She waited until he was out of sight before she moved, her skin prickling with cold and something else—empathy, perhaps understanding.
As she wandered the rest of the garden, she wondered what it would be like to lay down one’s armor. To trust that the world might not use your truth against you. And she pondered if Foxmere had asked her to play at courtship not as a jest, but as a dare—to see if she might be the one to see through the mask.
Louisa shivered and pulled her shawl tight. She was wide awake now, and the dawn would bring no answers.
But perhaps, she thought, it would bring the chance to ask the right questions.
CHAPTER 4
She had avoided Foxmere all day, dodging him with the skill of a seasoned spy. He had countered with bows and ostentatious remarks during supper, and a note tucked into her glove that read, “Next time, use a rope ladder. Far less dangerous and with fewer witnesses.” Still she longed to continue their game.
Now the evening had reached the moment when the worst guests began plotting their exits, and the best plotted each other's ruin. Louisa lingered at the edge of the music room, a champagne flute in hand, her gaze fixed on the dark window. Inside, Lady Featherstone’s group laughed over cards and sweets, while the orchestra struggled through a country dance. Outside, beyond the tall glass panes, the gardens beckoned, moonlit and full of secrets.
She slipped out unnoticed, or so she thought, moving along the unlit passage and down the back stairs, her slippers barely whispering on the runner. In the corridor, she nearly collided with a footman, who gave her a knowing look that made her resolve to tip him double at Christmas. Louisa glided past, into the vestibule, and out to the terrace, where the cold air bit her skin through silk.
The gardens shimmered, dewy and ghostly. To the east, the house glowed with lamplight and occasional laughter. To the west, topiary and trelliswork promised the anonymity she craved.
Instinctively, she followed the path, her arms folded for warmth, her mind racing with memories from the night before.
So it was almost a relief, almost, when she reached the arched trellis at the center of the rose walk and found him waiting, a shadow among shadows, boots planted in the path as if he’d grown there overnight.
He wore evening black, jacket undone and cravat hanging loose enough to suggest a man recently hanged and miraculously reprieved. In his hand, he carried a lantern with the wick turned low, casting bands of gold and umber across his features. He smiled lazily, but his other hand toyed with the edge of his cravat.
“Out after curfew, Primrose? What would your mother say?”
She would have liked to retort, “Go to the devil, Foxmere,” but an unexplainable fascination had worn her responses thin. “I imagine she would recommend a healthy dose of laudanum and a return to bed,” she said instead.
He stepped aside, inclining his head. “If you’re determined to haunt the grounds, at least let me provide illumination. I’d hate for you to impale yourself on a yew.”
She did not reply, but when he offered the lantern, she took it, careful to keep her gloves from brushing his fingers.
They walked unhurried along the avenue of roses. It would have been peaceful, but memories of the previous night’s waltz lingered—the way his palm had pressed against her back, or how his laughter, genuine for once, had vibrated through her chest like the bass of a church organ.
Foxmere walked with his hands clasped behind him, a pose part foppish and part philosophical. “Did you know,” he mused,“that Lady Honoria once set her own wig on fire at a rout? Entirely by accident, I’m told, though the evidence suggested sabotage.”
Louisa bit back a smile. “I’ve heard she prefers her scandals flambéed.”
He shot her a sideways look, his eyes bright as the lamp’s flame. “You are in rare form tonight, Lady Louisa. Should I prepare myself for a cutting?”
“You should always prepare yourself,” she said. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
He tipped an imaginary hat, but for a moment, his fidgeting returned. He watched her over the edge of his sleeve, as if trying to gauge her mood, or perhaps her intent.
The walk brought them to the heart of the garden, where a wisteria-draped trellis curled above a bench of pale stone. Lanterns glowed from hooks, painting the path in yellow pools, but otherwise, the world belonged to the moon. Louisa sat, partly to put the lantern between them, and partly because she was tired of standing.
Foxmere joined her, close but not touching, and for a while, they were content to watch the moths orbit the lamps.
“Do you ever,” he asked after a silence that was almost comfortable, “wonder if we are simply playing roles we didn’t audition for?”
She considered. “If so, I intend to be promoted. Wallflower does not suit me.”
He chuckled, then sobered. “I envy that. You know who you are, or at least who you refuse to be. I sometimes think I was typecast before I ever drew breath.”
She glanced at him, sharp and analytical. “You mean your father’s legacy, the title, or the endless parade of expectant matrons?”
He shrugged, but the gesture seemed heavier than usual. “The lot. My mother used to say that sons are born with one foot in the grave and the other in Parliament, and God help any who straddle the fence. My father disagreed. He believed sons should be seen, not heard.”
Louisa tilted her head. “That explains the volume, I suppose.”
