She drifted down the gravel path, trailing a gloved finger along the foliage.Her thoughts, of their own accord, spun back to the ballroom the night before.The press of bodies, the taste of champagne, the searing touch of Crispin’s hand at her waist, and the way he had smiled when she threatened to murder him.
Clara banished him with a grim set to her jaw and strode for the iron gate at the garden’s far end.
She was nearly there when a voice called out, “Lady Clara.I had not thought you a naturalist.”
She started, as though the devil himself had stepped from the late-morning mist.And indeed he had—Crispin stood, leaning one shoulder against a lichen-crusted statue of Venus, holding a single long-stemmed rose between his fingers.His coat, a shade of midnight blue, caught the light like the wing of a starling, and his boots shone from a recent polish.
“Lord Oakford,” she said, too breathless for her own comfort.“I could say the same of you.Have you lost your way to the card tables?”
He smirked, the effect as devastating in sunlight as it had been by candlelight.“I am forbidden from all games of chance at Stratmore.Last summer’s…exploits left them wary of my influence.”
“Pity,” she said, recovering her composure.
“Just so,” he replied, twirling the rose between his thumb and forefinger.“But roses, I find, are endlessly fascinating.Take this one, for example.”He crossed the path in a handful of long strides, closing the distance with the casual arrogance that made mothers clutch their daughters and daughters clutch at fantasies.“It is a bourbon, is it not?”
She glanced at the bloom, white at the petal’s edge, bleeding to crimson at the heart.“I would not have guessed you a scholar of horticulture, my lord.”
He offered her the flower, bowing with mock gallantry.“I have studied the subject only so far as it pertains to seduction and survival.”
She accepted the rose, but made no show of appreciation.“It is my experience that both pursuits end in pain.”
He grinned, eyes glinting.“Or in pleasure, if you choose the right company.”
Clara ignored the way her pulse sped and met his gaze.“You overestimate your charms.”
“I have yet to receive a complaint,” he said, unbothered.“If I might be permitted, there is a specimen here I believe you would find intriguing.”He gestured down a side path, shaded and lined with a tangle of pale yellow climbers.“Unless, of course, you are too frightened to spend time in the company of your affianced.”
She set her jaw, but curiosity won.“Lead on.But if this is a prelude to another of your infamous wagers, I will have you know I do not bet.”
He offered his arm, which she ignored.Undeterred, he escorted her, hands clasped behind his back.“I recall you once staked a shilling on whether Lady Pavington’s wig would dislodge during dinner.”
“Lady Pavington was my aunt, and it was for charity,” Clara replied, her lips betraying a smile despite herself.“You recall an alarming number of my indiscretions.”
“It is the only way to judge character,” he said, “to watch what people do when they believe no one is looking.”
They passed through a trellis heavy with yellow Lady Banks, the petals raining down like confetti.Crispin paused, watching her as she brushed a few from her shoulder, and she had the uncomfortable sense that he was committing the gesture to memory.
“I am not your project,” she said, unable to stand the silence.
“No,” he agreed.“You are my partner in deception.”
“Do not mistake proximity for alliance,” she retorted, the words sharper than intended.
He smiled, and in that moment, she saw the ghost of the boy he must have been.A child who knew exactly how to break things and fix them just enough to escape punishment.
They reached the far corner of the garden, a patch of shadow broken only by the sun’s reflection off a leaded-glass cold frame.Behind it, Clara saw the oddest roses she had ever encountered.The blooms were true blue, the color of periwinkle and heartbreak.They were sprawled against the brick, ungainly and beautiful in a way that made her heart lurch.Something in their imperfect, persistent bloom spoke to her.A silent echo of her own contradictions, her own fight to be seen on her own terms.
She stepped forward, inspecting the petals.“I did not think blue roses possible.”
“They are not,” he said, voice gone quieter.“These are the result of years of cross-breeding and disappointment.They call it Winfield’s Folly.”
She looked up at him, something in his tone drawing her attention.He watched the roses with a peculiar mixture of pride and regret, as though they were a testament to failed ambition.
“Why show me this?”she asked.
Crispin shrugged, hands in his pockets.“It is beautiful, but everyone walks past it.They prefer perfect ones.But I find the broken ones far more compelling.”
She blinked.“That is either very profound or very pitiful, Lord Oakford.”
