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“Yes.” The answer came so readily that Elizabeth felt her face warm, and she pressed the back of her hand to her cheek.

“Then what concerns you?” Charlotte asked.

She looked across the lawn. Near the terrace, two gentlemen were examining something Sir Henry held in his hand. They had their heads bent together. Julian was not among them, and she was ashamed of how quickly her eyes had sought him.

“I am not certain what I expect,” she admitted, her voice dropping. Charlotte waited, her gaze patient and kind. “When I agreed, I thought only that I should like more time with him. Now I keep wondering whether he understood something more.”

“Has he pressed you to do anything you did not wish?” Charlotte asked in a calm tone.

“No.” She shook her head. “Never,” Elizabeth said, with quick, fierce certainty.

“Then you may tell him what you wish tonight, just as you have before,” Charlotte said, certain. How could she be so calm when Elizabeth was so full of angst?

Elizabeth shifted the basket upon her arm. The handle creaked with the movement. She had been doing that, little by little—telling him what she wanted. She had asked him to kiss her in the summerhouse. She had stayed close when he might have let her go, and each small step had felt like crossing over slippery stones. “I might find that difficult.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said gently. “But you may still do it.”

Elizabeth looked at her. No promise that she would stop being shy, no suggestion that she must become someone else. She was grateful, and the gratitude warmed her throat. “I do trust him,” she said.

“Then remember that he must trust you to tell him when you are uncertain.”

That gave Elizabeth pause, and she stood very still among the flowers. She had thought so often about whether she could believe his attentions that she had scarcely considered what her silences might leave him wondering. How a quiet that felt safe to her might feel like a locked door to him. She could at least try to speak.

Charlotte picked up the scissors again. “Take your shawl. The evenings are cooler than they appear from a bedchamber window.”

Elizabeth laughed, relieved by the ordinary advice, and the sound unwound the last of her tension. “You sound very composed about this.”

“I see no reason to fret when you seem so pleased,” Charlotte said, with a small, dry smile.

“You know what I mean?” She asked, surprised.

Charlotte’s smile softened. “You are allowed to want his company, Elizabeth.”

She looked down at the basket, at the bright, untidy heap they had gathered. All the petals crushed and stems tangled... She had wanted so many small things quietly that wanting anything openly still seemed rather daring. Almost like stepping out of a shadow into the sun. “I believe I am beginning to understand that,” she said.

Footsteps sounded upon the path behind them, crunching on the gravel. “Lady Sylvan. Lady Andover.”

Elizabeth turned too quickly, sending one of the longer stems sliding from the basket. Julian caught it before it reached the gravel. He looked from the flower to her face, and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I hope I have not interrupted anything.”

“Not at all. We were just choosing flowers for the drawing room,” Charlotte said, perfectly composed.

He nodded and said, “A considerable undertaking.”

“She told us to take as many as we liked. I hope she meant it,” Charlotte told him.

Julian smiled and offered Elizabeth the fallen stem. When she took it, his fingertips brushed hers, and a small, bright shock ran up her arm.

“Will that one survive the arrangement?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said, a little breathless.

“Then I am glad that I caught it,” he told her.

He looked entirely respectable in the sunshine. His coat was neatly fastened, his manner composed, and his cravat crisp and white. No one passing them could have guessed she was planning to meet him after midnight. Then his gaze lingered upon hers, warm and steady. She knew he remembered too. Heat rose from her collar to her hairline, and she bent her head over the flower.

Charlotte inspected the basket, then tucked the scissors under her arm. “We shall need another vase. I shall ask Lady Wetherby before we cut anything else.” Her friend walked toward the house, her skirts brushing the damp grass. She might have objected to being left so deliberately a few days earlier. Now she merely shifted the basket to her other arm and tried not to smile too much, biting her cheek.

Julian noticed the weight at once, his gaze flicking to her arm. “May I carry that?” She let him take it, their hands overlapping on the handle for a moment. The flowers looked unexpectedly delicate against his dark sleeve, soft petals against the plain, sturdy wool. “Have you had a pleasant morning?” he asked, falling into step beside her.