Page 13 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

“You’re very composed,” he said quietly. “People notice.”

“So you’ve said,” she replied.

“I notice,” he corrected. “Others respond.”

“To what?” she asked.

“To women who resist being interpreted,” he said. “It unsettles those who rely on expectation.”

Eliza turned her gaze back to the room. Once, years ago, she might have mistaken such attentiveness for understanding. Age had taught her the difference between being studied and being known. The glass reflected her faintly, a composed figure amid softer edges.

“Does it unsettle you?”

“No,” he said easily. “I find it instructive.”

She looked at him then. He met her gaze without challenge, without concession.

“Hartleigh suits you,” he added. “But not in the way it suits most.”

“And how is that?”

He smiled, slow. “You don’t dissolve into it.”

The observation lingered. Not flattering. Accurate.

Across the room, Clara laughed with Lady Finchley. The house murmured around them. The afternoon held its course.

“I should circulate,” Eliza said.

“Of course,” Ashwood replied. “I hope we speak again.”

She did not answer that.

As she crossed the room, she became aware, not suddenly, but precisely, that something had shifted. Not because of what had been said, but because of what had been recognized. She had been understood and surrendered nothing.

And Hartleigh, attentive as ever, had allowed it.

Chapter Six

Thomas returned to the south beds just after midday.

Eliza noticed before she saw him. The garden shifted when he entered it, sound settling into a familiar cadence. The snip of shears resumed with the same unhurried rhythm she had known for years. Not quick or careful. Simply sure.

She did not turn at once.

She was seated on the low stone wall bordering the herb plot, gloves folded beside her, her attention ostensibly on the neat rows of winter rosemary and thyme. The air had warmed slightly. The dampness lingered, but the bite had eased.

Thomas worked for several minutes without speaking. He did not announce himself. He never had. He gathered cuttings, tested the give of a cane, adjusted his stance when the ground softened beneath his boot. The work absorbed him, as it always did, until it did not.

Only when the basket at his feet was nearly full did he glance her way.

“My lady.”

His voice was as it always was. Respectful. Unaffected. Free of surprise.

Eliza inclined her head. “Mr. Grey.”

He returned to his work, as though her presence required no more acknowledgment than that.