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Julian offered his arm. She settled her hand on his sleeve with a care that made him aware of how light it was. He adjusted his pace to hers as they crossed the gravel, matching her steps as the lantern light slid over them. At the terrace steps, she lifted her skirts slightly. Her fingers tightened around his arm, and he stayed steady as she stepped forward. He kept his free hand hovering near her elbow, ready if she needed it.

“Thank you,” she said once they reached the top, a little breathless.

“You are welcome,” he said.

She did not release him immediately. Julian looked down at her hand, then toward her face, his pulse quickening. “I enjoyed speaking with you,” she said.

The admission was quiet, as if it cost her effort, and her fingers trembled faintly against his sleeve. He respected the courage of it enough to answer without embellishment. “So did I.”

Her gaze lifted to his. Close to the house, the light reached her more fully. It revealed the faint warmth in her cheeks and the soft brightness of her eyes. “I am sometimes rather slow to think of something to say,” she added, her voice small.

Julian could have assured her he hadn't noticed anything like that. It would have been an easy courtesy, but she had offered him an honest confidence, and he held it carefully, as one holds something fragile. He preferred to receive it honestly. “Then I shall be patient,” he said, gently.

She looked at him, and for a moment he feared the answer had sounded too grave. Then her fingers relaxed against his sleeve, and a slow, shy smile curved her mouth. “That would be kind.”

He grinned. “I suspect it will also be worth my while.”

Her smile returned, deeper now. He watched it, certain that tomorrow’s walk would occupy a considerable portion of his thoughts before morning. At the doorway, she let go of his arm, and he felt her touch leave like a draft. “Good night, Lord Rosedale.”

“Good night, Lady Andover.”

She entered the house and paused when Lady Sylvan looked up from a chair near the hearth. Her gaze lit with a quick, private smile. Elizabeth went toward her friend, her shawl trailing from one shoulder. Julian stayed outside long enough to let the exchange be theirs.

He had arrived expecting five pleasant nights in the country. Now he looked forward to a morning among the roses and to whatever Lady Andover might choose to say the next time they spoke.

Two

Elizabeth had never before dressed for a garden walk with the anxious care she ordinarily reserved for a ball. She had chosen a pale green morning gown. She nibbled her bottom lip and worried it looked too much like the blue one she had worn the evening before. That was a ridiculous concern. Lord Rosedale had asked to continue their conversation, not to inspect her wardrobe. Though she knew it, she smoothed a crease that wasn't there on her sleeve.

She changed the ribbon at her waist, tugging the satin into a neat bow and then, dissatisfied, tying it again. She examined the result in the looking-glass, still uncertain...

“Shall I fetch your other bonnet, my lady?” her maid asked.

“No. This one will do.” Elizabeth touched the brim, then lowered her hand before she could adjust anything else. “Thank you.”

The girl withdrew, leaving her alone. Elizabeth had slept well in the room Charlotte had requested for her. She was thankful that it was far from the stairs. Yet she had lain awake for a while before falling asleep. She couldn't stop thinking about Lord Rosedale. He had not been disappointed when she struggled to answer him. She turned the thought over carefully. More surprisingly, he had asked to speak with her again.

She could still hear the quiet distinction in his voice. He had been gentle and steady. He hadn't wanted to know whether Lady Wetherby would welcome him on the walk. He had wanted to know whether Elizabeth would. Of course she would… So she’d said yes.

Now she had to go downstairs. Would he remember the time? Would he be there? Her stomach gave a small, uneasy flutter, and she pressed her palm flat against it as she drew a slow breath. At the morning-room door, she paused, one hand resting against the frame. Charlotte stood by the window, watching the sky as Lady Wetherby spoke with a servant about the gardeners. Lord Rosedale stood near the table and set down a cup.

He looked up before anyone else noticed her. “Good morning, Lady Andover.”

The warmth in his voice made her fingers tighten upon her gloves, and a flush crept up her throat. “Good morning,” she said, a little breathless.

He came toward her, leaving his cup behind. In daylight, she could see the green of his eyes more clearly, and the sun caught lighter strands in his chestnut-brown hair. His coat fit him perfectly. Did it require him as much thought to appear at ease as it required her? Probably not.

“I trust you rested well?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

She had more to say, about the quiet room and Charlotte’s kindness, but she hesitated. Before she decided whether to offer it, Lady Wetherby approached, her skirts rustling. “There you are. We shall have an excellent morning for a stroll in the garden. I feared rain when I woke, but the clouds appear to be moving away.”

Elizabeth glanced toward the window, where the sky had begun to brighten to a clear blue. “I hope we have not kept your gardener from his work.”

“Only from improving my garden in ways I did not request,” their hostess replied, shaking her head wryly. “That is why I wish to speak with him.”

Charlotte turned, smiling. “Then we must go before he completes it.”