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19 Bedford Square

The next day

Fletcher tapped his fingertips atop the too-small-for-his-frame but serviceable desk in the salon he’d turned into a study because it overlooked the gardens. If all went as expected, the house would legally be his by next week.

When Leith MacKettrick was assigned a task, he accomplished it with commendable haste and precision. He had every confidence his man would not fail him in this.

Once the papers were signed, Fletcher could begin the renovations and refurbishing he’d contemplated in earnest. First on the list: a new desk. One he could get his knees under without practically upending the thing.

He stopped drumming his fingers on the desk and instead balanced both elbows on the surface, creating a vee, and cradled his chin atop his folded hands. The wisteria blossoms had faded, and soon the trailing blooms would be no more.

Yesterday, he’d sent Rayne a note explaining the previous owner’s fondness for the wisteria and suggested Pritchard might appreciate a sketch. Fletcher bent his mouth into a droll smile. He’d resorted to manipulation in order to see her. Though, in all fairness, he honestly did think Pritchard would value a rendering of the garden.

Perhaps it would bring the still grieving man a degree of peace.

Rayne had finally allowed Fletcher to view her drawings, and she’d blushed prettily under his praise. She possessed talent—tremendous skill—in truth.

Of its own volition, his attention gravitated to the stone wall at the garden’s far end. The majestic chimneys of Sheffields’ manor were visible above the treetops.

Was Rayne at home?

In the gardens?

Was she thinking of him too?

A jay perched on one of the plane tree’s lower branches and arched its neck, releasing a raspy cry. With a graceful arch of its gray-brown wings, it took to the air and disappeared over the rock wall.

Upon spying a blue butterfly drifting near the wisteria, he sat up straighter.

Was it another holly blue?

Snorting, Fletcher conceded he was hopeless.

His thoughts constantly migrated to Rayne.

Tomorrow was the Gravenstones’ much-touted ball. And by George, Asherford had somehow wheedled Fletcher into attending as a peacock.

A bloody, damned peacock.

In fact, all of their ducal friends had agreed to go.

“An ostentation of peacocks for an ostentatious gathering,” he muttered drolly to himself.

At the awful jest, he snorted aloud again.

Each duke was to wear a peacock feather domino and a vibrantly colored cloak—purple, green, blue, or turquoise—over their black evening attire.

Fletcher’s had arrived only this morning—a shimmering aquamarine overlaid with silver and gold sequins. He couldn’t help but be impressed. The color reminded him of the gown Rayne had worn that first day he’d encountered her sneaking into his garden.

Of more import, however, was that Sheffield had agreed to attend as part of the ducal alliance, and that meant Rayne would also be there. According to Sheffield, his niece disliked masked balls but had agreed to come dressed as a rose. Her first choice of costume, according to a bemused Sheffield, had been that of a nun, but the duchess had talked her out of that stark decision.

Fletcher and Rayne had shared three more clandestine meetings—all in Sheffields’ gardens. She steadfastly refused to come over the wall again. He hadn’t even been able to tempt her with news that the folly and surrounding area had been left naturalized.

Forcing his attention to his desk, he scowled at the neatly folded rectangle laid atop his correspondence. He lifted the letter between his thumb and forefinger, and his grimace deepened when he recognized the looping handwriting, smelled a hint of lavender and lilac, and spied the telltale purple wax seal.

He gave a disgusted growl.

Another from his mother. One had arrived daily for a week. Twice yesterday, in fact.