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“I read the book properly and discovered she was right.” He shook his head. “I must confess I skipped a few chapters on the first read-through.”

She lifted her gaze again, soft and warm. “That was good of you.” She sighed. “But you really should have read it properly the first time. It would have saved you both a bit of hassle.”

He did it to please his sister, and perhaps because he disliked being excluded from a conversation he once enjoyed. Yet Lady Andover said it without teasing, as though the effort mattered, and something tender and unprepared turned over in his chest. “I wanted her to lend me the next one,” he admitted. “I discovered I enjoyed reading the books she gave me and discussing them with her.”

“How sweet of you.” She considered him for a moment, her head tilted, her eyes searching his face. “I think you might have read it anyway.”

He could have made another joke. Instead, he found himself smiling at her, simply and without defense. “Yes. I probably would.”

A burst of applause came from the drawing room. Lady Andover turned toward the sound, then glanced at the clock upon the mantel, its gilt hands glinting in the candlelight. “It is later than I thought.”

Julian had noticed. He had also noticed she hadn't moved toward the terrace, and the knowledge had held him very still. “Would you still care to go outside?”

Her fingers shifted on the glass, the lemonade swaying. “Yes. If you would.”

“I would,” he said, perhaps too quickly.

She looked at the open doorway, where guests were beginning to move about again, their voices rising and falling. For a moment he thought she might change her mind, and he braced himself against the disappointment. Instead, she set her lemonade upon the table and gathered her shawl, drawing it up over her shoulder.

“I ought to tell Charlotte.”

“Of course.” He hoped Lady Sylvan would not object. He wanted this time alone with Lady Andover.

He waited while she crossed the drawing room, watching the sway of purple silk and the straight, careful line of her back. Lady Sylvan listened, glanced briefly in his direction with an unreadable expression, and answered her friend. Whatever she said made Elizabeth smile, a quick, private curve of her mouth.

When Elizabeth returned, she stopped beside him, a little breathless, her eyes bright. “Only for a little while,” she said.

Julian offered his arm, and his heart beat unreasonably fast as she placed her hand upon it. “I shall try to make whatever time we have pleasant.”

The terrace was empty. Behind them, the drawing-room curtains glowed with candlelight, warm squares of gold against the dark. Someone had opened a window farther down the house, letting a faint strain of music escape into the garden, thin and sweet. Julian paused as Elizabeth settled her shawl more securely, tugging it tighter around her shoulders. The air had cooled. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, searching her face.

“Yes.” She looked toward the steps, and her grip tightened a little on his arm. “I should like to walk.”

He led her down into the garden, shortening his stride to hers. Lamps marked the main path, casting pools of amber light; beyond them, the borders became dark, indistinct shapes. He smelled the roses before they reached them, rich and heavy in the night air. For a while they walked without speaking, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. Her hand rested lightly upon his arm. Each time her skirts brushed his leg, he noticed how easily he could cover that hand with his own. The awareness hummed through him like a plucked string.

He resisted the impulse. He was already enjoying himself far more than an ordinary walk should warrant. At the gate, she stopped beside the pillar where he had found her the previous night, her fingers trailing over the cool stone. “The gardener moved the roses,” she said.

Julian followed her gaze toward the border. A small patch of disturbed earth showed pale in the lamplight where the plant had stood that morning. “He wasted no time.”

“Perhaps he feared Lady Wetherby would reconsider,” she said.

He grinned. “A wise man.”

She smiled, then looked toward the summerhouse, a faint white shape among the shadows. “I hope it does well there.”

“We can inspect it tomorrow,” he told her.

The suggestion escaped him easily. He had already assumed there would be another walk, another conversation, and another chance to watch her smile. The assumption sat in him like a small, bright certainty.

Elizabeth’s hand moved slightly against his sleeve. “Are you engaged tomorrow morning?”

He nodded. “To inspect Sir Henry’s horses.”

“Oh.” She began to withdraw her hand, and he felt the loss at once. “Then you will be occupied.”

“After breakfast,” he told her. “I am free before it.”

She looked up at him, her gray eyes wide and a little troubled. “You need not arrange your morning around me.”