Page 35

“If we clear the beds now and put in lavender along the east path, it will be established before winter.”

“Lavender,” Mrs. Priscilla repeated, weighing the options.

“And sweet William in the south bed. Welsh poppies toward the wall, Michaelmas daisies nearer the gate. They come back every year without much attention.” Juliet picked up the trowel again. “Eloise will like the color.”

At that, Mrs. Priscilla’s arms came uncrossed by half an inch. “She has always been fond of the yellow ones, when they come up in the meadow.”

“Then we’ll put in some Welsh poppies as well.” Juliet drove the trowel into the ground, her lips spreading in a satisfied smile. “Has the east bed ever had roses?”

They worked their way down the border, with Juliet digging and Mrs. Priscilla directing Thomas, who had been pressed into service with a wheelbarrow and had quickly accepted his fate with quiet dignity.

The morning was warm and quickly passing, and a blackbird in the elm at the far wall was the only sound beyond the clink of trowel on stone as they worked.

The work helped quiet both Juliet’s mind and the desire still raging in her whenever she thought of the man she’d married out of necessity.

She drove the trowel in with rather more force than the soil required.

“Your Grace?” Mrs. Priscilla looked at the depth of the hole.

“Stubborn root,” Juliet said pleasantly, wiping a bead of sweat along her temples and leaving behind a trail of brown dirt.

Grieves appeared at the garden gate before eleven, which meant either a caller or some domestic matter required her attention. His expression was torn between exasperation and formality.

“Lord Honeysett has arrived, Your Grace. He is in the parlor.”

Was that not the duke’s acquaintance? Well, it was true that the duke wasn’t around at the moment, but surely he was here to meet with him?

With curiosity brewing in her belly, she nodded and peeled off her gloves. “Thank you, Grieves.”

Lord Honeysett was in the middle of the parlor with his hat on one chair and his coat on the back of another, studying the portrait above the writing desk with his hands clasped behind him. He was moving around the parlor with an ease that told her he’d come into it enough times to lose the rigidity of a formal visitor.

He turned at the sound of her step.

“Ah.” His eyes moved over her dress, which bore a smear of garden earth along the left cuff, then up to her face, and his expression lit up. “I see I am not the only one ignoring the rules of polite morning calls.”

Juliet laughed. “Lord Honeysett.”

“Daniel,” he corrected with an amused tilt of his lips. “We are practically family.” He crossed the room and bowed over her hand, which seemed to be his sole concession to formality. “You look well, Your Grace. I had worried that ogre of a man I call a friend would have pushed you into sheer rage by now.”

At those words, Juliet’s brows notched high on her forehead. “You truly know His Grace quite well. I confess I have contemplated taking a shovel to the back of his head more than once.”

At her words, he threw his head back and laughed long and loud, clearly delighted by her attempt to jab at his friend.

“Oh, you truly are quite the perfect match for him indeed,” he said when he could stop laughing.

She was about to ask what he meant when the parlor door flew open, and Eloise crossed the room at a run, her braid unraveling and her arms already outstretched.

“Uncle Daniel!”

Daniel caught her and swung her up, and Eloise locked both arms around his neck, squealing excitedly.

“I knew you would come,” she announced against his shoulder. “I told Juliet you always come on Tuesdays.”

“I do.” He set her down and looked at her with gravity. “And I have brought you something.”

Eloise’s eyes went very wide. “What?”

“In the hall.” He tilted his head toward the door. “You will know it when you find it.”