"I do mean it," he insists in a quiet murmur, careful of his teeth as he kisses her. If he didn't mean it, he wouldn't be so careful with her. She is precious to him, for all that she would probably laugh if he told her how he felt. She is a woman grown, older than he by some years, and has no need of someone treating her like she is fragile and delicate. And yet Benedict finds himself doing so in the most inopportune moments, unable to help himself.

Perhaps it is just as well that they are continuously interrupted. He cannot make too much of a fool of himself when he is not able to let all the ridiculous thoughts in his head tumble out past his lips.

His hands settle at her waist again to turn her in front of him, until they are facing each other properly, allowing him to slide his arms about her in a snug embrace.