Page 52 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

Rosalie was quiet, staring straight ahead as she rode. She looked comfortable in the saddle, so the activity was not what made her quiet. Irked, Gabriel called ahead of him, telling the men they would race to the woods.

The men peeled off after him down the long field road, which left him circling back alone to find Rosalie had held her mare to a walk.

“You did not join the race?” he said, drawing alongside her.

“Neither did you,” she replied, craning her neck to watch the rest of the riders round a bend. They disappeared behind a field of tall grass, their laughter fading with them. “But you called for the race.”

“Yes.” He looked heavenward. The clouds were parting overhead, and the air had the specific tang of this region. He closed his eyes to relish the sun as it beat down on him.

“Sometimes...” Rosalie said, then seemed to think better of the rest of her sentence. “They won’t let you hear the end of this.”

“I hope they do not.” When Rosalie gave a moue, he sighed. “Most women would be glad I paid them so much attention. A private ride with a duke is a sought-after prize in most circles.”

She picked up her pace a little, gently urging the mare forward. “Your aunt was right. You do change when you are in Surrey.”

“Yes?”

“You are utterly insufferable.”

They rode on a while in silence, until they arrived at the bend where the road forked. One path led to the forest—Ockley Greens beyond that—and it was where the men had ridden ahead without them.

“I have missed this,” Rosalie said quietly, as though she had not even intended Gabriel to hear. “Riding... We do much riding by the coast in the summertime.”

She looked toward the horizon, the wind dancing the loose strands of auburn hair around her face, color on the high points of her cheeks where the air had nipped her skin.

“I miss Cornwall.”

“Why?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s natural to miss the places of our birth. But in my case... the quiet. There is a meadow of heather on a cliffside, overlooking the sea. I retreat there to read. It is glorious in the summer. In early summer, my sister and I would go gooseberry picking. But I suppose... I miss the flowers most of all.”

Part of him wanted to ask why she was divulging all this to him. He was impressed at how easily she accessed these happy memories. He could barely remember a time before his twenty-first birthday.

Deciding to fall into the memory with her, his heart lurched involuntarily as he pictured her reading in the meadow. And then the trail of thoughts led elsewhere, and his eyes went there too, down the untrodden path.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She looked at him, visibly surprised by the question. “That depends entirely on what you intend to do with the answer.”

He smiled and turned his horse off the main track, down the path he had walked since he was a boy. After a moment’s hesitation, he heard her following.

The path was narrow and lined with trees. The ground was uneven underfoot. Eventually, they came out of the trees into a meadow he had not visited properly in years, though he had ridden past its edges a hundred times without turning in. This time of year, it was exactly as he remembered it: waist-high grass turned silvery green in the midday light, threaded with cowslips and marigolds, and great expanses of something fragrant and purple.

He turned his horse to look at Rosalie, who lingered between the trees. She looked around quietly, gripping the reins. His horse was weary, like his aunt had predicted it would be, and he dismounted beside Rosalie and invited her to do the same.

Her gloved hand fit perfectly into his as she landed on her feet.

Standing in the grass, he let his eyes drift to the lavender threaded through with violets. The smell clung to his lungs, but he breathed deeply as he released Rosalie’s hand.

Rosalie took a few steps away from him. “Is something wrong?”

When he looked up, she was staring at him. The sight took his breath away when he had only just found it again. “No... My mother liked these flowers. The lavender, and the violets. I had almost forgotten it grew here.”

“It has been warm this year,” Rosalie said, leaning down to inspect a patch of wildflowers. “The lavender is young, but it should not even be out yet... I like lavender very much.”

“You do?”

She smiled. “Much more than roses.”