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His arm settled more comfortably about her, and she felt him smile against her hair. “Certainly.” He smiled down at her. “But I do have one request.”

“Oh?” She lifted a brow.

“I should like for you to use my given name, Julian,” he said. “I would like permission to use yours.” He held her gaze. “While we are in private, of course…”

She swallowed and then nodded. “I should like that very much.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth watched the rain from the shelter of his embrace and hoped it would last a little while longer. She liked saying his name. Even in her mind… Julian…

Five

Julian had never been so reluctant to see the rain stop. A few drops still fell from the summerhouse roof. The path beyond the doorway had begun to dry in patches. He could think of no respectable reason to remain. Elizabeth’s cheek rested against his coat, and he tried to invent one.

“We shall have missed the first pot of tea,” she murmured.

“A grave loss,” he said dryly.

“Lady Wetherby serves an excellent tea,” she told him.

“I shall endeavor to bear the disappointment,” he deadpanned.

She laughed softly against him. He felt the sound through his waistcoat and tightened his arm for a moment before reluctantly letting it fall. Elizabeth stepped back and smoothed her skirt. The gesture was familiar now, something she did when collecting herself. A damp curl rested beside her cheek, and her mouth still bore the softness of their kisses.

Julian looked toward the doorway. “Shall we?”

She accepted his arm. Outside, the air smelled of wet earth, and drops shaken from the climbing plants struck his sleeve as they passed. Elizabeth glanced up at him. “Your cravat is still crooked.”

“Is it?” he asked. He would rather remove it altogether, but he knew that would be improper.

She studied him and said, “You seem remarkably unconcerned.”

“I like how it came to be crooked, and I like it this way,” he told her.

Her smile appeared as she lowered her face, and he watched the path with far less attention than it deserved. They returned through the terrace doors to find tea carried into the drawing room. Lady Wetherby looked up from the tray. “There you are. I feared you had been caught in the rain.”

“We took shelter in the summerhouse,” Julian said.

“A sensible precaution,” Lady Wetherby said. She gestured toward a chair. “Lady Andover, do sit near the fire. You must be chilled.”

Elizabeth shifted her hand upon his sleeve. He glanced at her, ready to follow her preference. She was already thanking their hostess and moving toward an unoccupied chair. Lady Sylvan sat nearby, a cup balanced upon its saucer. Her gaze roamed over Elizabeth’s face, then his. She took a sip of tea. Julian suspected she had assessed him with uncomfortable accuracy.

He accepted a cup from Lady Wetherby and took the chair beside Elizabeth. “Were the roses settling well?” their hostess asked.

Elizabeth looked at him for the briefest moment. He kept his expression composed. She had said that their hostess would inquire about her flowers, and she’d been right. “It looked quite healthy this morning,” she answered. “I imagine the rain will have helped.”

“Then you have seen it twice today?” Lady Wetherby asked.

“Yes,” Elizabeth answered.

Julian drank his tea. Lady Sylvan reached for the plate of little cakes, her expression admirably innocent. Their hostess was more interested in the roses than in the company Elizabeth kept while she examined them. Soon she was describing another alteration she wished to make near the western wall. Elizabeth listened, then asked about the afternoon sun.

He kept his attention on her. Her hands rested loosely in her lap. She leaned forward slightly as Lady Wetherby explained the difficulty with the shade, her brow drawing together in thought. He had first noticed that attentiveness in a crowded drawing room. Now he knew what it felt like to receive it himself, and that knowledge had made him greedy.

He wanted her beside him at breakfast in his own house. He wanted to hear her opinion of a letter from Caroline. He wanted to discover what she read when she could choose an entire afternoon for herself. The thought of breakfast jolted him awake. He had been imagining kissing her again. Somehow, without consulting him, his mind had begun arranging the rest of his life.

“Rosedale?” He looked toward Lady Wetherby. “Would you agree?”