“Would you care for a drink, Miss Page?” he asked, beckoning to a footman. “Tea, perhaps? Or ratafia?”
“Ratafia, please,” she replied. “Thank you.”
“By the fountain,” Ambrose instructed the footman, “and please inform Signor Corvinelli of our arrival.”
“You have a beautiful home, my lord,” Miss Page said, her gaze roaming the walls and ceiling as they made their way to the rear of the house.
“Thank you, Miss Page,” Ambrose replied, finding an unexpected pleasure in the fact she’d referred to it as a home, rather than just a house. “I hope you’ll feel the same about the gardens. They’re not extensive, but serve as a haven. An escape, if you will, from the clamor of the city.”
“They sound wonderful, my lord.” Miss Page glanced up at him with a smile, one that had a most unsettling effect on certain parts of his anatomy. No, it was more than her smile. It was the touch of her hand on his arm, her delicate scent, the merenearnessof her. Even her voice, the way she enunciated her words. The combination was utterly charming and most definitely arousing.
Ambrose watched Miss Page’s expression as he led her onto the terrace. The gardens were his private sanctuary, a place he felt completely at ease. During the day, the rose and flower beds were breathtaking to behold, the stone paths and privet hedges clearly visible, the arbor a shady place to sit, and the fountain a sparkling restorative for the nerves. Nighttime, however, offered a different experience, blanketing the colors and shadowing the paths with unhindered darkness. Which is why, after sunset and weather permitting, dozens of lanterns were lit throughout the space, illuminating the flower beds, the paths, and the arbor. Tonight, the full moon added an extra touch, bathing everything in a silver light.
Miss Page gasped softly, her expression changing to one of wonder as she released his arm and stepped forward. “Oh, how beautiful!”
“The roses have just started to bloom,” he said, moving to her side. “A little earlier than usual. This recent spell of warm weather has encouraged them.”
“It’s magical, my lord, truly. I never imagined anything like this.A havenis an apt description.”
“I’m glad you approve, Miss Page,” he said, and meant it. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, her approval was important to him. He offered his elbow again. “Would you care to explore further?”
“I would,” she replied and tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm as they descended the steps. “Is that a fountain I hear?”
“It is,” he replied. “Do you have a garden, Miss Page?”
“A flower garden, yes,” she replied.
“A favorite flower?”
“Violet.” Smiling, she glanced up at him. “Sorry, my lord.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because it isn’t the rose,” she replied. “Ilikeroses, but they aren’t my favorite.”
“I appreciate the honesty, Miss Page.” And he did. It was refreshing to have someone who didn’t toady up to him. “Actually, the rose isn’t my favorite either.”
They arrived at the pond with its carpet of lily pads and the endless song of its fountain, all resplendent with silver moonlight and flickering lanterns.
“Oh, how splendid!” Miss Page released his arm and settled onto a nearby bench. “I swear I could stay here all night.” She regarded him. “So, what is it, my lord?”
Ambrose, whose mind had snagged on the “stay here all night” remark, gave her a blank look. “What is what, Miss Page?”
“Your favorite flower.”
“Ah!” He sat beside her. “The dahlia.”
“The dahlia,” Miss Page repeated, nodding. “A worthy candidate indeed, for floral favoritism. I must assume you have some in the garden.”
Ambrose smiled at her choice of words. “A few, though it’s too early for them yet. The gardens at Elgin Park have a much larger selection. By the time I return in July, they’ll be blooming.”
“Elgin Park,” Lydia repeated. “Your family seat, my lord?”
“In Berkshire, yes,” he replied. “Ah, here are the drinks.”
Lydia set herglass on the small table nearby and continued to watch the fountain’s cascade sparkling like liquid silver in the moonlight. She was tempted to pinch herself, to be sure all this wasn’t actually a dream. A perfect dream. The fairy tale.
Lord Pendlewood.
