He had not witnessed someone tending a garden since those days. But then, perhaps there was a rightness in seeing it again now. In the gardener being Lady Deering.
“Come,” she said, part invitation, part demand. “Two pairs of hands are better in such instances than one.”
She spoke lightly, as if there were no greater meaning in her invitation. But they both knew damned well that she would not have offered the same to one of his men, had it been a different guard upon the path. Theo said nothing of the sort, however, content to allow her to maintain her pride.
He trailed her along the path to the far corner of the garden in careful silence. No sound between them but their footfalls crunching on the gravel, the occasional startled winging of a bird flying from the shrubbery as they passed. He was content to watch her, the sway of her hips beneath her gown, her graceful bearing, the peep of upswept locks from beneath her straw bonnet. How odd to think that mere hours ago, she had been naked and pliant beneath his questing mouth and hands.
They reached a small square delineated from the rest of the carefully planned gardens by a line of stones. The foliage was yet a deep, dark green, the leaves unmarred by the steadily cooler weather.
“Here it is,” she announced, turning to him, her cheeks still fetchingly pink.
Whether it was from the cold or for another reason, he couldn’t say. But he noted that her gaze was fixed upon something over his shoulder rather than upon his face.
“It’s lovely,” he said, but the praise wasn’t for her herb garden, which he had scarcely spared a glance for. Rather, it was for her.
The misery of the gray day and the damp chill did nothing to detract from her beauty. As if she sensed the meaning behind his words, the flush on her cheeks deepened. He almost smiled—such shyness after her bold display last night. What a mystery she was, and one he dearly longed to unravel.
“You must think me silly,” she said quietly, “keeping a garden when there’s no reason for me to do so. The cook has a lovely kitchen cutting garden in the western corner, and of course, we have whatever we need sent from Ridgely Hall’s orangery.”
“I would never think you silly,” he told her solemnly, and it was true.
Her gaze met his at last, as if she were searching for something. Whatever it was, she seemed to have found it, for she nodded and said, “I brought two pairs of shears with me, thinking I might persuade Lady Virtue for accompaniment, but she didn’t wish to venture into the chilly drizzle to indulge me.”
Theo had the sudden thought that he would follow her into the fires of Hades to indulge her.
“Tell me what to do,” he said, instead of blurting something so ridiculously foolish.
He wasn’t dressed for the weather, and he wasn’t even wearing a hat to shield him from the mists, but he didn’t care about that either. Nor was he concerned about leaving his post. The garden was walled, and he would see anyone who crossed it in an effort to gain entry to the doors below the terrace.
Lady Deering flipped open the lid on her basket, reached inside, and extracted a pair of shears. She offered it to him, and he accepted, unable to resist brushing his fingers against her gloved ones. He didn’t miss the way she paused for a moment longer than necessary before reaching inside the basket again and withdrawing a second pair.
“We will clip them close to the soil, but take care to keep some of the leaves remaining,” she instructed, her tone no-nonsense as she placed the basket on the ground at her feet. “You may begin with the thyme, and I’ll start with the rosemary.”
His mother had grown thyme in her garden as well, and he recognized the foliage with bittersweet ease, bending down to perform his task. The marchioness moved to the opposite side of the square, putting some much-needed distance between them, and began clipping sprigs of rosemary. The fragrance of herbs rose, so redolent of his days as a young lad that it made emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel suddenly well up, thick in his throat. Damn it, what was it about this woman that stripped him of every defense, made him so bleeding vulnerable?
They worked in companionable silence, their shears snipping, the sound metallic and sharp. The parts of London he frequented didn’t have gardens. The distant memory of the Boritanian sun and the sandy soil beneath his fingers haunted him.
“Is something amiss, Beast?”
Lady Deering’s question tore him from his thoughts. He looked up to find her watching him, an odd expression on her face. It startled him to realize how much he wanted his true name on her lips.
“Theo,” he said before he could stop himself.
Her brow furrowed. “Theo?”
“My given name,” he elaborated, his voice sounding rusty from the pent-up emotion. “You asked for it. Now you have it.”
“Theo,” she repeated, smiling softly.
It was a womanly smile, a smile that curved her lips but reflected in her eyes, and it made him want to kiss her again. But kissing her was dangerous, so he forced his gaze down and realized belatedly why she had asked him if something was amiss.
He had crushed a handful of thyme sprigs in his fist. “Memories,” he bit out, flicking his glance back up to her. “My mother kept a garden. Forgive me for ruining your thyme.”
“She is gone?” Lady Deering asked quietly, not mentioning the macerated remnants of the herb, mangled by his big paw.
Theo nodded. “Many years now.”
But it was the manner in which she had been torn from this earth, from his life, that would haunt him forever. Her death had left a gaping void in his world, one which neither time nor distance could heal.
