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It made no sense that after proposing to her, he would abandon her just like that. And for what?

He still hadn’t married or even had a mistress.

She hoped she was right—that Thornton was a better man than Lydia believed and that he still loved her.

If that was true, she was happy for her friend. But part of her felt jealous.

Whatever had transpired between them, they now had something Honoria didn’t: clarity. Even if it meant they were in hiding, on the run, they had each other. And they knew where they stood.

Honoria wished she could say the same about her situation with Caldwell. She glanced down at the note, Lydia’s words blurring as her thoughts raced.

But she could. If only she stopped avoiding the issue and talked directly to the earl, she could. The worst thing that could happen would be him rejecting her. And then… well, at least then, she’d know for certain. She could pack her bags and leave with her dignity intact, if not her heart.

She drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and went to find Caldwell.

Jacob.

His study was the first place she checked. She pictured him there, reading through correspondence, spectacles perched low on his nose, hair falling across his brow like it was wont to do. But the room was empty. And based on the order on his desk, she deduced that he hadn’t been there since last night.

The glasshouse was her next guess. Smaller than the one at the estate, this one was at least attached to the house by an indoor corridor.

She pushed the door open.

No one.

Notes, journals, and specimen boxes were scattered across the desk in their usual state of disarray.

It was always like this. There was a method to the madness on his desk that she usually found endearing, but at this particular moment, it annoyed Honoria greatly.

Why did he have to disappear the one time she needed to speak to him?

She sighed and, unable to help herself, began tidying his workspace. She had always dealt with turmoil this way—putting the outside world in order when her inner world was anything but.

She sorted the specimens by their labels, replaced the journals to their allotted space.

Then she saw it.

A beautiful, rare tulip, hiding in the shadows.

It sat in a pot on a raised platform in the corner. She moved toward it in awe. The bloom was unlike any she had seen before—velvety petals of the deepest purple, so dark they appeared almost black at the edges, lightening to a rich plum in the center.

She stepped even closer.

She knew every plant in his collection—had tended to many herself—but she had never seen this one before.

Her curiosity overtook her. She bent down to read the label.

Tulipa Honoria Obscura

She stared, breath catching in her throat, the world narrowing to those three words, written in black ink on a cream-colored card.

He had named it after her.

* * *

Caldwell could not concentrate.

He just couldn’t.