Mrs Blackley appeared, composed as ever. “Your Grace, Miss Hart wonders whether you might accompany her for a turn about the garden. The weather has improved.”
“Yes.”
The word escaped before he could consider it. “That is—yes. Inform her I shall join her directly.”
Mrs Blackley’s mouth twitched in a manner she no doubt believed discreet. “Very good, Your Grace.”
When she withdrew, Christian regarded the unread correspondence with something approaching resignation.
A walk in the garden.
Fresh air. Gravel paths. Perfect propriety.
He could endure a walk in the garden.
Probably.
***
The garden, Fiona had discovered, was considerably more appealing now that the rain had stopped.
The roses had not yet flowered, and the hedges bore the unmistakable evidence of neglect, but there was something undeniably appealing in their untamed state.
Wildness,Fiona had decided,possesses its own elegance.
Rather like the master of the estate.
She waited beside the moss-draped fountain, whose stone nymph had long since surrendered her nose to time, when Christian emerged from the castle.
He had exchanged his morning coat for attire better suited to walking, though “suited” was a charitable description. There remained about him a faint impression of disarray, as though propriety were something he wore reluctantly.
Fiona found the effect dangerously compelling.
“Miss Hart.” He halted at a decorous distance, hands clasped behind his back. “You wished to walk?”
“I wished to escape the parlour before it extinguished my spirit.” She softened the words with a smile. “And I thought youmight welcome the same. You have been immured in your study since breakfast.”
“Estate correspondence.”
“Mmm.” She fell into step beside him as they took the gravel path. “And did you accomplish anything of note?”
A pause. “Not as much as I ought.”
“Distracted?”
Another pause—longer this time. “You might say so.”
A small, secret satisfaction unfurled within her. So, she was not alone in her torment. That seemed only just.
They walked on in companionable silence, gravel crunching beneath their feet, the pale winter sun attempting warmth upon the damp earth. Fiona was acutely aware of him beside her—his height, his breadth, the subtle way his stride shortened to accommodate hers without thought. He moved with an ease that belied his size.
Like a creature powerful enough to destroy, yet choosing restraint.
“May I ask you something?” she said at last.
“You may ask. I cannot promise to answer.”
“Fair enough.” She chose her words with care. “That night in the library. When you—when we—” Heat rose unbidden to hercheeks. “You wished to show me the birthmark. To let me see you as you are.”
