“Do you know why I keep the garden, Theo?” the marchioness asked suddenly.
Her use of his name had his head jerking up. “Why?”
“Because it brings me a bit of hope every time I see it, the reminder of life bursting from the soil, so green and vibrant, regrowth every spring.” She cut another sprig of rosemary, eyes remaining downcast. “Death can make us forget the small joys, and I tend these herbs so that I remember them.”
“I understand,” he managed to bite out past the surge of feeling inside him at her words, her revelation.
His thoughts were suddenly painful as a bruise. He was thinking not just about his past, but about Lady Deering’s as well. Wondering about what manner of man her husband had been. What it must have been like to have the love of a woman like her, one who had so mourned her husband’s passing that she had hardened herself to anyone else for years.
It required all the restraint he possessed to keep his emotions locked away. He inhaled slowly, holding the breath in his lungs until his chest burned. Only then did he exhale, cutting a fresh sprig of thyme to replace the herbs he had crushed, then another. As he did so, he blinked against a stinging rush that felt alarmingly like tears.
He hadn’t wept in years. Not since the palace guards had seized his mother and taken her to the dungeons for committing treason. And he wouldn’t weep now. Not in the midst of a rainy London garden with a woman he scarcely knew, aside from the raw intimacies they had shared.
No, he would be far better served to keep in mind the true reason he was at Hunt House, and that didn’t have a damned thing to do with finding solace in the past with the icy widow who had turned to flame in his arms. He was here to protect the Duke of Ridgely from whoever it was that was trying to kill him.
As he always did, Theo banished the past from his mind along with every last trace of emotion he possessed, turning his attention to the plants before him instead.
* * *
Neither of themhad spoken about the night. It lay between them, heavy as a boulder it seemed they both were seeking to avoid. For Pamela’s part, she had already decided, when she had risen that morning and splashed calming water on her face to perform her ablutions, that what had happened could never be repeated. Indeed, she had promised herself, as she had solemnly dressed and prepared for her day, that she should avoid Beast at all costs. If she wasn’t in his presence, she could hardly be tempted by him.
And yet, from the moment she had spied him standing in the mists of the garden, looking unfairly handsome in his black coat and trousers, his dark hair wet from rain, she had made the opposite decision. Her heart had given a pang, and the emotion that had coursed through her had been unexpectedly vivid. She hadn’t expected him to agree to accompany her to her makeshift herb garden. She still wasn’t certain why she had made the offer at all.
But she had, and here he was, working with her in the garden using efficient motions. Clipping, harvesting, tending. He had discarded his gloves at some point, revealing his long, capable fingers, now lightly kissed with smudges of dirt that made her long to clean them. He was such a mystery. Cold and walled off as a forbidding fortress, and yet there were glimpses of another man that shone through.Theo.He’d told her his name, had given her a small sliver of himself. A hint at who he truly was.
Did it mean anything, his revelation? She hardly knew. Good heavens, she didn’t even know if their tryst in the salon had meant anything to him. To her. Whether or not she wanted it to.
One thing was painfully clear to her, however. The moment she was near Beast—Theo—her every good intention was hopelessly, thoroughly, recklessly dashed.
She finished harvesting the last of the rosemary, tucking it carefully into her basket. She would string it up in bunches and hang it to dry as she always did, from the ceiling in one of the unused guest rooms. Fortunately, Hunt House was massive and had no shortage of chambers. Her basket was quickly filling, and as she retracted her hand, Theo’s was suddenly there, his fingers grazing hers and sending a warm flash of heat to chase the chill, even through the barrier of her dirt-stained gloves.
When she would have withdrawn, he caught her hand in his, staying her. Her gaze shot to his, finding his expression tense and harsh. Almost angry.
“Don’t move,” he told her curtly, and then he released her hand and was rising to his feet, moving with silent grace along the gravel path.
Confused and startled, she stood, shaking out her soggy skirts, wondering what had just happened. Where was he going? She dropped her shears to the ground alongside the sweet marjoram, which she had yet to cut. Trepidation rising, she caught her gown in her gloved hands, ignoring the stain she might leave with her dirtied gloves, and hastened after him.
He had rounded a bend in the path and disappeared around the tall, perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges that lined the outer walls of the gardens. Her misgiving growing, she hurried her steps, venturing across the garden until she was nearing the terrace. And still, there was no sign of Theo.
Where could he have disappeared to, and so quickly and thoroughly?
She was about to call out to him when a hand suddenly caught her elbow in a tight grip, and she was spun hastily against the stone wall beneath the terrace, her body trapped by a larger male form that was as hard as it was familiar. Her hands settled on his chest, anchoring her to him.
“Beast,” she gasped, so startled that her mind reverted to the name he had given her that first afternoon. “What are you doing?”
“What are you doing, Marchioness?” he countered, his cool eyes blazing into hers.
“Looking for you, of course. You disappeared.”
“I told you to stay where you were,” he growled.
So he had.
Pamela blinked up at him. “I’ve never been particularly good at listening to orders.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he drawled, some of the tension draining from his countenance and shoulders.
“You might have said where you were going,” she pointed out.
