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“Look!” Emily bent down beside a rosebush and pointed to a dark caterpillar with yellow markings wiggling its way across a leaf. “Isn’t it incredible? Not much longer and it will be a painted lady butterfly.”

Henry loved that Emily found such joy in discovering a caterpillar on a leaf, loved that she could identify it by name. He crouched beside her, the delight on her beautiful face causing his heart to swell. Aunt Millward had been correct. As usual. Spending the last three days in her home with Emily had been better than any medicine Dr. Thorndike could have prescribed.

“Do you know its scientific name?” he asked.

She turned her expressive brown eyes on him. “Tell me.”

“Vanessa cardui.”

“Vanessa cardui,” she repeated. “That’s pretty. It’s a good fit for such a beautiful butterfly.”

Smiling, he rose to his full height again, grateful that the movement no longer caused the loss of equilibrium he’d endured for the first couple of days after his run-in with Fernsby. Aunt Millward had insisted upon calling in Dr. Thorndike as soon as they had returned from Southbeck’s house, and the physician had given Henry a thorough examination, recommending that he apply the housekeeper’s salve to the broken skin at his wrists and ankles, which had been far easier to fulfil than the doctor’s admonition to rest.

Henry was not used to lying around the house, but Emily had made it bearable. Whenever dizziness had threatened to cause him to lose the contents of his stomach, she’d read out loud to him from one of the books in the late Lord Millward’s library until the discomfort had passed. When his bruised shoulder and sore wrists had made the easiest of movements difficult, she’d discretely passed him a second roll at dinner and moved his chess pieces for him. He smiled at the memory of her excitement at trouncing him at chess the night before. She’d blamed it on his recuperation, but Henry knew better. When it came to strategic thinking and intelligence, Emily was brighter than most of his peers at Cambridge. It was one more thing he loved about her.

Thankfully, he’d seen improvement in his balance every day, and the short walk they’d taken together around Aunt Millward’s garden on the first day had become longer and longer rambles every day since.

“Do you think the foxgloves have fully bloomed yet?” she asked, leaving the caterpillar to continue its journey up the rosebush unmonitored. “They were so close yesterday.”

“We can walk there next.” He took her hand, and she threaded her fingers through his. It was a natural response now, but it thrilled him every time.

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “Your unsteadiness is all but gone.”

He nodded. As grateful as he was for his recovery, he knew what it meant. Sometime very soon, he was going to have to return to his own home and determine what his future might be at the museum. He tightened his grip on Emily’s hand, already dreading having this time with her end.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Buckland.”

Startled out of his contemplations, Henry turned to see one of Aunt Millward’s footmen approaching.

“Yes, Frederick.”

“Lord Claridge is here to see you, sir. Lady Millward thought it best to inform you rather than tell him you are unavailable, but she wished you to know that she is willing to offer the gentleman that response should you desire it.”

There could be no doubt about it, Aunt Millward was his greatest ally, but he could not put off the inevitable forever. “Thank you, Frederick. Please tell my aunt that I shall join Lord Claridge momentarily.”

“Very good, sir.” The footman bowed and started back the way he had come.

“I wonder what news Lord Claridge brings,” Emily said, watching Frederick go.

“We shall find out soon enough.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Forgive me for cutting our walk short.”

“Of course.” She smiled, and his desire to kiss her lips all but upended his decision to go. “You must meet with him.”

She was right, but he didn’t have to like it. “I will seek you out as soon as he is gone,” he promised.

She nodded, and he released her hand. Frederick was gone, and Claridge would be waiting.

Henry and Lord Claridge had chosen to meet in the library, which made Emily’s return to the house much easier. Entering the drawing room from the garden, she loosened her bonnet ribbons and crossed the empty room to the passage. Aunt Millward was probably meeting with her housekeeper to go over the menu for next week, which saved Emily from feeling torn over what to do. She had neglected Aunt Millward and Phoebe since Henry’s arrival. But whereas Aunt Millward had often joined them in the drawing room, poor Phoebe was still limited to life in her bedchamber. She was long overdue for a visit.

After depositing her hat in her own bedchamber, Emily knocked on Phoebe’s door.

“Come in!” Phoebe called.

Emily entered, took a couple of steps inside, and stopped short. Phoebe was sitting at the dressing table, wearing one of her favorite gowns, and Hannah was putting the last few pins in her hair.

“Phoebe,” Emily gasped. “You’re out of bed!”

“Isn’t it marvelous?” Phoebe beamed. “Never again will I take dressing for dinner for granted.”