Page 60 of A Bachelor’s Lessons in Love

Edward gave her a long, level look. Daphne’s smile did not falter. He sighed. “I do not see why I should like to meet Madame Bisset when—” That was when a new thought struck him.

The seamstress had Felicity’s measurements.

The idea formed so quickly, so completely, he had no time to question it. Daphne had given him an opportunity. Yet it would not be seemly, surely? He ought not to act on it. And yet….

Edward adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “I suppose a visit would not be entirely unwarranted.”

Daphne’s smile brightened but he was not fooled. She had intended this from the start, perhaps even when she had suggested the visit to Hatchards…and he had happily played directly into her hands.

He gave his ward a crooked grin. “Miss Daphne Price, you would make a most excellent battle advisor, I think.”

“Oh?” She laughed and squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Colonel. But I think I should much rather leave that to soldiers.”

“A pity.” He looked back down the street and signaled to the coachman to follow them along the road. “Let us go meet Madame Bisset, so I may thank her for her fine service.”

And, of course, commission something new.

Chapter Nineteen

A clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour. One o’clock in the morning.

Truly, all decent folk not out for an evening’s entertainment ought to be in bed; but Felicity had left her chamber in search of nothing more than a moment’s peace from her racing thoughts, hoping a short walk through the corridors of Briarwood might settle her mind. As she passed a window, the glow of the moonlight on the garden paths caught her eye, and before she knew it she found herself pushing open an outer door.

She could not regret stepping out into the cool night air, for the moment she breathed it in, her mind grew clearer. Wrapping her shawl more tightly around herself, even though the spring chill was not unpleasant, Felicity walked the garden paths, her slippers hardly making a sound on the stone. It was quiet here, peaceful, the kind of hush that made it easier to think…and harder to hide from her thoughts.

Her footsteps taking her there of their own accord, she came to the most dominant, and likely most loved, portion of the gardens. Her fingers traced lightly over the thorny branches of the rosebushes, brushing against something softer than expected.

A bud. The first of the season. She smiled to herself, despite her tangled thoughts. No matter what came, the seasons turned, and new things found life. The thought settled strangely in her chest, warm and wistful all at once.

And then a voice from behind her. “Do you make a habit of wandering alone at night, Miss Price?”

Felicity pulled in a sharp breath, surprised, as she turned. Though she had not heard his approach, Edward stood at the edge of the roses, his face shining in the moonlight. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture deceptively casual. He was dressed as though he had attempted sleep and failed. He wore no coat, only a waistcoat over his crisp linen shirt messily tucked into breeches, his hair slightly tousled.

The moonlight carved sharp shadows along his features, his expression unreadable. His bearing, as always, firm and immovable. Most unfortunately, she found him as handsome as ever in that moment.

“I could ask the same of you, Colonel,” she said, tilting her chin up.

Edward’s gaze flickered toward the rosebushes she had been admiring.

“They are not late yet, you know,” he murmured.

Felicity blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He nodded toward the blooms. “The roses. They come along in their own time. It is merely April. By mid-May, they will be fully alive.”

She raised her brow. “I knew you spent a lot of time here, but I did not take you for a man who took such notice of growing patterns.”

Edward laughed, a quiet sound of amusement, shifting his stance. “I notice a great deal. I caused these rose bushes to be planted here. My elder brother, when he inherited the family estate, told me I could request pieces of our home to bring to my own. I asked for some of the rose bushes. My mother, even in her grief at the loss of my father, helped me select the best of them to take cuttings from. I spend time with them, watch them grow. To be certain they are cared for and do not grow homesick.”

She suspected he had spent many solitary evenings among the thorns. Felicity turned back to the bushes, her voice quieter now. “Early or late, they will bloom.”

“A thing utterly beyond my control,” he said, a touch of humor in his voice. “Are you impressed I love them still, when they do not bend to my orders?”

She touched the tight bud again, letting her finger skim along the stem to a thorn. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily about such things.”

“You spoke wisely of them. Thank you for it. I have become more aware of that trait in myself.” His voice had lowered and grown softer. A silence stretched between them, filled only by the whisper of the wind through the hedges. “You cannot sleep.”

It was not a question, and so did not require an answer. Yet Felicity sighed and turned to look at him. “No.” She hesitated, then—perhaps because the night felt safe, or perhaps because she was too tired to guard her words—she admitted, “My mind refuses to quiet itself.”