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He’d been robbed and what was worse, he didn’t even remember the event. It occurred to him then that if he continued on the same path, he was in very real danger of turning into his father.
    That sudden realization proved more sobering than a week in gaol. Determined not to shame Delia’s memory, or squander the small legacy his mother had left him—money his father couldn’t legally touch and the only reason he was able to attend Oxford at all—he’d set about curbing the worst of his excesses. Reapplying himself to his studies, he’d kept mostly out of trouble, and by eighteen, had matured into a man.
    Drawing a breath, he stroked a hand along Mallory’s arm and met her sorrowful, sea-colored gaze. “It took some time,” he said, “but I finally realized that my suffering would never bring Delia back; nor would it have made her happy. She was a kind, generous person, and she would never have wished to see me sad. I can tell you without hesitation that Michael Hargreaves wouldn’t want you to be sad either. He would want you to live and have a happy life. He’s found his own peace. Give yourself the right to find yours.”
    Mallory trembled, something shattering on her face. “But I’m afraid I’ll forget him,” she confessed on a whisper, as more tears slid free. “We had such a short time together before he was sent away to fight. I worry if I go back to my old life that it will be as if he never existed. As if I’ve abandoned him somehow.”
    Adam curved an arm around her back and drew her close. “You haven’t abandoned him, and you will never forget. You loved him. Real love never fades.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hand and offered what comfort he could, as she buried her face against his chest and cried.
    He didn’t speak as he held her, fighting the jealousy that twisted inside him while she sobbed out her love and grief for another man. It was an emotion unworthy of him and one he knew he should not feel. Still, he wasn’t a saint, far from it. He was only human, only a man. And despite his best efforts to be noble and self-sacrificing, a small, selfish part of him couldn’t help but resent the hold Hargreaves had on Mallory—even from beyond the grave.
    At length, her tears ceased, her sobs turning to shaky inhalations and weary sighs, as she leaned against him. Using the damp silk handkerchief she held balled up inside her fist, she blew her nose and blotted her tear-stained eyes.
    Reaching into his pocket, he produced a fresh handkerchief. “Here, have another.”
    She drew a hiccupping breath, and tried, but didn’t quite manage to smile. “You’re right, I have rather used this first one up, haven’t I?” Accepting the second square of white silk, she pressed the dry cloth to her eyes and cheeks and nose, pausing at his gentle urging to give “one more good blow” despite the inelegance of such behavior.
    But he and Mallory had known each other for far too many years to stand on formality at this point. If they had, she would never have cried in his arms today at all, he realized.
    “Gracious,” she declared, straightening slightly inside his embrace. “I must look a sight.”
    But she didn’t, she looked beautiful, he thought. Her lashes framed her luminous aquamarine eyes in dark, spiky rings, while her cheeks were burnished as red as crisp fall apples. As for her lips, they were swollen from her crying—plump and full and lusciously moist.
    Sweet as candy, he thought. And every bit as delicious, he was sure.
    “No,” he murmured in answer to her query. “You look lovely as always.” Then, before he even knew what he was doing, he bent and touched his mouth to hers, desperate for a taste, however brief it might be.
    But a taste couldn’t begin to be enough, yearning roaring to life inside him, burning in his veins as blood beat between his temples and pooled lower in his belly and between his thighs.
    She gave a clearly startled whimper, but didn’t try