become the greatest mystery of his life.

"Since when did you become so dangerously bold, Penny?"

The question was intimately soft.

Too soft.

"If you continue behaving this way" Vincent continued quietly, "I may truly begin to believe you. And if I get used to this version of you... then I promise you, I shall become a thousand times more difficult to rid yourself of."

His hand slid slowly away from her mouth. But before Penelope could inhale a full breath, he moved with the sudden, startling speed of a soldier. He caught her thigh gently and hooked her leg toward his hip, drawing her flush against the edge of the bed in one smooth motion.

The movement startled a gasp out of her.

Entirely improper.

Entirely un-Marquis-like.

"W-Wait—" Penelope’s hand flew instinctively against his chest, feeling the frantic drum of his heart through the silk of his shirt. It was rapid enough to rival her own. "Vincent, stop. You are injured. The physician said you need rest– your back–"

But Vincent barely seemed to hear her. Or perhaps he simply no longer cared.

He leaned in until his nose brushed against hers, his breath warm against her lips. Beneath the silk of his shirt, tension coiled tightly through every muscle in his body. The pain from his injuries had become secondary compared to the roar of blood pounding in his ears.

"You should have thought about the state of my health before opening your mouth to say such outrageous things to me," he murmured against her lips, his grip on her thigh tightening just enough to pull another startled gasp from her.

"You called me revolutionary, Penny."

This time, a slow smile appeared upon his lips, though there was nothing entirely sane about the expression.

It was sinful. Beautiful. Dangerous.

"It would wound my pride terribly," his voice went rough with restrained amusement, "if I didn’t at least attempt to live up to such praise from my wife."