“Yes,” Louisa breathed. “But what?”
Sophia squeezed her shoulder, then leaned in close. “I think you know, dearest. I think you’ve always known.”
Louisa closed her eyes, overwhelmed. It was an extravagant gesture. One only a madman or a genius would attempt, and possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
When she opened her eyes again, Alexandra and Sophia had discreetly stepped back, joining a group of guests now hovering at the edge of the lawn, making a show of not watching her. The candles floated and whirled, the tulips glowed at her feet, and for a brief moment, Louisa forgot to be angry, clever, or afraid.
She was alone with the light and the knowledge that somewhere in the shadows, Niall Fairmont had upended her world.
She glanced down the path. A few paces away, it split, one side leading deeper into the garden, the other looping back toward the house.
She hesitated, then followed the path that led away from the terrace, away from the music and expectation. The air grew colder, the lights more diffuse as the candles thinned out.
She stopped in a small clearing. Here, a single chair waited, set precisely in the center of a ring of white tulips. On the seat rested an envelope.
Louisa’s heart thudded so hard she feared it would shake the candles down. She stepped forward, the grass soaking through the hem of her dress, and reached for the envelope.
It was addressed, in Niall’s distinctive script, to Lady Louisa Pembroke, Queen of Cats and Clouds.
She chuckled and opened the envelope.
If you cannot bear to lose yourself, retreat. If you would rather set the world alight, strike the match.
Yours in madness and patience, Foxmere.
She pressed the card to her lips, tasting the ink and paper, the memory of a man who had always preferred the impossible.
Then she sat in the chair, surrounded by white tulips, and waited to see what would happen next.
The garden lay nearly silent. From the ballroom terrace, the hum of music and laughter drifted, but here, where the tulip-ringed chair anchored Louisa to the grass, even the candles seemed still. Fear had slipped away, leaving only the ache in her palms, the thud in her veins, and the need that held her in place.
She sensed his presence in the subtle shift of air, the particular cadence of steps that seemed casual yet predestined. She did not turn. She waited.
Niall stepped into the clearing, his composure almost somber, save for the glint of mischief in his eyes and the wayhis cravat had again betrayed his attempts at discipline. Clad in black, his coat's immaculate cut contrasted with his usually unruly hair, which appeared tamed for once.
He stopped three paces away. Louisa remained still.
They regarded each other across the circle of crushed tulip heads.
Niall bowed, not mockingly but seriously. “Lady Louisa.”
She found her voice. “Lord Foxmere.”
For a moment, silence enveloped them. Behind, the crowd gathered in discreet clusters along the stone path, careful to maintain the illusion of privacy while devouring every nuance. Candles spun, casting Niall’s face in alternating gold and shadow.
He reached into his coat, produced a folded card, and offered it with both hands. Louisa took it without breaking his gaze.
“I was not certain,” he said quietly, “if you would come.”
“I am not certain I should have.”
He looked past her, toward the ballroom’s light, then back. “You once told me you had no patience for games, but I wonder if you were ever truly playing.” He drew a breath, his gaze locked on hers. “I don’t want to win, Louisa. Not this. I want to be chosen.”
She stared at him, every retort dissolving under the raw sincerity in his expression. “And if I do not choose you?”
He smiled, a blend of beauty and danger. “Then I shall haunt the gardens until I wilt like last season’s roses.”
A ripple ran through the watching guests, a collective intake of breath that barely reached the clearing. Louisa realized she was shivering—not from cold, but from the anticipation of action.
