They walked along in silence for a while, the only sound the birds and the crunch of their feet on the graveled pathway, until Emmeline paused to run her fingers over the ruffled edges of the petals of a bold, scarlet rose.
“Portland roses.” She turned to him with a smile. “The Duchess of Portland brought this species back from the Continent. She was a botanist, and an avid collector. These are repeat-flowering roses, meaning they don’t just bloom once, but multiple times before the frost.”
“Does it have a scent?” Johnathan asked, drawing closer, hypnotized by the motion of her slender fingers caressing the delicate bloom.
“Oh, yes. Damask roses are wonderfully fragrant.” Emmeline leaned down and brought her nose close to the tight cluster of roses.
Johnathan drew nearer still, until he was right beside her, his gaze on her bent head. “How would you describe this rose’s scent?”
“Sweet, and feminine, and…flowery, though I suppose one could say the same of any flower.” She let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “This one has a hint of lemon to it.”
“Does it?” Johnathan leaned down, so their cheeks were mere inches apart, and inhaled. “Do you detect a touch of orange?”
Emmeline colored at his nearness, but she didn’t shift away from him. Instead, she sampled the rose again, a faint crease appearing in her brow as she considered it. “It’s subtle, but yes, I think so. You have a sensitive nose, my lord.”
It was an odd compliment, but it gave him far more pleasure than being called the Nonesuch ever had. “No one’s ever praised my nose before.”
That coaxed a laugh from her, and she chattered about the diversity in scent among the various damask roses as they wandered through the garden. “Lady Hammond’s rose gardens have been arranged with an eye to appearance, which is common among large, formal gardens, but if I had my own rose garden, I’d organize them by complimentary scent.”
Johnathan smiled. “What, and allow a riot of competing colors? Pink roses next to red, and red next to orange? Shocking, Miss Templeton.”
“I daresay it would be chaos, but beautiful still. Have you ever seen an ugly rose, my lord?” she asked, returning his easy grin.
“No, but have you ever smelled a rose that isn’t sweet, Miss Templeton?”
“I have, in fact. Some roses have sharp, unpleasant fragrances, and others have an earthy, woody smell like moss, that many find offensive.”
“But you don’t?”
“I prefer some scents over others, but every rose has its place. Now, I don’t say I wouldn’t tuck the mossy roses into a more remote corner of my own garden.”
Johnathan chuckled. “Some accommodation must be made for them, certainly, but surely you have no reason to wish for your own garden? When we visited Lady Finchley’s roses, you mentioned a walled garden at your home in Buckinghamshire. Is it not yours to do with as you please?”
“It’s…yes, I suppose it is mine now, as much as it is anyone’s, but it was my father’s garden, and a part of me will always regard it as his.” She was quiet for some moments before murmuring, “It’s greatly reduced from what it once was, I’m afraid.”
“What happened to it?” He could guess, but he wanted to give her a chance to talk about it, if she chose.
“My father was ill for some time, after the—that is, before he died.”
After…
Had she been about to say something about her mother’s scandal? “Lady Christine, during her call yesterday…I never imagined she could be so cruel. I beg your pardon for her—”
“You have no need to beg my pardon for anything Lady Christine says, my lord. You were…what you said to her was…well, no one other than Lady Fosberry has ever spoken up on our behalf before.” Emmeline cast him a look that made the breath catch in Johnathan’s throat. “I never realized how much I’d always hoped someone would, until you did.”
Johnathan tried to read her expression, but she’d turned her face up to the sky, and he could only gaze at her as patches of sunlight caressed her forehead and cheeks, her soft red lips, as lush and tempting as any rose.
“His garden was left untouched for nearly a year after he became ill. By the time I began tending it again, what hadn’t withered from neglect was destroyed by pests and disease. It’s gone, aside from a few of my father’s hybrid roses, and I don’t hold out much hope for them.”
His throat tightened at the grief on her face, and he might have done something improper, like take her into his arms and press her sweet, lovely face to his chest, but then she added in a whisper, “The garden is only one of many ruins my mother left behind, Lord Melrose. A trail of wreckage followed in her wake.”
Emmeline didn’t seem to expect a reply, and indeed, there was little he could say, but he pressed her hand, desperate to reassure her somehow, to ease the sadness in her eyes.
She remained quiet as they wandered on, until they turned a corner and she came to a halt in the middle of the pathway with a gasp. “Oh, look, my lord! Aren’t they lovely?”
Johnathan had been gazing down at the fingertips of her gloved hand resting on his sleeve and recalling the curl of slender fingers around the windowsill in Lady Fosberry’s library, but when he glanced up his eyes widened. They’d somehow stumbled upon a private corner that surpassed every beauty that had come before, a tiny oasis tucked inside the sprawling garden.
A graceful, white stone temple stood at its center, and inside Johnathan glimpsed a sculpture of a lady in a flowing Grecian dress with a crown of white stone roses nestled on her head. A pair of benches flanked the temple, each carefully placed so the shadows cast by the columns protected them from the sun.
