Page 27

For certain, she’d never divulged a word intentionally. She didn’t think he would either.

“I hoped ye’d feel the urge to wander the gardens.” Fletcher clasped his hands behind his back in the manner of someone who was nervous and wanted to conceal their uneasiness.

What an absurd notion.

Men of his ilk were never nervous around women.

“I ken ye dinna feel ye can visit my gardens anymore, though I’ve told ye, ye are welcome to any time.” A half-smile bent his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. “I’ve made an offer to purchase the house and am awaitin’ word from the owner.”

“Oh.”

How could her heart simultaneously soar and plummet?

Any hope that she’d be able to resume her visits to her former oasis was permanently crushed. And yet, the knowledge that Fletcher would be in residence on occasion thrilled her much more than it ought to. Assuredly more than was reasonable or wise. Especially as Lady Sheldon-Furnsby would be their new neighbor as well, only she’d be the Duchess of Kincade then.

Rayne doubted very much she’d venture near the garden wall ever again. Not with that virago living next door. The new duchess would probably insist the grounds become enthusiastically weeded and pruned formal gardens.

The notion made Rayne queasy. At least she told herself it was the ruination of her oasis that sickened her rather than who Fletcher would share her former sanctuary with.

The best course might be to press Everleigh and Griffin into permitting her to return to Fittledale Park. Yes, that was the very thing. Rayne was of age, and she could insist she leave London.

“I intend to have my brother and sister to stay with me if they are amenable,” Fletcher said, all polished politesse and formality.

“I see,” she managed, despising this stiltedness that had sprung up between them. It hadn’t been like that their first meeting, nor when he’d come upon her in Hyde Park. She forced herself to focus on the present. “I trust you were able to settle your urgent matter.”

“Aye. It’s been dealt with.”

He didn’t offer details, and she wasn’t intrusive or bold enough to ask. Likely it was a matter related to his business dealings—transactions that most men erroneously believed a woman incapable of understanding.

Fletcher drew nearer, his striking eyes intense and probing.

“Lass?” He stopped and firmed his mouth, his expression inscrutable. “I ken ye heard what the Duchess of Dandridge said the other night.”

Rayne stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, more to brace herself against any possible hurt his next words might inflict than any affront at the unpleasant subject.

“I did,” she admitted without preamble.

She would not reference the sensual interlude they’d shared several days ago. In all fairness, perhaps he hadn’t been betrothed yet.

Well, he was close to becoming affianced and had no business flirting with you. Whispering in your ear. Vowing he wanted an introduction. Causing you to hope…

Hope what exactly?

Rayne hadn’t even defined what the what was. It was an unnamed, unidentified something. Which was to say, a big nothing now. Suddenly feeling incredibly hot and tired, and wishing this discomfiting encounter to end, she brushed her hair off her face. “What is it you want, Your Grace?”

As she had that day nearly a week ago, she wore her hair down. The afternoon had grown quite warm, and she moved past him toward the arbor, welcoming its cooling shade. Welcoming the added distance between them just as much.

For when Fletcher was near, it was as if he were a magnet. Her body swayed toward him, her feet itched to close the space separating them, and she yearned to wrap her arms about his slim torso and lay her cheek on the wide expanse of his chest.

All of which were preposterous and impossible.

God, how could these feelings even exist?

She’d only known this man for a week. One very short week. Seven days.

“It is inappropriate for us to be alone,” she reminded him again, striving to put emotional distance between them too. “And more so as you are newly betrothed.”

Following her, he stepped into the shadows behind her. The scent of roses hung heavy and cloying in the slightly cooler air.