“Hell,” he muttered. “Forgive me. I had no notion you had come to the gardens to speak to a ghost.”
“He was my betrothed,” she said, explaining herself for reasons she did not understand.
Speaking of Walter with the Marquess of Dorset seemed inherently wrong. And yet it also felt imperative.
“Blast.” There was contrition in Dorset’s voice. “I am sorry, Lady Clementine. I had not realized you were betrothed in the past.”
She swallowed down a knot of sadness rising in her throat, forced the tears threatening to fall to retreat. “It was never announced. Our understanding was between the two of us, and then…”
Clementine could not finish her words.
“Come.” Sounding grim, Dorset took her hands in his.
Neither of them wore gloves, Clementine having abandoned hers on a stone wall when she had first entered the gardens, and Dorset’s likely secreted in a pocket. His skin was warm, his fingers long and strong and somehow reassuring. He tugged gently, taking control of the moment. She allowed it, following him to a nearby bench. The moment was oddly reminiscent of the last time they had found themselves seemingly alone in the gardens. However, on this occasion, there was no bee, no calamity, no nearby hostess and fellow guests to hear her frantic shrieks and come in search of her.
“Sit,” he ordered, but there was an unusual edge of tenderness to his words that made her obey.
Her knees had turned mutinous anyway. They gave out. Her rump, insufficiently padded by the underpinnings of her gown, landed hard upon the stone bench. She winced.
“What is the matter?” he asked. “Surely not another bee? I thought the blighters slept in the darkness.”
Had she made a sound of discomfort, or was he merely that attuned to her? Clementine could not be certain. Either way, his sudden concern was…confusing. And he was still holding her hands in his as he seated himself at her side.
Strangely, she did not want to relinquish either her hold on him or his on her.
He felt so very real and alive, so vital and necessary. It was a trick of the night, a foolish imagining brought on by her grief. And yet, she could not seem to let go.
“Not a bee,” she managed to say. “I was merely shocked by my landing upon the stone bench. It was rather graceless.”
“You’ve a sore rump, in other words.”
The man was dreadful.
Her cheeks went hot. But she didn’t release her hold on his hand. Their fingers were interlaced now, and it was strangely comforting. “You must not speak of my rump, Lord Dorset.”
“Why? I daresay it is a fine one indeed.”
Her lips wanted to smile. He could be so very charming when he chose to be.
“You are a ridiculous man.”
“Your ridiculous betrothed,” he corrected, his thumb tracing soft circles on her palm. “Your Walter…he was not ridiculous, I suppose?”
She did not want to talk about Walter any longer, and yet, she also very much wanted to unburden herself. “He was a good man. A gentleman. He was kind and considerate and always above reproach. We fell in love on the first day we met.”
“I had not supposed the implacable Lady Clementine had ever been betrothed. He must have been a paragon of virtue to win your heart.”
“He was a wonderful person,” she said, feeling the biting sting of tears once more. “Quite beloved to me and his family as well, gone from this earth far too soon.”
“It would seem I owe you an apology,” he said softly, his fingers flexing on hers.
She studied his profile in the moonlight. “You owe me an apology, my lord?”
For all that he had persuaded Miss Julia of the veracity of their betrothal, Clementine could understand he had done so in an effort to preserve her reputation. Even if he had taken an unholy amount of delight in pretending as if theirs was a love match. The undeniable truth was that they had been caught together alone with Dorset’s hands up her skirts. Their audience was too large for the circumstances to remain secret, and nor would Clementine dream of placing their host and hostess in such an untenable situation. A sudden betrothal had been the only means of mutually salvaging their reputations, regardless of how vexing she found the man.
“Ambrose.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
