“Coward,” she accused.
“Wise man.” He descended the steps. “I’ve seen what you do to rosebushes that displease you.”
The garden had been neglected for years—tangled, diseased, more thorn than bloom. She’d spent winter carefully pruning away dead wood. Now the plants rewarded her patience with new growth. Tender shoots pushing through soil still cool from winter’s grip.
Rather like the household itself.
Edmund crossed the lawn and settled beside her on the grass, perfectly pressed trousers be damned. “You’ve dirt on your nose.”
“Then you’re sitting beside a woman who works for her beauty rather than arranging it.”
“Shocking.” His hand found hers. Warm. Solid. Real. “Along with teaching my ward philosophy and playing Mozart loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Someone had to breathe life into this mausoleum.”
Edmund lifted her hand—dirt-stained, nail-broken—and pressed it to his lips. The gesture was deliberate. Tender. His mouth lingered against her knuckles.
“You’ve given this house a heart again,” he murmured.
“And you’ve finally let yourself have one.” She squeezed his fingers. “A heart, I mean. Rather than that cold stone you’d convinced yourself was sufficient.”
He smiled. Genuine, reaching his eyes. The scar along his jaw caught sunlight—no longer shame, simply part of him.
“You’re a terrible influence.”
“The worst.”
From across the garden, Lillian’s voice carried on the breeze. “Are you two going to sit there being sickeningly devoted all morning, or might we finish before luncheon?”
Edmund laughed. “Tyrannical child. When did you become such a demanding taskmaster?”
“When my guardians decided gardening was educational.” Lillian grinned. “Though watching you two does provide certain lessons about marriage.”
“Lillian!” Heat climbed Isadora’s cheeks.
Edmund rose, pulling Isadora up with him. His hands lingered at her waist. “Come. Before our ward decides we’re hopeless.”
Our ward.
No. Their daughter. In every way that mattered.
They returned to work—scattered across beds that would soon burst with color. Lillian hummed something off-key. Edmundoffered commentary on pruning techniques. Isadora listened and felt something settle in her chest that had been restless since childhood.
Peace.
Spring sunshine warmed her neck. Soil pressed cool against her knees. Edmund’s hand found hers across the roses.
“I’m glad I stayed,” she said quietly.
His fingers tightened. “I’m glad you gave me another chance.”
“Only one more. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Then I’d better not waste it.” He pressed another kiss to her knuckles. “I love you, Isadora Ravensleigh. Every impossible, dirt-covered inch of you.”
She grinned up at him. “Good. Because you’re rather stuck with me now.”
“For better,” Edmund said firmly. “Always for better.”
