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Kenclere Hall Rose Gardens

A fortnight later

Early morning

Whistling beneath his breath, Stan wandered the fragrant rose garden. Their petals still damp with dew, the roses he selected were only the most perfect for his sleeping wife. While Ophelia wasn’t a late riser, neither was she awake, dressed, and prowling the house by six most mornings as was his wont.

Another habit formed early on when there was too much for a young man to do and not enough time or money to see it done. Even after he’d accumulated wealth and the driving need to prove himself competent no longer existed, dawn beckoned to him.

Stan wouldn’t break his fast until Ophelia came down to the breakfast room at eight. To do so would deprive him of her company, which he was increasingly loath to do. To occupy himself, he’d taken to devising methods to woo her during this tranquil time he had alone.

Grinning, he snipped a coral-colored bud, then raised his head to locate the rook cawing a raucous greeting. The bird disappeared into the woodlands just as a rooster crowed. Kenclere Hall had never felt like home until Ophelia illuminated the castle with her spirit and kindness.

Every day, Stan increasingly realized what a treasure he’d been gifted in her as his wife. And every day, he became determined to win her heart. For his heart was already hers to do with as she pleased.

Of course, she didn’t know that yet.

Stan had never considered himself a coward. Nonetheless, confessing his love for Ophelia and not having it reciprocated would eviscerate him. So he kept the knowledge to himself and showed her how much she meant to him in a myriad of little ways.

Fresh cut flowers. A jewel here and there. Asking Cook to prepare Ophelia’s favorite foods, having received a list of them from the Duchess of Pennington.

Yes, Stan had believed he and Ophelia would suit for practical reasons. But he’d never expected to crave her company, enjoy her wit and intelligence, or find pleasure in pleasing her.

He clipped another blossom, taking a moment to smell the rose before gently placing it in the basket hanging from his bent arm. He could, of course, have assigned the task to one of his gardeners, but there was something satisfying about giving her a bouquet he’d taken the time to pick.

A wry smile twisting his mouth, Stan shook his head.

He was fast becoming a romantic sot.

The past two weeks had been the most peaceful, fulfilling, and contented of his life. No threatening letters had followed him to Kenclere Hall. Perhaps whoever the disgruntled bounder was who’d sent them had given up the game. Or perchance, the Bow Street Runner had apprehended the villain, and Stan hadn’t received word yet.

His stomach growled.

Searching the castle’s windows, Stan permitted his gaze to linger on her bedchamber window. Was she awake yet?

He and Ophelia always broke their fast together. Then he’d show her more of the castle or the lands. She was particularly fond of the library, a solar in one of the turrets, and the orangery situated at the castle's rear several feet from this very rose garden.

Today, after he gave her the fragrant roses and they’d eaten, Stan intended to present the new mare to her. He’d been torn whether to let Ophelia select her own mount or to surprise her. The choice had been taken from him when he’d received notice that as partial payment for an outstanding debt, the creamy mare had been delivered to Stan’s stables.

The horse was utterly perfect for Ophelia. Not too small, but not too many hands tall either. Young, but not overly so. Gentle and intelligent, Opal also had a mischievous bend. When he’d learned her name was Opal, the decision had been made for him.

Examining the overflowing basket, he laid the clippers atop the stems and turned toward the house. He came up short upon seeing a fully clothed Ophelia standing in the doorframe of the orangery. Casting an eye to the sun, he scrunched his forehead.

It couldn’t be seven yet.

Why was she downstairs so early?

“Stanford. Stanford. Come quickly.” Practically bouncing on her toes, she gestured for him to hurry.

Picking up his pace, he rushed toward her, unmindful of the dew dampening his boots. As he approached, he called, “Is something amiss, Ophelia?”

“Oh, no.” She gave him a radiant smile and shook her head.

His stomach toppled, and his heart tripped over itself at the sheer delight etching her beautiful face and dancing in her eyes. She wore a gown he’d never seen on her before. Of palest peach and edged in ecru lace, she looked like a flower herself. Or a piece of the forbidden fruit he yearned to taste.

When he stood before her, he extended the basket. “I brought you flowers, darling.”

“Again? You spoil me, Stanford.” She gingerly lifted a rose, taking care to avoid the thorns on the stem. Eyes locked with his, she put it to her nose and inhaled. “I love the smell of roses.”