Mason turned away.
“You look like you want to put your fist through something.”
“I’m fine,” Mason said tightly.
“You’re not,” Jasper replied. “You never go still like that unless you’re one breath from snapping someone’s neck.”
Mason braced his hands against the edge of the desk and looked down, but all he saw washer: her wide blue eyes, her trembling chin, her defiant stare, the feel of her breathless laughter still echoed in his mind. He didn’t know what it was about her. He didn’t want her, and yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“I’m nothing like him,” Mason said suddenly.
Jasper blinked. “Pardon?”
“I’m nothing like my father.”
Jasper’s expression softened.
“No,” he said after a pause. “You’re not.”
Mason straightened, every inch of him coiled and composed once more.
“I will not become a man who treats women like pawns. I will not let rage rule me. And I willnotlet some impulsive girl stir chaos into this house or into me.”
Jasper gave him a long, measured look then he grinned.
“Old boy, you’re utterly doomed.”
“I daresay,” said Cordelia as she examined the tangled thicket before them, “that these roses have declared a rebellion and are planning to seize the estate by Michaelmas.”
The Dowager Duchess, who had been trailing her gloved fingers along a branch with the absent fondness one bestows upon a memory, let out a soft laugh.
“Isabelle never had the patience for pruning. She would plant five and promptly forget three.” She turned to Cordelia as amusement danced faintly in her eyes. “But she always remembered to name them.”
Cordelia’s lips curved. “These look like they might be called Margaret, Eleanor, and Despair.”
“An accurate reflection of the state of my garden.”
They chuckled as they stood together, side by side in the morning light, while the bees murmured lazily and the air held the sweet, almost overripe scent of summer blooms. The rosebushes, which were once tidy and delicate, had now grown wild, reaching toward the sky in a frenzy of thorns and tangled greenery, as though yearning to reclaim some lost piece of the world.
Cordelia felt strangely at peace here with the Dowager Duchess. There was pain in the older woman’s eyes, yes, but also the stubborn insistence of one who had chosen, deliberately, to keep moving forward. That, Cordelia admired greatly.
She turned to speak, perhaps even to suggest she might take it upon herself to trim the bushes though she possessed no particular gardening skill, when a dark shadow crossed the path behind them.
She knew that silhouette.
She had dreamed of it too many nights.
“Cordelia Brookes!”
The voice cracked like a whip through the tranquil air. The Dowager Duchess stiffened. He was striding toward them with rage written in every line of his face. Lord Vernon, the Earl of Nettlebridge, was tall, ruddy, and far too sure of his own authority in another man’s garden.
“You will come with me.Now.”
Cordelia’s mouth went dry.
“I knew it,” she whispered, grabbing the Dowager’s hand without even thinking. “I knew he would find me.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Dowager, stepping forward with measured calm. “To whom do I have the displeasure of speaking?”
