Page 16

Elizabeth stared at her expression in the glass. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, and she looked unmistakably hopeful. She looked away and pressed her lips together. She was going to inspect a rose. Nothing more than that… Surely she could manage that.

Downstairs, the hall was quiet. A footman was carrying fresh candles toward the drawing room. Only the soft tread of their shoes broke the silence. He bowed and opened the terrace door for her, and she stepped out into the cool, fresh morning. The air was damp and sweet against her cheeks.

Lord Rosedale stood at the foot of the steps. He turned immediately. The breeze slightly disturbed his hair, and the pleasure on his face was so plain that her carefully prepared greeting deserted her. Her heart gave a hard, glad thump. “Good morning,” he said.

In the morning light, Lord Rosedale was even handsomer than she remembered. His chestnut hair curled at his temples, and his eyes were a clear green. He looked distinguished, with a straight nose and firm jaw, but his mouth held her attention. When he smiled, she remembered how gently it had moved against hers. “Good morning,” she managed, a little breathless.

He came up the steps to meet her, his eyes warm on her face. “I hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “Eventually.”

His smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Then you fared better than I did.”

Elizabeth looked at him. He truly was breathtaking, and she couldn't blame her shyness for not speaking this time. He stole her thoughts. She could not quite ask the question, but something in her expression must have done it for her.

“I kept thinking about our walk,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught. “So did I.”

The admission left her feeling exposed, as though she had stepped out of her shawl into the cold. He offered his arm, and she was glad she had spoken. It was warm and steady, and utterly without mockery. “Shall we see whether the gardener has satisfied Lady Wetherby?”

They went down into the garden together, their steps crunching softly on the gravel. Morning light lay across the lawn in long, pale bars. The roses beside the gate looked perfectly ordinary, dew glittering on their petals. Elizabeth found that surprising. Last night, standing there had seemed to change everything. Now the world carried on as though nothing had happened.

Perhaps only she felt different. She glanced at Lord Rosedale’s profile, the clean line of his jaw and the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. He seemed entirely at ease. When he looked down and caught her watching, his hand briefly moved over hers. He squeezed her hand lightly. No. Perhaps not only she.

At the summerhouse, they found the transplanted rose beside a trellis. Its pale blooms nodding in the breeze. Its leaves drooped slightly, but the earth around it was dark and damp. It was freshly turned and neatly tamped. “It appears to have survived its removal,” he observed.

“I suppose it will need a little time,” she said.

“Then we shall refrain from commenting until it has recovered,” he said gravely.

Elizabeth smiled and bent to examine a leaf, running a fingertip along its edge. The gardener had secured the longer stems to supports with neat strips of cloth, each knot tidy and small. She glanced through the summerhouse's open door. Inside, a curved wooden seat and a little table marked by old water stains sat beneath a spider’s web glistening between two posts. “It is pretty here,” she said softly.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked.

She glanced back toward the house. Beyond the lawn, its upper windows were visible, several curtains still drawn. Nothing remarkable about sitting in a summerhouse during a morning walk. Nothing at all… Nevertheless, she accepted. A small, shy thrill ran through her. “Yes.”

He followed her inside. Elizabeth took a place near the open doorway, leaving him room beside her. She arranged her skirts with unnecessary care. When he sat, his knee was close to hers. They were close enough that she felt his warmth through the layers of fabric.

“I had meant to ask you something last night,” he said. She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Will you remain in London when you return from Lady Wetherby’s?”

“For a while.” She would likely spend some time at Matron Manor soon. “I have no plans to leave immediately.”

“Then may I call upon you?” he asked.

Elizabeth looked up, startled. Of all the things she had imagined he might say, that wasn't among them. For a moment the words seemed to hang in the air, too wonderful to touch. “At my house?” she asked. What a foolish question. Where else would he pay a call on her?

Something tender crossed his face as he said, “That would be my preference.”

“Of course,” she paused, struggling for words. “That is…yes.” She glanced at the glove hanging from her fingers, her cheeks warming. “I only meant...” He waited, trying to spare her the question. He helped her ask it, though her voice dropped. “I was not certain whether you would wish to.”

“Very much,” he said, without hesitation.

Beyond the doorway, a bird landed upon the trellis and set a thin branch trembling, its small body bright against the green. “I have enjoyed being here,” she said slowly. “More than I expected.”

“So have I,” he said.

“But it is rather different from London.”