Page 31

“Is the leaf larger than the one above it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I drew it badly.”

He had braced for botanical instruction and received the clean pleasure of hearing her admit an error without surrendering authority. She laughed. “I was hoping you had not noticed.”

“You have spent two days finding fault with a published illustration. I assumed any discrepancy in yours would be deliberate.”

“That was generous.”

She rubbed out part of the line and tried again. He drew another chair toward the bench. Lydia glanced at it but continued working. For a while, the only sounds were Samuel moving pots and Lydia’s pencil whispering against paper. A drop swelled beneath a leaf and struck the bench. The greenhouse seemed to hold every small noise close. “Samuel could prepare a cutting of the apple mint before you leave.”

Lydia stopped drawing. “You remembered which one.”

“You wanted it.”

She turned to him. “You have been paying attention.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I have.”

“Then I have been unfair to you.”

Her pleased surprise struck him with absurd force. “Would you like it potted before you leave?”

“I should.”

He turned to call Samuel, but she touched his sleeve. “Later. He is busy.”

Her fingers rested just above his wrist. Even through his coat, the touch felt chosen. She withdrew it and reached for the pencil. “Thank you,” she added.

He remained turned toward her, attention fixed on the place she had touched and on the mint she had bruised between her fingers. She had needed his arm to reach the greenhouse. She had not needed this.

“Your Grace?” Whitmore stood at the entrance, waiting to be acknowledged. “The Fairchilds are preparing to leave, Your Grace.”

“Of course.”

Tristan rose. Lydia closed the sketchbook halfway. “Do not stop on my account,” he said. “I will send your brother back.”

“Thank you.”

Samuel was still within easy call, and Lydia had settled her foot comfortably on its box. He had already promised to send her brother back; she could hardly need anything more from him. He went with Whitmore. Outside, the cooler air stripped the greenhouse from his skin but not the smell of mint. He had spent the better part of an hour beside Lydia while guests waited to leave, and he could not pretend the plants had detained him. “How long have the Fairchilds been ready?”

“They asked for their carriage a few minutes ago.”

He was grateful that the butler supplied no opinion about the interval.

Miss Esther Fairchild stood beside her mother when Tristan returned to the hall. The daughter of a neighboring baronet, she was handsome, socially assured, and practiced at the sort of light flirtation Tristan had once answered almost without thought. Esther was charming, accomplished, and entirely agreeable company. He out to have found that reassuring. Instead, his attention kept slipping toward the side path and the greenhouse door.

Her auburn hair had been arranged beneath a bonnet that left her face clearly visible. She offered him a smile as he approached. “We thought we might have to leave without thanking you.”

“My apologies. I was in the gardens.”

“On such a fine afternoon, I cannot blame you.”

Sir William Fairchild shook Tristan’s hand and began discussing the road they intended to take home. Tristan answered, recommended the better route, and sent a footman to make certain their luggage was secured. Lady Fairchild wished to speak to the Dowager Duchess before leaving. Sir William went with her to the drawing room, leaving Esther beside the open doors. “I enjoyed last night,” she said.